Atop the fortress nunnery’s tallest tower, Duncan stood at midday with Swain Goire, surveying the steep jungle hills all around. Verdant plantings filled terraced gardens on the abrupt slope.

One silent Sister had come up to the tower with them to add food to the rookery. Grains and fruits were spread out as a banquet for the large black hawks. Duncan thought the raptors must be perfectly capable of hunting their own prey in the jungles. Were these women trying to turn them into vegetarians? Then he realized that the grains and fruit were not for the hawks, but served instead to lure smaller birds, which the raptors then devoured. Hawks circled high above the tower, no more than black specks in the clouds, while others swooped down to the thick jungle.

Goire wore his reticence like a thick cloak on a cold day. In his youth Duncan had not known the man well, having been away at the Ginaz School when Goire became captain of the Atreides guard. Duncan knew only what this man had done, and that was enough for him.

Goire finally spoke up. “Paul reminds me so much of young Victor. He has the look of his father about him.”

“I barely knew Victor. His life was over by the time I returned from Ginaz.”

Like a wave-battered rock on the coast, Goire showed no reaction despite the brusqueness of Duncan’s words. “Well, I knew the boy well. I saw him every day, up until the end. I was supposed to keep him safe, and I failed.”

“Paul has me to defend him,” Duncan said.

Goire’s eyes were weary and reddened. “I didn’t intend for Victor to be harmed, but we all know that failure renders such intentions irrelevant. Actions and results are all that matter.”

The two fell into a longer silence, watching the high-circling hawks, gazing at the jungle-covered hills that stretched to the horizon and the empty sky. In the distance, Duncan could see small flying ships that must have been part of the business of the coastal towns.

“What exactly are you defending Paul from?” Goire finally asked. “What sort of desperation drove you here? A mere squabble would not require such extreme measures.”

With a sigh, Duncan explained about Viscount Moritani’s blood feud with Ecaz, in which House Atreides was now embroiled. When he was done, the old guard said, “And you have reason to believe the danger isn’t over? You suspect that more assassins are coming for Paul?”

“Viscount Moritani wants to kill the Duke’s son, for whatever twisted reason he has in his head. Paul still lives, and I intend to keep it that way. I will not lower my guard.”

“But it makes no sense for the Grummans to continue attacking. Paul is an innocent.”

“It made no sense in the first place, and still the attack occurred. Ilesa was an innocent, too.”

Goire nodded solemnly. Both of them regarded the distant glints of silvery ships, which were now approaching, sleek fliers skimming over the untracked green canopy. Viewed from the high vantage point, these craft looked no larger than the hawks circling in the air. Within moments, the roar of engines could be heard.

Goire tensed. “I have not seen ships like that before. We get very little —”

Duncan could tell immediately they were not supply craft. “They’re going to attack!”

“Yes — yes they are.” Goire gave Duncan a push. “Go! Go get Paul!” Duncan ran as angular attack fliers streaked in.

DUNCAN BURST INTO the tapestry room, having already retrieved and drawn the Old Duke’s sword. “They’re coming. We’ve got to get to shelter!”

After years of training, Paul did not hesitate, but sprang into motion to join his companion.

Paying no heed to the Swordmaster’s obvious urgency, Helena was about to scold him for the interruption, when the first great concussive explosions hit the side of the abbey. Duncan shouted to her. “Sound an evacuation. Get your Sisters out of here!”

“I will not.” Helena stood icily. “This is our fortress. Our home.” Her pride seemed more important to her than survival. “Are you saying the great Duncan Idaho cannot protect us all with that sword?”

Scowling, he grabbed Paul by the arm and rushed him toward the door and the stone stairs. “I am not sworn to protect you, my Lady. Your safety is on your own head now. Your fortress is under attack.”

“This War of Assassins has nothing to do with us,” Helena insisted.

“It does now!” Paul called from the doorway. “They’re trying to kill me. And even if you’re no more than collateral damage, you will still be dead.”

The other Sisters blithely continued their weaving, since the Abbess had not instructed them to do otherwise. A second explosion impacted the outer walls, and the entire tower room shook violently.

“Those aren’t just assassins. This is a full-fledged military strike,” Paul said.

“Viscount Moritani has already proven the lengths to which he’ll go. It’s my job to keep you safe.” Duncan pulled him through the door and they bounded down the winding stairway three steps at a time. “We have to get out of here. These walls won’t hold.”

By the time the two raced out into the courtyard, the fliers had circled back to launch more targeted missiles toward the Abbey. The shock waves caused the entire structure to thrum. Cracks shot like lightning bolts through the reinforced walls. The main tower shuddered and collapsed into fire and stone dust.

His grandmother, and all those women, had been inside. Like the tapestry that Helena had destroyed, the whole tower now lay in jumbled ruins. Red mingled with the gray of the rock in a mosaic of rubble. He searched for a spot in his heart where he might be shocked and horrified by Lady Helena’s death, but found nothing there for her.

With a deafening boom and buzzing whine, the attackers streaked back and forth, then came in to land and disgorge fighters who wore no uniforms, no insignia. Many Sisters ran about screaming. Some gathered makeshift weapons and raced to defend the Abbey, while others tried to flee, but they had no place to go.

Paul seized upon a crucial fact. “If they are attempting to kill me, and they blew up the tower, how can they know whether I am among the dead?”

Duncan shook his head, holding up the Old Duke’s sword to defend them both. “They can’t. This must be one of the Viscount’s grand schemes. He likes to cause damage more than anything else. He thrives on chaos.”

Swain Goire ran up to them, breathless and covered with dust. His hair was matted with blood from a shrapnel injury. “Take Paul and escape into the jungle.”

“Which direction?”

“Anywhere away from here — that is your only priority now.” Goire had two wooden staves, one sharpened into a crude spear and the other to serve as a club. “I have a body shield, and I have these. I’ll hold them off long enough for you to escape.”

“Duncan, we can’t just run!” Paul said, not willing to leave Goire to do all the fighting for them.

“My strategic imperative is to save you, young Master. Your father gave me my mission.” Parts of the outer walls had crumbled during the succession of explosions, and jagged breaches now opened the barrier to the wilderness beyond. Duncan silenced Paul by pushing him toward the nearest gap. “If the only way I can accomplish my mission is to take advantage of a diversion or delay, I’ll do it.”

Goire activated his body shield, and the shimmering intangible barrier cocooned him. He had his weapons. Duncan felt certain Goire was trying to atone for his mistake in allowing Victor to be killed. Did he hope Duke Leto would forgive him if he sacrificed his life now, to let Paul escape? Possibly.

Duncan hesitated, wondering if he should hand Goire the Old Duke’s sword — but that was his only weapon, and he could not surrender his best means of defending Paul.

Howling, Goire charged toward the attacking soldiers — one man against dozens, yet he rushed in. It was suicide.

Duncan dragged Paul through the broken wall rubble and into the thick foliage. The last glimpse he got of Swain Goire was when the man collided with the advancing armed soldiers, his body shield thrumming, his two wooden weapons thrashing from side to side. The assassins engulfed him, and their weapons were far sharper.

Paul and Duncan ran blindly into the jungle.