On the administration island of Ginaz, the five greatest living Swordmasters met and judged their remaining students in the oral examination phase of their curriculum, grilling them on history, philosophy, military tactics, haiku, music, and more— all according to the exacting requirements and traditions of the school.
But this was a somber, tragic occasion.
The entire school archipelago remained in an uproar, outraged and grieving for the six slain students. Flaunting their barbarity, the Grummans had dumped four of the bodies in the surf near the main training center, where they had washed up on shore. The other two— Duncan Idaho and Hiih Resser— remained missing, likely lost at sea.
On the top floor of the central tower, the Swordmasters sat along the straight side of a semicircular table, their ceremonial swords extended point-outward on the surface in front of them, like the rays of a sun. Each student who stood in front of the table would see the threatening points while he answered rigorous questions.
They had all passed. Now Karsty Toper and the school administration would arrange travel for the successful students to return to their respective homes, where they would apply what they had learned. Some had already gone to the nearby spaceport.
And the Swordmasters were left with the consequences.
Fat Rivvy Dinari sat in the center, drawing out the sword of Duke Paulus Atreides and a jeweled Moritani heirloom knife, found among the possessions of Idaho and Resser. Beside him, Mord Cour hung his gray-maned head. “We have had much experience sending back the keepsakes of fallen students, but never like this.”
Sinewy master Jamo Reed, though hardened from overseeing his prison island for many years, could not stop weeping. He shook his head. “If Ginaz students die, it should be during difficult training— not because they are murdered.”
Ginaz had lodged formal protests, issuing culturally tailored insults and censures, none of which meant anything to Viscount Hundro Moritani. He had never made satisfactory amends for his brutal attacks on Ecaz. The Landsraad and the Emperor were now holding hearings on the best means of response, with the leaders of many Great Houses traveling to Kaitain in order to speak with the Council. But they had never managed more than censures, fines, and slaps on the hand even for a “mad dog” like the Viscount.
The Grummans believed they could get away with anything.
“I feel . . . violated,” Jeh-Wu said, his dreadlocks hanging in disarray. “No one has ever dared to do this sort of thing to a Swordmaster.”
Foppish Whitmore Bludd sat up straighter and fiddled with the ruffles on his shirt, the heavy cuffs at his wrists. “I propose that we rename six of our islands after the murdered students. History will remember the dastardly crime, and we will honor the Six.”
“Honor?” Rivvy Dinari slapped his fat palm on the tabletop, making the sword blades jangle. “How can you use such a word in this context? I spent three hours last night by Jool-Noret’s burial vault, praying and asking what he would do in such a situation.”
“And did he answer you?” Scowling, Jeh-Wu stood up and went to look out the window, at the flat spaceport and the foamy reefs. “Even in his own lifetime, Jool-Noret never taught anybody. He drowned in a tidal wave, and his disciples tried to emulate him. If Noret never helped his closest followers, he certainly won’t help us.”
Bludd sniffed, looking offended. “The great man taught by example. A perfectly valid technique, for those capable of learning.”
“And he had honor, just like the ancient samurai,” Dinari said. “After tens of thousands of years, we have grown less civilized. We have forgotten.”
Frowning in contemplation, Mord Cour looked over at the obese Swordmaster. “You are forgetting history, Dinari. The samurai may have had honor, but once the British arrived in Japan with guns, the samurai vanished . . . within a generation.”
Jamo Reed looked up, his lean face devastated beneath a snowy white cap of frizzy hair. “Please, we must not fight among ourselves or else the Grummans will have beaten us.”
Jeh-Wu snorted. “They’ve already—”
A commotion at the doorway interrupted him. He turned from the window as the other four Swordmasters rose to their feet in shock.
Dirty and disheveled, Duncan Idaho and Hiih Resser pushed past the objections of three uniformed school employees, knocking the men aside in the corridor. The two young men strode into the room, battered and limping, but with a fire in their eyes.
“Are we too late?” Resser asked with a forced grin.
Jamo Reed ran around the table to embrace Duncan, then Resser. “My boys, you are alive!”
Even Jeh-Wu had a relieved and astonished smile on his iguanalike face. “A Swordmaster has no need to state the obvious,” he said, but Jamo Reed didn’t care.
Duncan’s gaze lit on the Old Duke’s sword lying on the semicircular table. He took a step forward and looked down at the blood oozing from a gash on his left shin, soaking through the leg of his ill-fitting pants. “Resser and I haven’t actually been studying for the past several days . . . but we have been putting your training into practice.”
Resser swayed a little, having trouble staying on his feet, but Duncan supported him. After gulping cups of water that Mord Cour gave them, they explained how they had jumped overboard in the rough seas, swimming and helping each other to distance themselves from the large dark boat. Straining their abilities to the limit, clinging to every scrap of knowledge they had learned during eight years of rigorous Swordmaster training, they had remained afloat for hours. They did their best to navigate by the stars, until finally the tides and currents carried them to one of the numerous islands— luckily a civilized one. From there, they had secured minimal first aid and dry clothes, as well as immediate transportation.
Though his good humor had been damaged by the ordeal, Resser still managed to raise his chin. “We would like to formally request a delay in our final examination, sirs—”
“Delay?” Jamo Reed said, with tears in his eyes again. “I suggest a dispensation. Surely these two have proven themselves to our satisfaction?”
Indignant, Whitmore Bludd tugged at his ruffles. “The forms must be obeyed.”
Old Mord Cour looked at him skeptically. “Haven’t the Grummans just shown us the folly of too-blindly following the forms?” The other four Masters turned to Rivvy Dinari for his assessment.
Finally, the huge Swordmaster levered his enormous body to his feet and gazed at the bedraggled students. He indicated the Old Duke’s sword and the ceremonial Moritani dagger. “Idaho, Resser, draw your weapons.”
With a clatter of steel, the Swordmasters took up their blades, arranged in a sunburst pattern on the semicircular table. His heart pounding, Duncan picked up the Old Duke’s sword from the table, and Resser took the dagger. The five Swordmasters formed a circle, including the two students in the ring, and extended their blades toward the center, placing one atop the other.
“Lay your points on top of the rest,” Mord Cour said.
“You are now Swordmasters,” Dinari announced in his paradoxically small voice. The huge man sheathed his sword, removed the red bandanna from his spiky mahogany hair, and tied it around Duncan’s head. Jamo Reed withdrew another bandanna and cinched it around Resser’s red hair.
After eight years, the rush of triumph and relief brought Duncan to near collapse, but through sheer force of will he steadied his knees and remained standing. He and Resser grasped each other’s hands in celebration, albeit one tainted by tragedy. Duncan couldn’t wait to return to Caladan.
I have not failed you, Duke Leto.
Then a sound like ripping air tore overhead, a succession of sonic booms from descending atmospheric craft. From the reefs that circled the central island, unexpected sirens went off. Much closer, an explosion echoed from the walls of the administration buildings.
The senior Swordmasters sprinted to a balcony that overlooked the complex. Across the channels of still water, two nearby islands glowed with smoky fires.
“Armored airships!” Jamo Reed said. Duncan saw black predatory forms swoop out of the pillars of flame, in steep climbs as they dropped streams of explosives.
Jeh-Wu snarled, tossing his dark hair. “Who would dare attack us?”
To Duncan, the answer seemed obvious. “House Moritani isn’t done with us yet.”
“It flies in the face of all civilized warfare,” Rivvy Dinari said. “They have not declared kanly, have not followed the proper forms.”
“After what he has done to us, to Ecaz, what does Viscount Moritani care about the forms?” Resser said in disgust. “You don’t understand how his mind works.”
More bombs exploded.
“Where’s our antiaircraft fire?” Whitmore Bludd sounded more annoyed than outraged. “Where are our ’thopters?”
“No one has ever attacked Ginaz before,” Jamo Reed said. “We are politically neutral. Our school serves all Houses.”
Duncan could see how these Masters had been blinded by their egos, their rules and forms and structures. Hubris! They had never conceived of their own vulnerabilities— despite what they taught their students.
With a foul stream of expletives, Dinari pushed binoculars against the folds of fat on his face. He flicked the oil-lens settings and, ignoring the oncoming armored craft, scanned the rugged edge of the administrative island. “Enemy commandos are all over that shore, landing opposite the spaceport. Approaching with shoulder-mounted artillery.”
“Must have come in by submarine,” Jeh-Wu said. “This isn’t an impromptu attack— they’ve been planning it for quite some time.”
“Waiting for an excuse,” Reed added, a deep frown creasing his tanned face. The attacking airships drew closer, thin black disks shimmering with defensive shields.
To Duncan, the Swordmasters appeared so helpless, almost pathetic, when faced with this unexpected situation. Their hypothetical exercises were far different from reality. Painfully so. He gripped the Old Duke’s sword.
“Those ships are unmanned flyovers, made to drop bombs and incendiaries,” Duncan said with cool assessment, as a rain of bombs fell from the roaring disks. Buildings blossomed into fire all along the shoreline.
Shouting, the proud Swordmasters ran from the balcony, with Resser and Duncan in their midst. “We need to get to our stations, do what we can to guide the defense!” Dinari’s thin voice was sharpened with command.
“The rest of the new trainees are at the spaceport,” Resser pointed out. “They can grab equipment and fight back.”
Off-balance but struggling to recover, especially in front of the even-more-panicked officials and administrators, Jamo Reed, Mord Cour, and Jeh-Wu charged along the main corridor, while Rivvy Dinari showed how fast he could move his bulk, vaulting down a stairway by holding handrails and leaping from landing to landing. Whitmore Bludd scuttled behind him.
After exchanging quick glances, Duncan and Resser followed the two Swordmasters who’d gone down the stairway. A nearby explosion rocked the administration building, and the young men stumbled. Still, they kept going. Outside, the full-scale attack continued.
The new Swordmasters surged through a door at ground level into the central lobby, joining Dinari and Bludd. Through the armor-plaz windows, Duncan could see buildings burning outside. “We’ve got to get to your command center,” he said to his elders. “We need the equipment to fight. Are there attack ’thopters at the spaceport?”
Resser held his ceremonial Moritani dagger. “I’ll fight right here, if they dare send anyone in to face us.”
Bludd looked agitated; he had dropped his colorful cloak somewhere on the stairs. “Don’t think small. What is their goal? Of course, they’ll be after the vault!” In dismay, he nodded toward an ornate black coffin on a dais that dominated the lobby. “Jool-Noret’s remains, the most sacred object on all of Ginaz. Can you think of a greater insult to us?” With a flushed face he turned toward his enormous companion. “It would be just like the Grummans to hit us in the heart.”
Perplexed, Duncan and Resser looked at each other. They had been steeped in tales about the legendary fighter— but in the face of this bloody attack, the exploding bombs, the screaming civilians rushing for shelter on the island streets, neither of them could care much about the old relic.
Dinari rushed across the floor like a battleship moving at full speed. “To the vault!” he shouted. Bludd and the others tried to keep up with him.
The famous burial vault was surrounded by clear armor-plaz and a shimmering Holtzman-generated shield. Eschewing all arrogant pretenses, the two Swordmasters rushed up the steps and pressed their palms against a security panel. The shield faded, and the armor-plaz barriers lifted.
“We’ll carry the sarcophagus,” Bludd shouted to Duncan and Resser. “We must keep this safe. It is the very soul of the Ginaz School.”
Constantly looking around for attackers in Moritani uniforms, Duncan balanced the Old Duke’s sword in his grip. “Take the mummy if you have to, but be quick about it.”
Resser stood at his side. “Then we’ve got to get out of here, and find some ships so we can fight.” Duncan hoped that other Ginaz defenses were already rallying to strike back against the attackers.
While the senior Swordmasters, both strong men, lifted the ornate coffin and carried it toward the dubious safety outside, Duncan and Resser cleared the way. Outside, the black disks continued their indiscriminate rain of bombs.
A gun ’thopter with school markings landed in the plaza in front of the administration building; it folded its wings while the engines continued to thrum. Half a dozen Swordmasters leaped from the craft wearing singlesuits and red bandannas, with lasrifles slung over their shoulders.
“We’ve got Noret’s body,” Bludd called proudly, gesturing to the ’thopter for assistance. “Come quickly.”
Soldiers in yellow Moritani uniforms ran across the plaza. Duncan shouted a warning, and the Swordmasters fired lasguns at the attackers. The Grumman soldiers responded with their own weapons; two Swordmasters were hit, including Jamo Reed. When an aerial bomb exploded, old Mord Cour sprawled down, injured in the arms and torso by flying stone splinters. Duncan helped the shaggy-haired instructor to his feet and into the safety of the ’thopter.
Just as he got Cour inside, though, a charging attacker knocked Duncan’s legs out from under him. The young Swordmaster tumbled to the pavement, rolled, and sprang to his feet again. Before he could extend his sword, a Grumman woman in a yellow martial-arts gi dove under his guard, slashing at him with claw-knives on her fingers. With his sword useless at such close range, he grabbed the attacker’s long hair and jerked back hard enough to hear her neck snap. The assassin melted to the ground, limp and twitching.
More Grummans converged on the gun ’thopter. Resser shouted, “Go! Take the damned coffin with you!” He and Duncan whirled to face another opponent.
A bearded man lunged with a sparking electrical spear, but Duncan ducked the blow and spun to one side. His thoughts accelerated as he summoned the proper response from eight years of training. Rage threatened to overtake him, rising in red waves as he remembered the captive students slaughtered on the dark boat. His retinas burned with vivid images of the bombs and fire and the slain innocents.
But he remembered Dinari’s admonition: With anger comes error. In an instant, he settled on a cold, almost instinctive response. With sheer force of will, Duncan Idaho slammed steely fingertips under the lunging man’s rib cage, breaking skin and piercing his heart.
Then a cagey young man stepped from the fray, lean and muscular, with his injured right wrist sealed in a padded cast. Trin Kronos. The surly young lordling grasped a sharp-bladed katana in his good hand. “I thought you two would be feeding the fish, like the other four examples we made.” He looked up at the soaring bombers; another huge explosion took down a low building.
“Face me, Kronos,” Resser said, drawing his ceremonial Moritani dagger. “Or are you too much a coward without your father and a dozen guards armed with heavy weaponry?”
Trin Kronos held his katana, considered, then cast it aside. “Too good a weapon for a traitor. I would have to throw it away after I soiled it with your blood.” He withdrew a dueling knife instead. “A dagger is easier to replace.”
Resser’s cheeks flushed, and Duncan stepped back to watch the two confront each other. “I would never have forsaken House Moritani,” Resser said, “if they’d given me anything I could believe in.”
“Believe in the cold steel of my blade,” Kronos said, with a cruel sneer. “It will feel real enough when it cuts out your heart.”
With broken rubble underfoot, the two circled cautiously, not breaking each other’s gaze. Resser held up his dagger, maintaining a solid defensive posture, while Kronos jabbed and slashed, aggressive but ineffective.
Resser attacked, withdrew, then swept out his foot in a vicious kick that should have knocked Kronos to the ground, but the Grumman fighter bent backward like a snake, drawing himself away from the redhead’s foot. Resser spun all the way around and recovered his balance, deflecting a swift knife blow.
The area around the two combatants was clear. In nearby streets, other Grumman attackers continued to raid, and projectile fire rang out from high windows. At the ’thopter, the Swordmasters struggled with their relic, trying to lift the sarcophagus into their aircraft while fighting off attackers.
Kronos feinted, slashed at Resser’s eyes with the tip of his dueling knife, then stabbed for the throat. Resser threw himself to one side, neatly out of range, but his foot came down on a loose chunk of rock; his ankle twisted, and he stumbled.
Kronos was upon him like a lion, pouncing and bringing the knife down, but Resser slapped sideways with his own dagger, knocking the other blade aside with a clang. Then he jabbed upward, sliding the point into his opponent’s bicep and tracing a red cut down past the elbow to the forearm.
With a childish cry, Kronos staggered back, looking at the scarlet river pouring down to his uninjured wrist. “Bastard traitor!”
Resser bounced to his feet and focused his stance again, ready to fight. “I’m an orphan, not a bastard.” His lips curved in a quick, wan smile.
His arm slick with blood, his knife hand weak, Kronos could see that he had lost the knife fight. His face hardened. Upending his fighting dagger, he brought the pommel down on his thick wrist cast. It split open along a planned seam, and a spring-loaded flèchette pistol popped into his grip. Kronos grinned, thrusting the weapon forward, preparing to fire a full load of the silver flèchettes into Resser’s chest. “You still insist on following your absurd rules, don’t you?”
“I don’t,” Duncan Idaho said from behind as he thrust mightily with the Old Duke’s sword. The point pierced between the shoulder blades of Trin Kronos and emerged from his chest, sliding all the way through his heart. Kronos coughed blood and shivered, astonished at the sharp object that had sprouted from his sternum.
As Kronos slumped dead, he slid off the bloody blade. Duncan stared at his victim and at the sword. “Grummans aren’t the only ones who can break the rules.”
Resser’s face had gone gray, having accepted the inevitability of his death as soon as he saw the pistol hidden in Kronos’s cast. “Duncan . . . you stabbed him in the back.”
“I saved the life of my friend,” Duncan replied. “Given the same options, I would make that choice every time.”
Dinari and Bludd finished tying down the sacred relic aboard the ’thopter. Laser arcs filled the air as Ginaz defenders fired with deadly accuracy. The two young men stood exhausted, but the Swordmasters pulled them aboard the ’thopter.
With a great thrust of jets, the gunship surged into the air. The wings reached full extension, transporting the passengers and the body of Jool-Noret away from the main buildings. As Duncan huddled on the metal deck, Rivvy Dinari leaned over to place a thick arm around his shoulders. “You boys had to prove yourselves early.”
“What’s this attack all about? Wounded pride?” Duncan asked, so angry he wanted to spit. “A foolish reason to begin a war.”
“There are rarely good reasons to begin wars,” Mord Cour said, hanging his head.
Whitmore Bludd tapped the transparent plaz. “Look out the window.”
A swarm of Ginaz gunships fired laser blasts at the enemy aircraft and mowed down troops on the ground. “Our new Swordmasters are at the controls— your fellow students from the spaceport,” Cour said.
After a direct hit, one of the unmanned flyovers exploded and plummeted. The Swordmasters raised their fists inside the cramped ’thopter.
The flyover hit the ground in a fireball, and a second vessel crashed into the ocean. Lasbeams struck more of them out of the skies. Duncan’s ’thopter dove toward a squad of Grumman commandos rushing back over the water and blasted them, leaving bodies strewn on the ground. The pilot went around for another pass.
“The Grummans expected easy pickings,” Whitmore Bludd said.
“And damned if we didn’t provide them,” Jeh-Wu growled.
Duncan watched the mayhem and tried not to compare the rampant destruction and bloodshed with all the finesse he had learned in eight years at the Ginaz School.