Riding the Worm

[Paul Atreides]

The bodies, and water, piled up. Paul had no respect for the belgians who would steal from others though such work was far from being to his liking but he didn’t mind the work. It was hard work- brutal work, but it suited him and his men. They gave no word of complaint- these rag-tag bandits were nothing like the Sardukar and hardly ever measured up to a Harkonen dog looking for scraps. Paul had now felled eight bandit parties and left his mark of “Muad'dib” on them. Sometimes it was carved into their bodies, other times upon the ground with rocks, or even painted with blood upon a nearby surface. He had displayed their bodies in a very visible fashion- most commonly burying the deceased up to their neck in the sand and leaving their weapons and evidence of their crimes before their bloodied heads. There was going to be a new name- a promise of swift and brutal punishment for those who transgressed against the ways of the desert. For Paul however- this was the first step in obtaining his beloved desert power, which to him was the only power in a place such as this...

For his trouble Paul had stockpiled a small store of water, with his stillsuit he doubted that he and his men could go through it in a year, and a number of weapons. Some had been archaic, other futuristic. None was of particular use but he could use them in trade and had no special love for them. He understood the concept of Omnilium and had drained some of the criminals he had found or reverted their equipment to it and consumed it. In this way he had grown stronger- still a blip on the radar of primes but he doubted he would go unnoticed for much longer. When sending a message like this- others were sure to figure it out. He had considered this and made no attempt to contact the nearby town nor make more than passing and informal contacts with the natives of this strange place. He could, for the most part, live off the land even in the desert- a fremen skill he was blessed to have been taught. What little he needed, he traded for or took from the people he saved. He never took anything of great value or in great supply- but a few rations here, a tool there, and never anything more. He and his band moved from place to place, abandoning all but their water and most necessary tools as they did so. He had thought about summoning more- his Chani... but he felt it was a danger. He was lean now, no baggage and no great power. None could track him without a special effort.

So it was that he was surprised by the special effort put forth to find him, a bloody passion that could not be subdued by all the subtlety and subterfuge he had employed to remain hidden. No... this was a bloody passion that could be no more suppressed than the changing of the tides on Caladan. After felling his ninth bandit squad, a small group of robotic men who had cut to ribbons a small farming community on the edge of the desert, he felt eyes upon him.

“Duncan...” Paul said in a low voice, not giving any indication of what he felt.

“I know Paul. I feel it too.” Hissed Dunce back, rummaging though the effects of the man-shaped robot that had just ceased moving.

“What would you have us do?” Asked Gurney, also pretending not to notice the presence watching them from atop the hill..

“Nothing. They are just eyes Gurney Halleck.” Paul cautioned as he finished his message in the sand- laid out in scrap metal.

Then came the call and they were not simply eyes anymore.

“ATREIDES!!!!” Came the cry and the voice was unmistakable.

Those eyes were the cruel eyes of a Harkonen and they would not close until he lay dead.