Dune_ House Atreides - Brian Herbert [76]
“Such a boy was made for the hunt,” Rabban declared; then he nudged the dead tracker’s body with the toe of his boot. “And this clod did not deserve to be part of my crew. Leave his body here to rot. Let the scavengers get him.”
Then two of the spotters saw flames in the trees, and Rabban pointed. “There! The cub’s probably trying to warm his hands.” He laughed again, and finally the rest of the hunting crew snickered along with him. “This is turning into an exciting night.”
From his high vantage Duncan gazed into the distance, away from the guarded lodge. A bright light blinked on and off, paused, then fifteen seconds later flashed on and off again. Some kind of signal, separate from the Harkonnen hunters, far from the lodge or the station or any nearby settlements.
Duncan turned, curious. The light flashed, then fell dark. Who else is out here?
Forest Guard Station was a restricted preserve for the sole use of Harkonnen family members. Anyone discovered trespassing would be killed outright, or used as prey in a future hunt. Duncan watched the tantalizing light flickering on and off. It was clearly a message. . . . Who’s sending it?
He took a deep breath, felt small but defiant in a very large and hostile world. He had no place else to go, no other chance. So far, he had eluded the hunters . . . but that couldn’t last forever. Soon the Harkonnens would bring in additional forces, ornithopters, life-tracers, perhaps even hunting animals to follow the smell of blood on his shirt, as the wild gaze hound had done.
Duncan decided to make his way to the mysterious signaler and hope for the best. He couldn’t imagine finding anyone to help him, but he had not given up hope. Maybe he could find a means of escape, perhaps as a stowaway.
First, though, he would lay another trap for the hunters. He had an idea, something that would surprise them, and it seemed simple enough. If he could kill a few more of the enemy, he’d have a better chance of getting away.
After studying the rocks, the patches of snow, the trees, Duncan selected the best point for his second ambush. He switched on his handlight and directed the beam at the ground so that no sensitive eyes would spot a telltale gleam in the distance.
The pursuers weren’t far behind him. Occasionally, he heard a muffled shout in the deep silence, saw the hunting party’s firefly glowglobes illuminating their way through the forest, as the trackers tried to anticipate the path their quarry would take.
Right then Duncan wanted them to anticipate where he would go . . . but they would never guess what he meant to do. Kneeling beside a particularly light and fluffy snowdrift, he inserted the handlight into the snow and pushed it down through the cold iciness as far as he could. Then he withdrew his hand.
The glow reflected from the white snow like water diffusing into a sponge. Tiny crystals of ice refracted the light, magnifying it; the drift itself shone like a phosphorescent island in the dark clearing.
Slinging the lasgun in front of him, ready to fire, he trotted back to the sheltering trees. He lay on a cushion of pine needles flat against the ground, careful to present no visible target, then rested the barrel of the lasgun on a small rock, propping it in position.
Waiting.
The hunters came, predictably, and Duncan felt that their roles had reversed: Now he was the hunter, and they were his game. He aimed the weapon, fingers tense on the firing stud. At last the group entered the clearing. Startled to find the shining snowdrift, they milled about, trying to figure out what it was, what their prey had done.
Two of the trackers faced outward, suspicious of an attack from the forest. Others stood silhouetted in the ghostly light, perfect targets—exactly as Duncan had hoped.
At the rear of the party, he recognized one burly man with a commanding presence. Rabban! Duncan thought of how his parents had fallen, remembered the smell of their burning flesh—and squeezed the firing