Hunters of Dune - Brian Herbert [188]
“We never doubted it,” Sheeana said. “But another Enemy is coming—one that those whores provoked. That Enemy is far worse.”
“Worse? How do you know this?” the Chief Handler said. “What if there is nothing to fear from this other Enemy? Perhaps you have misunderstood.”
Sheeana noticed the other Handlers subtly closing in around them. Teg picked up on it, too, but showed no obvious reaction.
Standing amidst the bloody remnants of the hunt, Orak Tho surprised them by changing the subject. “And now that we have shown our goodwill, I would like to visit your no-ship. I will bring a party of Handlers with me to see it.”
Teg gave her a subtle sign of caution.
“That is indeed something we should consider,” she said, “but we must first discuss it with our companions. We have much to tell them about your gracious hospitality, and all that you have shown us.”
Trying not to reveal his concern, Teg added, “We have only a small lighter. We’ll need to arrange transport for your visiting party.”
“We have our own ships.” The Chief Handler turned, as if the decision had already been made. Teg and Sheeana flashed a look at each other. Their own ships? The Handlers had already talked about having scanners sophisticated enough to detect the Ithaca in orbit. This civilization was far more technologically sophisticated than it appeared to be.
The odors of the Handlers, of coppery spilled blood, and of the musky Futars mixed with the forest air in a medley of confusing and disturbing smells. Sheeana also detected a faint, familiar undertone of unwarranted tension. Beside the half-devoured corpse of the Honored Matre, Hrrm and Black Stripe looked up, sensing something amiss. Both Futars growled deep in their throats.
Sheeana interrupted. “Will the Rabbi and Thufir Hawat be rejoining us soon?”
Orak Tho continued as if he had not heard her question. “I will signal my people. I am certain your companions would agree. We will do this as efficiently as possible.”
The nearby Handlers stiffened. Their movements were subtle, but she noticed the people slowly coiling into fighting stances, elbows cocked, legs ready to spring. They are going to attack!
“Miles!” Sheeana shouted.
The young Bashar lashed out in a strike so swift it was no more than a flicker of movement to the naked eye. Sheeana ducked, thrust her palm into the face of another Handler, and flung herself sideways as the people closed in.
Teg struck one man in the center of the chest with a cracking blow strong enough to freeze his heart—an ancient, but deadly, Bene Gesserit fighting technique. Sheeana grabbed the long forearm of another Handler and, snapping it backward, broke the bone above the elbow. More Handlers loped like predators from the dense aspens.
The natives fought with the clear intent to kill, not even asking Sheeana and Teg to surrender. But what will the Handlers do when they kill us? How will they get aboard the no-ship, if that’s what they want? Though they were only two people, Sheeana and Teg held their own against the onslaught, but only tenuously.
In a storm of muscles and claws, Hrrm attacked—striking not her or the Bashar, but the Chief Handler. Orak Tho opened his wide mouth in surprise and barked a sharp guttural command, but Hrrm did not stop. The Futar had broken his conditioning. Hrrm drove the Handler to the ground as he snarled her name, “Sheeana!” In unthinking frenzy, he bit down and twisted sideways, snapping Orak Tho’s long neck.
Hrrm, knowing nothing of politics or alliances, fought the other beast-man and defended Sheeana against the Handlers. He’d done it for her.
Everything happened in seconds. While the Futar stood from his kill, Orak Tho changed. His dead flesh shifted to the inhuman features of a Face Dancer. The other Handler Teg had already killed also shifted. Face Dancers!
In the past, Sheeana had always trusted her ability to recognize the shape-shifters by their distinctive pheromones, but the new Face Dancers were far more sophisticated, often undetectable even by the