Part 4 (2/2)
-ST. ALIA OF THE KNIFE
A month after returning from the conquest of Kaitain and his meeting with the Landsraad representatives, Paul stood at the edge of the plains of Arrakeen, looking out on the site of his most important military victory. Stilgar had joined him for the upcoming victory ceremony here, after which they would meet with other military advisers to discuss the most effective uses for the elite Fremen warriors. Gurney Halleck had already taken an enthusiastic regiment of fighters to Galacia, but there were many more conquests to plan. And Paul knew the Jihad was just beginning. month after returning from the conquest of Kaitain and his meeting with the Landsraad representatives, Paul stood at the edge of the plains of Arrakeen, looking out on the site of his most important military victory. Stilgar had joined him for the upcoming victory ceremony here, after which they would meet with other military advisers to discuss the most effective uses for the elite Fremen warriors. Gurney Halleck had already taken an enthusiastic regiment of fighters to Galacia, but there were many more conquests to plan. And Paul knew the Jihad was just beginning.
He had demanded and obtained records from the s.p.a.cing Guild, notations of thousands of planetary systems, so many worlds that only a Mentat could remember them all. He also had full CHOAM company records, since he controlled the majority share, with his Directors.h.i.+p overshadowing all the others combined.
He doubted if Shaddam IV had ever truly grasped the size of his own Imperium, the wealth and territory over which he supposedly ruled. Paul was certain that the Guild and CHOAM kept some profits hidden; whole planets not marked on any charts, their locations known only to the best Steersmen, were used as hiding places for weapons caches, perhaps even stockpiles of confiscated family atomics. All of these planets had to be encompa.s.sed in the government of Muad'Dib.
The Battle of Arrakeen now seemed minuscule in comparison with the subsequent clashes that were being fought in Paul's name. Many thousands had died here, yes, but that was the merest fraction of the numbers that were peris.h.i.+ng in ongoing fights across the galaxy.
Even so, the significance of the victory on this battlefield had been tremendous, and pivotal. Here, the notorious Baron Harkonnen had perished. Here, the Sardaukar had suffered their first defeat in history. Here, a proud Corrino Emperor had surrendered.
Now the unrelenting sun hung directly overhead, heating the sandy and rocky slopes below, where another crowd had gathered to see Muad'Dib. The observers wore stillsuits, most of which were fitted in the traditional Fremen style, unlike the replicas sold to pilgrims. Water and souvenir vendors worked the noisy crowd, calling out as they hawked their wares. Colorful banners fluttered in a hot breeze. Everyone waited for him to address the mult.i.tudes.
Paul said quietly to Stilgar, who stood like a weathered rock, ”The lines of good and evil were clearly drawn when we fought on the plains of Arrakeen, Stil. We knew where we stood against the allied Houses, and used the moral high ground to rally and inspire our fighters. But so many are already dead in my Jihad, many of them innocents. In time, they will say I was worse than the Corrinos and Harkonnens ever were.”
Stilgar looked scandalized, his convictions unshaken even after what he had seen in the sacking of Kaitain. ”Usul! We use violence only to cleanse, to wash away evil and save lives. Many more would die if not for your Jihad. You know this. Your prescience has told you so.”
”It is as you say, but I worry that there is something I have not considered, another path I should have chosen instead. I cannot merely accept anything. I must keep searching.”
”In dreams?”
”With conscious prescience, too, and Mentat logic. But everything guides me back to the same path.” ”Then there is no other path, Usul.”
Paul smiled at the statement. If only he could be as utterly certain as Stilgar was; the naib had always been a man of absolutes.
When it was time to speak to the crowd, Paul mounted the steps of the immense monument that had been erected in his honor, a life-size replica of a sandworm sculpted by a renowned - and enthusiastically converted - sculptor from Chusuk. Plaques around its base carried the names of every world that had surrendered to Muad'Dib so far. There were many more blank plaques in antic.i.p.ation of more victories.
Right now, a performance was required. Carrying a maker hook, though only as a prop, Paul mounted steps on the side of the gray plastone beast whose eyeless head turned toward the basin below and the sprawling city of Arrakeen. With his own symbolic maker hook, Stilgar followed.
When the two stood side by side atop the head of the replica worm, they secured their hooks into sculpted rings and posed as if they were again riding the behemoth to victory. Behind them on the back of the statue, real Fremen soldiers stood in similar postures. The soldiers' cheers were echoed by the crowd in a growing sonic tumult that could be heard all the way to the city.
Years ago, when preparing his son for dangers on Arrakis, Duke Leto had advised him to capitalize on the local superst.i.tion that Paul might be the long-awaited Mahdi, the Lisan-al-Gaib. But only if he had to. Now, he had done that to an extent that went far beyond anything his father had ever antic.i.p.ated.
Paul's voice boomed out, transmitted by speakers on the worm. ”I come here today in all humility to honor those Fremen and Atreides soldiers who died on the s.h.i.+eld Wall and in the basin below, fighting to free us from tyranny.” The crowd let out a huge roar of approval, but he raised his hands to quiet them. ”Know this from the lips of Muad'Dib. We have won the opening battles of the Jihad, but there are many more to be fought.”
The holy war was becoming a living organism with its own momentum, and he had been its catalyst. Paul knew there were also moral battles to be won, challenges that promised no clear victors and losers, only murky results. One day when this phase of the Jihad was complete, there would be time for reflection, a time for the people to recognize his failings and weaknesses as a ruler, that he was not a G.o.d. That would be the beginning of understanding... but it would take a very long time.
Finished with the ceremonial requirements, Paul and Stilgar climbed back down the steps. The bearded Fremen reported good news. ”Muad'Dib, as you expected and hoped, Ecaz surrendered to us immediately without any bloodshed. Your address to the Landsraad reminded the old Archduke of his loyalties and obligations to House Atreides. He has sent his representative to deliver his fealty in person. The delegate claims he knew you when you were but a boy.”
Curious, Paul looked to where a rangy man stood at the base of the statue, dressed in the fas.h.i.+on of a Swordmaster, with embellished decorations, epaulets, and billowing lavender pantaloons that made him appear to be a dandy. The man seemed familiar, especially when he removed his feathered, broad-brimmed hat and bowed with a flourish. ”Muad'Dib may not remember me... but Paul Atreides should.”
Now he recognized the balding Whitmore Bludd, a man with a purple birthmark on his forehead. He was one of the most capable fighters in the history of Ginaz. Duncan Idaho had studied under him, and Bludd had served as a ronin for House Ecaz for many years. ”Swordmaster Bludd! How could I forget you from my father's War of a.s.sa.s.sins against Grumman?”
”Ah, those were magnificent, heroic days.” The foppish man unrolled a signed surrender parchment. ”Ecaz has always supported the Atreides. We owe you a debt of honor, and blood. Of course, we accept you as the new Emperor.”
Forsaking formalities, Paul threw his arms around the Swordmaster (much to the horror of the guards), and said, ”You helped us. You defended us.”
Blus.h.i.+ng, Bludd stepped back and said, ”I insist it was the other way around, my Lord. Sadly, I am all that remains of a once-great House, just an old warrior with my glory days confined to memory. The recent trip to Kaitain proved a bit too much for the Archduke, and he has retired to his home.” Next, Bludd extended a small ornamental box. ”However, I brought a gift for you from Ecaz, as a token of my allegiance.”
”The box has already been inspected, Usul,” Stilgar said quietly.
Paul lifted the lid and saw a pinkish seash.e.l.l fragment the size of his own hand. Smiling, Bludd explained, ”The remains of a conch sh.e.l.l from Mother Earth. See how light dances across the surface. Archduke Armand owned it for years - now it is yours.”
Paul ran a hand over the smooth, pearly l.u.s.ter. The touch gave him an odd but pleasing sensation that he was in contact with an article from the birthworld of humanity. He handed the box to a nearby Fedaykin guard. ”Have this delivered to my apartments.”
Bludd spoke in a conversational, relaxed tone, ”It's frightfully hot on this planet. Fortunately, I'm not a man who perspires much, or I'd be drained to the last drop.”
”This is Dune, Swordmaster. From now on, you would be wise to wear a stillsuit,” Paul said. Undeniably, Bludd was a dandy, but Paul had always admired the man anyway, not only for his fighting skills and loyalty, but for his organizational talents. Interesting possibilities rolled through the Emperor's mind.
In the past weeks, he had begun to acc.u.mulate the manpower and resources he needed for the construction of his huge new palace. While Korba had expressed an interest in guiding the project ”for the glory and legend of Muad'Dib,” Paul wasn't entirely sure that the zealous Fedaykin had the large-scale management skills or construction experience to oversee such a mammoth project. But Whitmore Bludd, in spite of his extravagant tastes, was a no-nonsense man and quite talented. He had a knack for getting things done. Duncan Idaho had always spoken highly of him.
”I would like you to remain here with us, Swordmaster Bludd. I can use someone with your talents to oversee a construction project far superior to anything the Corrinos ever built.” He explained briefly what he desired for his new Palace, then said, ”I want your vision and your dedication.”
Bludd took a step backward in comical astonishment. ”You would entrust me with such a fabulous undertaking, my Lord? Of course I accept the challenge! Why, I will create a citadel so grand it will strike even G.o.d himself with awe!”
”I think that'll be just about good enough for Korba,” Paul said with a wry smile.
So many worlds were once the subject of songs and poems. Now, alas, they seem better suited to inspire dirges and epitaphs.
-GURNEY HALLECK, Battlefield Poetry Battlefield Poetry
In quieter times, Gurney had often played ballads about Galacia's beautiful and supposedly wanton women, but he had never before visited the small, cool world. Until now. Unfortunately, he saw more carnage than beauty. Part of it was his own fault, for promoting Enno too quickly to the rank of lieutenant - after the young soldier's near-drowning in the practice pool.
In his new position, Enno showed a proclivity for issuing orders, demanding that the fighters carry out what he saw as Muad'Dib's vision. Since his return from the dead, Enno believed that he had a holy purpose. His presence and charisma had visibly increased, and his Fremen comrades viewed him with awe. This proved to be a problem for Gurney.
After the battle frigates landed on Galacia, warriors ran through the streets of the village and marketplace that surrounded the colonnaded villa of Lord Colus, the planet's Landsraad representative. With the soldiers of Muad'Dib coming toward them like D-wolves, the villagers barricaded themselves inside their homes. A few foolhardy souls stood with makes.h.i.+ft weapons, trying to defend their families, but the Fremen dealt harshly with any perceived resistance.
Though Gurney was technically in charge, his control over these fighters became tenuous once they scented blood. The men took great glee in planting green-and-white banners while tearing down and defacing any signs of the ruling house of Galacia. He waded among the soldiers, using his best stage voice to command them to restrain themselves.
One Fremen soldier repeatedly pummeled the bloodied mouth of a woman who wouldn't stop screaming. Her husband lay dead on the floor next to her, his throat slashed by a crysknife. Gurney grabbed the brutal soldier by the back of his collar and swung his head against the doorframe, cracking his skull with a sickening sound. The woman looked up at Gurney and, instead of showing any grat.i.tude, screamed again, spraying blood from her broken teeth. Then she ran into the house and barricaded the door.
Gurney's face was red, the inkvine scar pulsing dark on his jawline. This was the sort of thing Harkonnen troops had done during their slave-gathering parties, going from village to village and brutalizing the people.
”Form ranks!” he bellowed. ”Give the Galacians a chance to surrender, by the Seven h.e.l.ls!”
”They are resisting us, Commander Halleck,” Enno said with maddening calm. ”We must show them they have no hope. They shall know the despair that Muad'Dib brings to all who stand against him.”
The fighters had begun to set fire to any home whose inhabitants dared to bar the doors and windows against the invading army. The people inside would be roasted alive. Gurney heard the shrieks and saw the animal wildness of the unfettered army.
Though he had trained them himself, Gurney was infuriated by their ferocity. It was all so unnecessary! But if he pushed too hard against their wild frenzy, he feared that they might turn against him, him, labeling him a heretic and a traitor to Muad'Dib. labeling him a heretic and a traitor to Muad'Dib.
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