Dune

Paul leaped to the ledge with Gurney right behind him, led the way into the passage. The others headed for another passage opposite the entrance. Paul led the way through an anteroom and into a chamber with dark, wine-colored hangings on its walls.

“We can have some privacy here for a while,” Paul said. “The others will respect my—”

An alarm cymbal clanged from the outer chamber, was followed by shouting and clashing of weapons. Paul whirled, ran back through the anteroom and out onto the atrium lip above the outer chamber. Gurney was right behind, weapon drawn.

Beneath them on the floor of the cave swirled a melee of struggling figures. Paul stood an instant assessing the scene, separating the Fremen robes and bourkas from the costumes of those they opposed. Senses that his mother had trained to detect the most subtle clues picked out a significant face—the Fremen fought against men wearing smuggler robes, but the smugglers were crouched in trios, backed into triangles where pressed.

That habit of close fighting was a trademark of the Imperial Sardaukar.

A Fedaykin in the crowd saw Paul, and his battle cry was lifted to echo in the chamber: “Muad’Dib! Muad’Dib! Muad’Dib!”

Another eye had also picked Paul out. A black knife came hurtling toward him. Paul dodged, heard the knife clatter against stone behind him, glanced to see Gurney retrieve it.

The triangular knots were being pressed back now.

Gurney held the knife up in front of Paul’s eyes, pointed to the hairline yellow coil of Imperial color, the golden lion crest, multifaceted eyes at the pommel.

Sardaukar for certain.

Paul stepped out to the lip of the ledge. Only three of the Sardaukar remained. Bloody rag mounds of Sardaukar and Fremen lay in a twisted pattern across the chamber.

“Hold!” Paul shouted. “The Duke Paul Atreides commands you to hold!”

The fighting wavered, hesitated.

“You Sardaukar!” Paul called to the remaining group. “By whose orders do you threaten a ruling Duke?” And, quickly, as his men started to press in around the Sardaukar: “Hold, I say!”

One of the cornered trio straightened. “Who says we’re Sardaukar?” he demanded.

Paul took the knife from Gurney, held it aloft. “This says you’re Sardaukar.”

“Then who says you’re a ruling Duke?” the man demanded.

Paul gestured to the Fedaykin. “These men say I’m a ruling Duke. Your own emperor bestowed Arrakis on House Atreides. I am House Atreides.”

The Sardaukar stood silent, fidgeting.

Paul studied the man—tall, flat-featured, with a pale scar across half his left cheek. Anger and confusion were betrayed in his manner, but still there was that pride about him without which a Sardaukar appeared undressed—and with which he could appear fully clothed though naked.

Paul glanced to one of his Fedaykin lieutenants, said: “Korba, how came they to have weapons?”

“They held back knives concealed in cunning pockets within their stillsuits,” the lieutenant said.

Paul surveyed the dead and wounded across the chamber, brought his attention back to the lieutenant. There was no need for words. The lieutenant lowered his eyes.

“Where is Chani?” Paul asked and waited, breath held, for the answer.

“Stilgar spirited her aside.” He nodded toward the other passage, glanced at the dead and wounded. “I hold myself responsible for this mistake, Muad’Dib.”

“How many of these Sardaukar were there, Gurney?” Paul asked.

“Ten.”

Paul leaped lightly to the floor of the chamber, strode across to stand within striking distance of the Sardaukar spokesman.

A tense air came over the Fedaykin. They did not like him thus exposed to danger. This was the thing they were pledged to prevent because the Fremen wished to preserve the wisdom of Muad’Dib.

Without turning, Paul spoke to his lieutenant: “How many are our casualties?”

“Four wounded, two dead, Muad’Dib.”

Paul saw motion beyond the Sardaukar; Chani and Stilgar were standing in the other passage. He returned his attention to the Sardaukar, staring into the offworld whites of the spokesman’s eyes. “You, what is your name?” Paul demanded.

The man stiffened, glanced left and right.

“Don’t try it,” Paul said. “It’s obvious to me that you were ordered to seek out and destroy Muad’Dib. I’ll warrant you were the ones suggested seeking spice in the deep desert.”

A gasp from Gurney behind him brought a thin smile to Paul’s lips. Blood suffused the Sardaukar’s face.

“What you see before you is more than Muad’Dib,” Paul said. “Seven of you are dead for two of us. Three for one. Pretty good against Sardaukar, eh?”

The man came up on his toes, sank back as the Fedaykin pressed forward.

“I asked your name,” Paul said, and he called up the subtleties of Voice: “Tell me your name!”

“Captain Aramsham, Imperial Sardaukar!” the man snapped. His jaw dropped. He stared at Paul in confusion. The manner about him that had dismissed this cavern as a barbarian warren melted away.