The next island of the Ginaz School was the remnant of an ancient volcano, a bleak scab raised out of the water and left to dry in the tropical sun. The settlement inside the bowl of the dry crater looked like another penal colony.

Duncan stood in formation on the stony exercise field with a hundred and ten other young men, including the redheaded Grumman trainee Hiih Resser. Of the original hundred and fifty, thirty-nine had not completed their initial testing.

The curly black hair on Duncan’s head had been shaved, and he wore the loose black gi of the school. Each student carried whatever weapon he’d brought to Ginaz, and Duncan had the Old Duke’s sword— but he would learn to rely above all on his own abilities and reactions, not a talisman that reminded him of home. The young man felt comfortable now, and strong, and ready. He was eager to begin his training, at long last.

Inside the crater compound, the junior training master identified himself as Jeh-Wu. He was a muscular man with a rounded nose, and a weak chin that gave him the appear-ance of an iguana. His long dark hair was kinked into snakelike dreadlocks. “The Pledge,” he said. “In unison, please!”

“To the memory of the Swordmasters,” Duncan and the other students intoned, “in heart, soul, and mind, we do pledge ourselves without condition, in the name of Jool-Noret. Honor is the core of our being.”

A moment of silence ensued as they contemplated the great man who had established the principles upon which Ginaz was founded, whose sacred remains could still be viewed in the tall administration building on the main school island.

As they stood at attention, the new instructor strolled up and down each row, inspecting the candidates. Jeh-Wu thrust his head forward, paused in front of Duncan. “Produce your weapon.” He spoke Ginazee, with the words translated into Galach by a thin purple collar that circled his neck.

Duncan did as he was told, handing over the Old Duke’s sword hilt first. Jeh-Wu’s eyebrows arched beneath massed dreadlocks that hung like a thundercloud on his head. “Fine blade. Marvelous metallurgy. Pure Damasteel.” He flexed the blade expertly, bent it back, then released it to snap into position with a thrummm like a struck tuning fork.

“Each newly forged Damasteel blade is said to be quenched in the body of a slave.” Jeh-Wu paused; his dreadlocks looked like serpents ready to strike. “Are you thickheaded enough to believe crap like that, Idaho?”

“That depends on whether or not it’s true, sir.”

The dour training master finally gave a thin smile, but did not answer Duncan. “I understand this is the blade of Duke Paulus Atreides?” He narrowed his eyes and spoke in a warmer voice. “See that you are worthy of it.” He slipped it back into Duncan’s scabbard.

“You will learn to fight with other weapons until you are ready for this one. Go to the armory and pick up a heavy broadsword, then don a full set of body armor— antique medieval plate.” Now Jeh-Wu’s smile seemed more sinister on his iguana-like face. “You’ll need it for this afternoon’s lesson. I intend to make an example of you.”

On the pumice-and-gravel field in the crater, with forbidding crags all around him, Duncan Idaho clanked forward in full plate armor. The hauberk blocked his peripheral vision, forcing him to stare straight ahead through the slit. The metal pressed down on him, falling as if it weighed hundreds of pounds. Over his chain-mail shirt he wore shoulder plates, gorget, breastplate, greaves, cuirass, and tasset. He carried an enormous two-handed broadsword.

“Stand over there.” Jeh-Wu pointed to a packed gravel area. “Consider how you intend to fight in that suit. It is not an easy task.”

Before long, the island sun turned his outfit into a claustrophobic oven. Already sweating, Duncan struggled to stride across the uneven ground. He could barely bend his arms and legs.

None of the other students wore similar armor, but Duncan did not feel fortunate. “I’d rather be wearing a personal shield,” he said, his voice muffled in the echoing helmet.

“Raise your weapon,” the junior training master ordered.

Like a shackled prisoner, Duncan clumsily lifted the broadsword. With a conscious effort, he bent his stiff gauntlets into place around the hilt.

“Remember, Duncan Idaho, you have the best armor . . . supposedly the greatest advantage. Now, defend yourself.”

He heard a shout from beyond his constricted range of vision, and suddenly he was surrounded by other students. They pummeled him with conventional swords, clanging against the steel plate. It sounded like a brutal hailstorm on a thin metal roof.

Duncan swiveled and struck out with his blade, but he moved too slowly. A pommel bashed his helmet, making his ears buzz. Although he swung again, he could barely see his opponents through the slit in his helmet, and they easily sidestepped the blow. Another blade rang against his shoulder plate. He fell to his knees, struggled to stand.

“Well, fight back, Idaho,” Jeh-Wu said, raising his eyebrows in impatience. “Don’t just stand there.”

Duncan was reluctant to harm the other students with his huge broadsword, but none of his flat-bladed blows even touched a target. The students returned to pound him again. Sweat poured down his skin, and black spots danced in front of his eyes. The air inside his helmet grew stifling.

I can fight better than this!

Duncan responded with more energy, and the students dodged his thrusts and swings, but the heavy plate armor denied him free movement. In his ears, the roar of his breathing, the pounding of his heart was deafening.

The attack went on and on until he finally collapsed on the uneven gravel. The training master came forward and tore off the heavy helmet so that Duncan blinked in a blaze of sunlight. He gasped, shaking salty sweat out of his eyes. The heavy suit pinned him to the ground like a giant’s foot.

Jeh-Wu stood over him. “You had the best armor of all of us, Duncan Idaho. You also had the largest sword.” The training master looked down at his helpless form and waited for him to consider. “And yet you failed utterly. Would you care to explain why?”

Duncan remained silent; he didn’t make any excuses for the abuse and embarrassment he had suffered during the exercise. It was clear there were hardships in life that a man had to face and overcome. He would accept adversity and use it to grow stronger. Life was not always fair.

Jeh-Wu turned to the other students. “Tell me the lesson here.”

A short, dark-skinned trainee from the artificial world of Al-Dhanab barked out immediately, “Perfect defenses are not always an advantage. Complete protection can become a hindrance, for it limits you in other ways.”

“Good.” Jeh-Wu ran a finger along a scar on his chin. “Else?”

“Freedom of movement is a better defense than cumbersome armor,” said Hiih Resser. “The hawk is safer from attack than the turtle.”

Duncan forced himself to sit up, and slid the heavy broadsword aside in disgust. His voice was hoarse. “And the largest weapon is not always the deadliest.”

The training master looked down at him, dreadlocks drooping, and gave him a genuine smile. “Excellent, Idaho. You may yet learn something here.”