Sandworms of Dune - Brian Herbert [160]
The time had come. Paul gathered all of his concentration for the fight. Hardly seeing Chani, he kissed her. The wormtooth dagger she had made felt perfectly balanced in his hand. He had practiced with the crysknife on the no-ship, and he knew how to fight.
I must not fear. Fear is the mind-killer.
Young Paolo pressed his lips together in a tight smile. “I can tell you’ve had the visions, too! See, we are alike in yet another aspect.”
“I’ve had many visions.” I will face my fear.
“Not like these.” His opponent’s knowing smile was maddening, unnerving. . . . Paul stiffened his resolve. He would not give Paolo the satisfaction of showing dread or uncertainty.
Quicksilver robots appeared and removed the human observers to the sidelines of the expansive hall. The Baron stepped back beside Khrone, his gaze flicking back and forth between young Paolo and the tempting dose of ultraspice. He licked his thick lips hungrily, as if wishing he could try some for himself.
On the smooth combat floor of the chamber, Paul stood poised a couple of meters from Paolo. His younger foe tossed the gold-hilted dagger from hand to hand and smiled at him, showing white teeth.
Calming himself, Paul summoned all the important lessons he had learned: Bene Gesserit attitudes and prana-bindu instruction, the precise muscular training and rigorous attack exercises that Duncan and the Bashar had drilled into all of the ghola children.
He spoke to his fear: I will permit it to pass over me and through me.
It would all culminate here. Paul felt confident that if he rose to the challenge and won, his Kwisatz Haderach powers would surface, and he would be able to go on to defeat the thinking machines. But if Paolo won . . . He didn’t want to consider that possibility.
“Usul, remember your time among the Fremen,” Chani called from the side of the hall. “Remember how they taught you to fight!”
“He remembers none of it, bitch!” Paolo slashed the Emperor’s knife across the air, as if slitting an invisible throat. “But I am fully trained, a tempered fighting machine.”
The Baron applauded, but only a little. “No one likes a braggart, Paolo . . . unless, of course, you succeed and prove to everyone that you were merely stating facts.”
Paul refused to be controlled by his visions. If I am the Kwisatz Haderach, I’ll change the visions. I shall fight. I shall be everywhere at once.
Young Paolo must have been thinking the same thing, for he lunged like a viper. Startled by the abrupt beginning of the duel, Erasmus swept his plush robes aside and stepped quickly out of the way. Apparently he had intended to delineate the rules of the challenge, but Paolo wanted to make it a brawl.
Paul bent backward like a reed and let the Emperor’s blade whistle past, within a centimeter of his neck. Young Paolo snickered. “That was just practice!” He held up the dagger, showing the rust-red stains. “I am one step ahead of you, for this knife is already blooded!”
“It’s more your blood than mine,” Paul said under his breath. He drove forward with the crysknife, weaving, making the blade dance.
The younger ghola responded by mirroring Paul’s movements, as if the pair had an unconscious telepathic connection. He stabbed to the side, and Paul flowed in the other direction. Was this a form of prescience, Paul wondered, subconsciously foreseeing each blow, or did the two of them know and reproduce each other’s fighting styles exactly? They had entirely different training, entirely different upbringings. But still . . .
Concentrating on the duel, Paul’s hearing became a fuzz of static. At first he heard encouragement, gasps, shouts of concern from his mother and Chani, but he blocked everything out. Did he have the potential to become the ultimate Kwisatz Haderach that