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With a sudden surge of power, a white-hot beam lanced out toward the upper boughs of the pine trees. They burst into flames, crackling and snapping. Smoldering clumps of evergreen needles fell around him like red-hot snow.

Yelping, he dropped the gun to the ground and scrambled backward. But he snatched it up again before he could forget which combination of buttons he had pushed. He had to remember and know how to use them.

The flames overhead flared like a bonfire beacon, exuding curls of sharp smoke. With nothing to lose now, Duncan fired again, aiming this time, just to make sure he could use the lasgun to defend himself. The cumbersome weapon was not built for a small boy, especially not with his throbbing shoulder and sore ribs, but he could use it. He had to.

Knowing the Harkonnens would run toward the blaze, Duncan scampered out of the trees, searching for another place to hide. Once again he made for higher ground, keeping to the ridgeline so he could continue observing the hunting party’s scattered glowglobes. He knew exactly where the men were, exactly how close.

But how can they be so stupid, he wondered, making themselves so obvious? Overconfidence . . . was that their flaw? If so, it might help him. The Harkonnens expected him to play their game, then cower and die when he was supposed to. Duncan would just have to disappoint them.

Maybe this time we’ll play my game instead.

As he dashed along, he avoided patches of snow and kept away from noisy underbrush. However, Duncan’s focus on the clustered pursuers distracted him from seeing his real danger. He heard a snap of dried twigs behind and above him, the rustle of bushes, then a clicking of claws on bare rock accompanied by heavy, hoarse panting.

This was no Harkonnen hunter at all—but another forest predator that smelled his blood.

Skidding to a halt, Duncan looked up, searching for gleaming eyes in the shadows. But he didn’t turn to the stark outcropping over his head until he heard a wet-sounding growl. In the starlight, he discerned the muscular, crouching form of a wild gaze hound, its back fur bristling like quills, its lips curled to expose flesh-tearing fangs. Its huge, huge eyes focused on its prey: a young boy with tender skin.

Duncan scrambled backward and fired off a shot with the lasgun. Poorly aimed, the beam came nowhere close to the stalking creature, but powdered rock spewed from the outcropping below the gaze hound. The predator yelped and snarled, backing off. Duncan fired again, this time sizzling a blackened hole through its right haunch. With a brassy roar, the creature bounded off into the darkness, howling and baying.

The gaze hound’s racket, as well as flashes from the lasgun fire, would draw the Harkonnen trackers. Duncan set off into the starlight, running once more.

Hands on his hips, Rabban stared down at the body of his ambushed hunter by the cave hollow. Rage burned through him—as well as cruel satisfaction. The devious child had lured the man into a trap. Very resourceful. All of the tracker’s armor hadn’t saved him from a dropped boulder and then the thrust of a dull dagger into his throat. The coup de grâce.

Rabban simmered for a few moments, trying to assess the challenge. He smelled the sour scent of death even in the cold night. This was what he wanted, wasn’t it—a challenge?

One of the other trackers crawled into the low hollow and played the beam of his handlight around the cave. It lighted the smears of blood and the smashed Richesian tracer. “Here is the reason, m’Lord. The cub cut out his own tracking device.” The hunter swallowed, as if uncertain whether he should continue. “A smart one, this boy. Good prey.”

Rabban glowered at the carnage for a few moments; his sunburn still stung on his cheeks. Then he grinned, slowly, and finally burst out into loud guffaws. “An eight-year-old child with only his imagination and a couple of clumsy weapons bested one of my troops!” He laughed again. Outside,