The Battle of Corrin

Life on Arrakis is less significant than a grain of sand in the open bled.
— The Legend of Selim Wormrider
Battered survivors of the raided Zensunni village followed Ishmael and El’hiim back to the main settlement in the faraway cliffs. El’hiim suggested that they take the most seriously injured to a nearby company town for medical attention.

Ishmael would hear none of it. “How can you even suggest that? These people barely escaped being taken by slavers. Now you would deliver them into the jaws of those who created a demand for slaves in the first place?”

“They aren’t all slavers, Ishmael. I’m trying to save lives.”

“Cooperating with them is like playing with a half-tamed beast. Your conciliatory ways have already cost these people their loved ones, their homes. Do not try to squeeze more blood from them. We will take care of them ourselves, with whatever supplies we have.”

When their band of refugees reached the cave settlement, the news swept like fire through the people. With his forceful personality and his unyielding demands, Ishmael acted as their leader.

Letting the old man have his way, El’hiim— the actual Naib— said, “I understand the outsiders better than you do, Ishmael. I will send messages to the VenKee towns, submit formal protests to Arrakis City. They cannot do this with impunity.”

Ishmael felt as if his anger had broken something inside of him. “They will laugh at you. Slavers have always preyed on the Zensunni, and you stepped right into their trap.”

When his stepson rushed away to the crowded cities, Ishmael called the able-bodied Zensunnis to meet with him in the large gathering chamber. As the only female elder of the village, Chamal represented the women, who were just as bloodthirsty as the men. Many boisterous young men who revered the old legends of Selim Wormrider demanded the execution of the criminals.

Incensed and ashamed, remembering how many times they had ignored Ishmael’s warnings, the strongest among them volunteered to gather weapons and form a kanla party, a group of commando soldiers who would find the slavers and exact a bloody revenge.

“El’hiim told me he knows where they are,” Ishmael said. “He can lead us there.”

* * *
WHEN EL’HIIM RETURNED with vague promises from the Arrakis City security force to more rigorously enforce certain regulations against kidnapping, he was met by the already armed and bloodthirsty kanla party. Seeing the expressions on their faces and understanding the thoughts in their hearts, he had no choice but to join them, as their Naib.

Though he was far older than any of the fighters, Ishmael accompanied the vengeance party. In spite of— or perhaps because of— his disgust and grief at what had happened to many of his Zensunni friends and even some of his grandchildren by Chamal, Ishmael felt charged with energy, as if he had just taken a massive dose of spice. He could strike a blow against those who had corrupted this world that he had fought so hard to call home.

“Perhaps this will be my last fight. Perhaps I will die. If that is the way of it, I cannot complain.”

They crossed the desert, moving swiftly and silently. Gliding like shadows across sun-washed rocks, the kanla party spotted the slavers’ camp late the following afternoon. The desert men hunkered down in the shelter of boulders to observe and plan their attack.

One of the fighters suggested that they slip in at night and steal all of the camp’s water and supplies. “That would be a fine revenge!”

“Or we could cut the fuel lines on their Zanbar skimmers and leave the despicable men stranded in the desert, where they will die slowly of thirst!”

“And become food for Shai-Hulud.”

But Ishmael had no patience for such a long, slow revenge. “Long ago, my friend Aliid said, ‘There is nothing more satisfying than the feel of your enemy’s blood on your fingers.’ I intend to kill these demons myself. Why let Arrakis have the pleasure?”

As darkness fell and the first moon sank below the horizon, the kanla party slipped forward like desert scorpions, carrying crystal blades as their stingers. The slavers— he counted a dozen— activated generators that spilled bright light all around their camp, not for protection but for their own comfort. They didn’t bother to post guards.

The Zensunni avengers surrounded the camp and closed in. Though the slavers apparently had more sophisticated weapons, the kanla party outnumbered them almost two to one. It would be a gratifying slaughter.

Ishmael had not wanted them to use their Maula rifles, because they were too clumsy and impersonal, but El’hiim suggested they take advantage of the projectile weapons to shoot out the lights. To this, Ishmael agreed. When the kanla party was in position, he gave the signal, and a roaring barrage of Maula projectiles peppered the air, smashing glowglobes and plunging the area into darkness.

Like wolves, the desert raiders swooped in from all sides. Taken completely by surprise, the offworlders scrambled out of their blankets, unprepared. Some grabbed their weapons and opened fire, but they could not even see their attackers.

The Zensunnis kept low to the ground, snatching any available cover. Their spirits had felt caged for too long, and now they unleashed their emotions in a thrilling bloodbath. They leaped upon their victims, stabbing and slashing with wormtooth daggers, taking their revenge.

In their midst, Ishmael strode through the camp, looking for enemies to punish. He seized a small-statured man who raced for cover among folded bolts of reflective fabric. The coward didn’t try to defend his fellows or fight for his own life.

Ishmael hoisted the squirming man. As his eyes adjusted to the starlight, aided by the glow of spreading fires, he could see it was a Tlulaxa by the characteristic pinched face and close-set eyes. Realization hit him. It was Wariff, the unprepared prospector whose life Ishmael had saved twenty years before.

The Tlulaxa looked up at him and called Ishmael by name, remembering him after all this time. Ishmael drew his wormtooth dagger, its curved edge sharp. “I saved your life, and you repay me by raiding my people, stealing them as slaves? I curse you and your vile race.”

The violence and shouting around him had reached a fever pitch. Wariff struggled, fluttering his small hands like the wings of a bird. “Please don’t kill me. I apologize. I didn’t mean— “

“I take back that which I gave you long ago.” Ishmael drew the sharp dagger across the slaver’s scrawny throat, slicing open his jugular. He tipped Wariff’s head back so the blood could gush freely out into the night. “This is the justice of Free Men. Your water, I give to the desert. The blood of these others, I will take for our tribe.”

In disgust he discarded the body among the scattered belongings of the slavers. Ishmael realized that in circumstances such as these, his angry friend Aliid might have been right. Back on Poritrin, when they’d both been young men, Ishmael had always insisted that they try to find a peaceful resolution. Now, finally, he saw eye to eye with Aliid. Sometimes there was nothing more exhilarating than vengeance.

El’hiim’s voice rose above the din. “Stop now! We must take the rest alive and bring them to Arrakis City, where they will stand trial. We must have proof of their crimes.”

Confused, some of the Zensunnis stuttered to a halt. Others continued fighting as if they hadn’t heard their Naib. Ishmael grabbed his stepson by the front of his robe. “You would give them back to the outsiders, El’hiim? After what they have done to us?”

“They have committed a crime. Let them be condemned by their own rules.”

“Among their kind, slavery is not even a crime!” Ishmael hissed. He released El’hiim and let him stagger to keep his balance. El’hiim could no longer keep control over his vengeful people. Ishmael lifted his red-splashed hand and bellowed so that all could hear. “These men owe us a debt they can never repay. On this world, the only coins are spice and water— so let us take their blood, distill its water, and give it to the families of those they have harmed.”

The other outlaws looked at Ishmael, hesitating to do such a thing. El’hiim looked horrified.

“Water is water,” Ishmael insisted. “Water is life. These men stole the lives of our friends and relatives when they raided our villages. Slit their throats and bleed them dry, keep their blood in containers. Perhaps God will consider that they have made some repayment for their crimes. It is not for me to judge.”

The doomed slavers continued to shout while attempting to defend themselves. The Zensunnis ran at them howling and slashing, killing one after another. In a single day, they made a rich harvest of blood.






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