Even though the Baron despised being put over a barrel by Viscount Moritani — outright blackmail! — he struggled to find a solution that would still be advantageous to House Harkonnen. As Hundro Moritani had amply demonstrated, he was volatile, violent, unpredictable, and untrustworthy — conditions with which the Baron was familiar, yet now they were turned against him. He hated to waste a division of his own soldiers to fight in this ill-advised engagement on Grumman, a hopeless battle that could not possibly turn out well. Soldiers were expendable, of course, but they weren’t cheap.

The Viscount’s strategy was foolish, heavy-handed, and provocative, and Baron Harkonnen had been happy to grant the man as much rope as he wished, so long as he hung himself with it. Now, though, Moritani was forcing the Baron to participate in this folly, and to send his heir apparent into the jaws of the conflict.

Glossu Rabban was the eldest son of the Baron’s softhearted brother Abulurd. Since Rabban was older than Feyd, and since those two were the only direct heirs to House Harkonnen, the Baron had no choice but to name one of them his successor. Rabban fully expected to be the na-Baron, but Feyd seemed far more competent and intelligent, more worthy of the responsibility the role required.

The two brothers had a rivalry, potentially a murderous one, and Rabban was certainly capable of killing Feyd in order to assure his title. The Baron had warned him against taking such rash action, but Rabban was often deaf to warnings or common sense.

Perhaps Viscount Moritani’s ultimatum provided a neat solution to the problem. After all, House Harkonnen didn’t really have a choice.

He delayed as long as possible, then summoned Rabban into his private chambers. The Baron had removed his suspensor belt and reclined in a reinforced, overstuffed chair. Rabban marched into the room, looking as though he expected to be reprimanded for making another poor decision.

“I have good news for you, my dear nephew.” Smiling, the Baron lifted a decanter of Kirana brandy and poured a glass for himself and one for the burly, younger man. “Here, a toast. Come now, it’s not poisoned.”

Rabban looked confused, suspicious. Nevertheless he sipped the brandy, then gulped more.

“I’m making you commander of a full division of Harkonnen troops. You will be going to Grumman where you’ll help fight beside our ally, Viscount Moritani.”

Rabban grinned like a fool. “A full division on the battlefields of Grumman, Uncle? Against the Atreides?”

“Yes, you will fight the Atreides.” The Baron relished the idea almost as much as he relished the taste of his own brandy. “House Harkonnen’s involvement must be kept entirely secret, or there will be major repercussions. I saw the Emperor during the censure hearing in the Landsraad Hall. He would not be pleased to learn we are secretly aiding House Moritani. You will wear a Grumman uniform, as will all of our soldiers.”

“I will not disappoint you, Uncle.”

The Baron struggled to keep his expression unreadable. I have no expectations of you whatsoever, so I cannot be disappointed.

He sipped his brandy and smiled. For insurance, he was putting subordinate officers in place to watch his nephew and make sure he didn’t make a big mistake. Rabban, who had already drained his glass, seemed disheartened when the Baron didn’t refill it for him.

“Now, go. The troops already have their orders. You must depart immediately so that you reach Grumman before our enemies arrive. If you get there too late, there will be no one left for you to fight.”

ON THE DRY hills outside Ritka, Beast Rabban lifted his chin, drew a deep breath of the bitter-smelling air, and watched with pride as his Harkonnen soldiers marched in formation to the edge of the dry seabed. All of the troops wore the yellow uniforms of House Moritani, with padded shoulders and metallic armbands. Observing them, Rabban thought that his disguised division moved with great precision, while the Grumman counterparts seemed more like an unruly band of barbarians. But at least they were muscular, hardened by their squalid lives, and determined to fight.

Once the enemies arrived, the local terrain would determine the initial layout of the battle. Nestled into the crook of rugged foothills, the city of Ritka was defensible from the rear and sides. Shields around the fortress would protect it from aerial bombardment and projectile fire, but infantry could still pass through the shields. The dry seabed stretched out in front of Ritka, where centuries ago ships had come to port. Now it was an open expanse, the only way that opposing armies could approach en masse. Atreides and Ecazi war frigates could land on the far side of the rocky pan, out of range of Ritka’s guns. From there, the armies would emerge and make a frontal attack.

The Grumman leader, with his shaggy hair and overly bright eyes, sat astride his huge black stallion, caparisoned in spiny armor. His redheaded Swordmaster Resser rode another mount beside him. Moritani grunted appreciatively as the massed Harkonnen troops flowed into the ranks of his own soldiers. “Baron Harkonnen has met the obligations of our alliance. Our enemies will soon come, and this clash will be remembered for centuries.” He gazed wistfully out on the open plain, as if imagining the glorious battle to come. “I have no doubt the Emperor will arrive to intervene as well. Shaddam cannot resist a chance to prove his manhood.”

“I have no need to prove my own,” Rabban said, with a sneer.

“Boasting of your bravery and demonstrating it are two different things,” Resser chided coolly. “We are counting on you to lead your Harkonnen troops and hold back the invasion as long as you can. We expect to face overwhelming numbers.”

“I won’t merely hold them back, I intend to defeat them utterly,” Rabban said.

“You may try,” the Viscount said wryly. He reached out a hand as a soldier handed him a thick helmet topped with a brush of black feathers. The Moritani leader placed the helmet upon Rabban’s head and moved his steed back a step. “You are my Warlord now.”

The helmet felt heavy, and Rabban was sure he must look magnificent.

“Brom, come here!” Moritani shouted. A bearded, broad-shouldered warrior nearly as tall as the Viscount’s towering mount came forward. “Brom is your lieutenant, Rabban. He and his troops will follow your commands in battle. You are responsible for them. You are the heart that beats red blood into their veins.”

The Grumman officer looked disturbed and resentful at the choice of Rabban as commander, but when the Viscount glared at him, Brom stepped back, his expression unreadable.

“I have great plans, Rabban, and you are a key part of them. I give you a horse and a command,” Moritani said. “My Swordmaster will stay with me inside the fortress, protected by house shields. You will have the honor of being out front, but you must lead according to my orders.”

“As long as I can be in the thick of the fighting against the Atreides.” Rabban could hardly wait for the opposing armies to appear.