Riding the Worm

[Paul Atreides]

Paul flicked between the camouflage wearing soldiers, their Vietnam era uniforms, bulging muscles, and Rambo-esque equipment doing them little good as his form danced like a liquid between them. Paul’s two men, the short ugly warmaster, Gurney Halleck, and the swarthy-haired swordmaster, Duncan Idaho, dispatched the remainders. The bandit squad had been small, no more than a handful of men, but their crimes were sadistic and offended Paul’s Fremen ways. Water was as good as gold in the deep desert- and they’d slain three men for the water they carried. In Fremen, the term “water thief” was the worst insult one could give and came with a death sentence. Paul was more than happy to enact this himself, slitting the last man from stem to stern with a long draw up the man’s belly- stopping at his jaw. Gripping at it, Paul spun, tripping the man with a low sweeping kick, and the soldier’s insides became his outsides.

“We have a guest my Duke.” Gurney said, wiping the blood from his Kindjal (long, curved, knife), designed in Atreides fashion. Duncan sheathed his pulse sword, a thin, vibrating, weapon with a powerful disruptive energy playing along the length of the blade.

Paul, stoic and calm despite the exertion, laid eyes upon Enzo. The man, if that was what he was, had not jumped in on the behalf of the soldiers and looked to be of a different cut from them. Paul’s eyes, blue within blue from spice saturation, regarded him.

“You there... come closer.”

Paul could not be much older than Enzo- early twenties if a guess had to be made.

“Out dispute is not with the likes of you, lest you steal water from the lips of thirsty.”

He has a soft way of speaking that carried a sense of regal bearing, flowery, but direct.