In a light tropical rain, the survivors among the senior Swordmasters strode along the explosion-pocked pavement of what had formerly been the historic central plaza of the Ginaz School.

Duncan Idaho, already battle-proven, stood in their midst; he had discarded his torn tunic. Beside him, Hiih Resser kept his shirt on, though it was drenched in blood— mostly not his own. Both of them were full-fledged Swordmasters now, but they had no desire to celebrate their triumph.

Duncan just wanted to go home, to Caladan.

Though it had been more than a day since the Grumman sneak attack, fire and rescue crews still worked in the rubble, using sleek dogs and trained ferrets to sniff for signs of life. But buried survivors were few.

The central plaza’s once-lovely fountain had been demolished by shrapnel. Smoking debris lay all around. The odor of death and fire lingered in the air, not dissipated by the sea breezes.

The Moritani soldiers had intended only a damaging hit-and-run strike; they had made no preparations— and had no stomach— for a prolonged battle. Shortly after the Ginaz fighters rallied their weapons for defense, the Grummans left their fallen soldiers behind. They abandoned their damaged aircraft and rushed back to waiting frigates. No doubt, Viscount Moritani was already publicly justifying his heinous actions— and privately celebrating his sneak attack, no matter how much blood it had cost his own men.

“We study and teach fighting, but Ginaz is not a military world,” Whitmore Bludd said; his fine clothing looked all the worse now, soot-stained and bedraggled. “We strive to remain independent of political matters.”

“We made assumptions and got caught sleeping,” Jeh-Wu said, turning his perpetual sarcasm on himself for once. “We would have killed any new student for such blind arrogance. And we are guilty of it ourselves.”

Weary to the bone, Duncan looked at the men who had once been so proud, and saw how defeated they looked.

“Ginaz should never have been a target for aggression.” Rivvy Dinary bent over to pick up a mangled strip of metal, once part of an ornamental clockwork sculpture. “We assumed—”

“You assumed,” Duncan cut him off, and they had no answer.

Duncan and his redheaded friend took the body of Trin Kronos and dumped it out into the crashing surf near the main training center— the same spot where the kidnappers had dropped the corpses of their other four victims. The gesture seemed right, the appropriate symbolic response, but the pair took no satisfaction from it.

Now, the gathered fighting men shook their heads in dismay as they inspected the damaged administration building. Duncan vowed to never forget the arrogance of the Swordmasters, how it had led to so much trouble. Even the ancients understood the danger of hubris, of the pride before the fall; had men learned nothing in all these thousands of years?

Like his companions, Duncan now wore a Swordmaster’s khaki uniform and red bandanna. Black bands encircled their left arms, in honor of more than a hundred Swordmasters who had died in the Moritani assault.

“We relied on Imperial law to protect us,” an injured Mord Cour said, sounding weak and small. He seemed very different from the man who had taught the drama of epic poetry and made students weep as he recited legendary stories. Both of his arms were bandaged. “But the Grummans didn’t care. They have flouted our most sacred traditions, spat upon the very foundation of the Imperium.”

“Not everyone plays by the rules,” Duncan said, unable to suppress his bitterness. “Trin Kronos told us himself. We just didn’t listen to him.” Rivvy Dinari’s jowly face flushed.

“House Moritani will get a slap on the wrist,” Jeh-Wu said, his lips puckered into a frown. “They’ll be fined, perhaps embargoed— and they will continue to laugh at us.”

“How can anyone respect the prowess of Ginaz now?” Bludd groaned. “The school is disgraced. The damage to our reputation is immense.”

Mord Cour stared up at the hazy sky, and his long gray hair hung like a shroud around his head. “We must remake the school. Just like the followers of Jool-Noret did, after their Master drowned.”

Duncan studied the grizzled old Swordmaster, remembered the man’s tumultuous lifetime after his village had been wiped out, how he had lived a feral life in the mountainsides of Hagal, then returned to join— and slay— the bandits who had killed his neighbors and family. If anyone could accomplish such a dramatic resurrection, Cour could.

“We will never be so helpless again,” Rivvy Dinari promised, his voice filled with emotion. “Our Premier has promised to station two full combat units here, and we are acquiring a squad of minisubs to patrol the waters. We are Swordmasters, righteous in our prowess— and this enemy caught us completely unprepared. We are ashamed.” With a graceful move, he kicked a twisted scrap of metal, sending it clattering into the street. “Honor is slipping away. What is the Imperium coming to?”

Overwhelmed by his own thoughts, Duncan stepped around a splash of blood on the pavement, which glistened in the warm rain. Resser bent to look at it, as if he could draw some information from the rusty puddle, some indication of whether the fallen victim was enemy, or ally, or bystander.

“A lot of questions need to be asked,” Bludd said, his voice edged by suspicion. “We must dig deeply enough to find out what really happened.” He puffed out his chest. “And we will. I’m a soldier first and an educator second.”

His companions grunted in agreement.

Seeing something sparkle in a pile of rubble, Duncan stepped over debris to retrieve it. He pulled out a silver bracelet, wiped it on his sleeve. Tight clusters of charms hung from the band . . . tiny swords, Guild Heighliners, ornithopters. Rejoining the others, Duncan handed it to Dinari.

“Let us hope it didn’t belong to a child,” the bulky man said.

Duncan had already seen four dead children dragged from the debris, the sons and daughters of school employees. The final death toll would be in the thousands. Could it all be traced back to the single insult of expelling Grumman students, which had been a justifiable act in response to House Moritani’s outrageous attack on innocent Ecazi civilians . . . which had been caused by the assassination of an ambassador at a banquet on Arrakis . . . which in turn had been provoked by suspected crop sabotage?

But the Grumman students had made their own choices about staying or leaving. It was all so senseless. Trin Kronos had lost his life over it, and too many others with him. When would it end?

Resser still intended to return to Grumman, though it seemed suicidal for him to do so. He had his own demons to face there, but Duncan hoped he would survive them, and eventually make his way to Duke Leto. After all, Resser was a Swordmaster.

A few of the Swordmasters halfheartedly suggested offering their services as mercenaries for Ecaz. Some of the Masters insisted that they regain their honor first. Skilled fighters were needed on Ginaz to rebuild the decimated school faculty. The famed academy would be years recovering from this.

But, while Duncan felt a deep sense of loss and anger for what had happened here, his first allegiance was to Duke Leto Atreides. For eight years Duncan had been forged in fire like the layered steel of a sword. And that sword was sworn to House Atreides.

He would return to Caladan.