Sandworms of Dune - Brian Herbert [44]
“Face Dancers!” someone shouted. Murbella pushed her way closer to the center of action, knocked aside flailing arms and fists, and cuffed someone on the side of the head. But even stunned, the wild and emboldened people surged onward. “Face Dancers! They’ve been manipulating us all along—selling us out to the Enemy.”
Those who recognized the Mother Commander’s Bene Gesserit unitard backed away; others, either oblivious or too angry to care, were not swayed until she used Voice. Bombarded by the irresistible command, they staggered away. Just one person against the multitude, Murbella strode toward the colonnaded doorways of the government center, which the people saw as their target. She used Voice again but could not stop them all in their tracks. The shouting and accusatory shrieks rose and fell like a thunderstorm.
As she fought her way to the front of the barricade, several of the foremost mob members noticed her uniform and let out a long cheer. “A Reverend Mother is here to support us!”
“Kill the Face Dancers! Kill them all!”
“For Sheeana!”
Murbella grabbed an elderly woman who had been yelling along with the others. “How do you know they’re Face Dancers?”
“We know. Think about their decisions, listen to their speeches. It’s obvious they are traitors.” Murbella didn’t believe that Face Dancers would be quite so obvious that common rabble could detect the faint subtleties. But the mob was convinced.
Six huffing men ran by, carrying a heavy plasteel pole that they proceeded to use as a battering ram. Inside the capitol building, terrified officials had piled obstructions against the doors and windows. Thrown stones shattered the ornamental plaz, but the crowd couldn’t break in so easily. Bars and heavy objects blocked the way.
Wielded with the strength of panic and hysteria, the battering ram pounded the thick doors, tearing hinges loose and splintering wood. In moments, a wave of human bodies pushed forward.
Murbella called out. “Wait! Why not prove they’re Face Dancers before you kill anyone—”
The old woman shoved past, eager to get to the officials. She stepped on Murbella’s foot, heard her shouted cautions, then turned to her with a narrowed gaze like a serpent’s. “Why do you hesitate, Reverend Mother? Help us capture the traitors. Or are you a Face Dancer yourself?”
Murbella’s Honored Matre reflexes came to the fore, and her hand snapped out, cutting into the woman’s neck with a blow that rendered her unconscious. She had not meant to kill the woman, but as her accuser fell to the steps a dozen people surged forward, trampling her to death.
Heart pounding, Murbella pressed against the wall to avoid the brunt of the stampede. If the cry had been taken up—“Face Dancer! Face Dancer!”—with fingers pointing at her, the crowd would have killed her without thinking. Even with superior fighting abilities, Murbella could never fend off so many.
She backed up farther and took shelter behind the tall statue of a long-forgotten hero of the Famine Times, shielding herself with its plastone bulk. The screaming mob would crush many of its own members to get into the government building.
She could hear cries inside, a discharge of weapons, and small explosions. Some of the trapped officials must have been carrying personal protection. Murbella waited, knowing it would be over soon. . . . .
The bloody attack burned itself out in half an hour. The mob found and killed all twenty government officials suspected of being enemy Face Dancers. Then, still not sated in their thirst for blood, they turned against any of their own members who had not shown sufficient murderous