this up for all the spectacle he could muster, tantalizing the audience to amuse them. Old Paulus could have killed the Salusan bull at any time, yet he drew out the moment, savored it.
From the reactions of the spectators, Leto knew this would be an event talked about for years. The rice farmers and fishermen led such dreary, hardworking lives. But this celebration would fix a proud image of their Duke forever in their minds. Look what Old Paulus was doing, they would say, despite his age!
Eventually the bull became exhausted, its eyes reddened with blood, its snorts heavy and tired as it spilled its life fluid onto the powdery surface of the arena. Duke Paulus himself now chose to end the fight. He had dragged the sport along for nearly an hour. Though dripping with sweat, he somehow maintained his regal appearance and did not allow his manner to show weariness, or his fine clothes to be disheveled.
Up in the stands, Lady Helena continued to wave her pennants, smiling fixedly down at the spectacle.
By now, the Salusan bull was like a maddened machine, a rampaging monster that had few vulnerable spots in its black-scaled armor. As the beast ran at him again, its gait staggering, its gleaming horns pointed like spears, Duke Paulus feinted to the left, then returned as the bull surged past.
Then Paulus swung sideways, tossed his flapping cape to the dust, and gripped the shaft of his vara lance in both hands. He threw all of his strength into a powerful side thrust. Flawlessly performed, magnificently executed. The blade of the lance drove home through a chink in the Salusan bull's armored hide, sliding through an intersection of bone and skull, skewering straight through to impale both of the creature's separated brains -- the most difficult, most sophisticated way to kill it.
The bull ground to a halt, wheezing, groaning -- and suddenly dead. Its carcass slumped like a crashing spaceship onto the ground.
Planting his foot on the horned head of the bull, Duke Paulus heaved against his lance, pulled the bloodied blade out, and dropped it onto the ash-covered ground. Next he drew his sword and, raising it high, twirled it in a triumphant gesture.
As one, the people in the stands surged to their feet, screaming, howling, and cheering. They waved their banners, snatched bouquets from flowerpots, and tossed the blossoms onto the arena floor. They sang out Paulus's name over and over.
Reveling in the adoration, the Atreides patriarch smiled and turned about, opening his coat so that the spectators could see his blood-spattered, sweat-drenched form. He was the hero now; he had no need to show off his finery.
After the throbbing cheers had died down, many minutes later, the Duke raised his sword again and struck downward, hacking repeatedly until he had severed the head of the bull. Finally, he plunged the bloody sword into the soft ground of the plaza and used both hands to grasp the horns of the bull and lift its head high.
"Leto!" he shouted over his shoulder, his voice booming into the acoustics of the Plaza de Toros. "Leto, my son, come out here!"
Leto, still in the shadows of the archway, hesitated a moment, then marched forth. He held his head high as he crossed the hoof-trampled dirt to stand at his father's side. The crowd cheered with renewed enthusiasm.
Old Duke Paulus turned and presented his son with the bloodied head of his kill.
"I give you Leto Atreides!" he announced to the audience while pointing at his son. "Your future Duke!"
The crowd continued to applaud and shout hurrahs. Leto grasped one of the bull's horns; he and his father stood together holding the defeated beast's head high, the trophy oozing thick red drops onto the sand.
As Leto heard the people echo his name, he felt deep stirrings within, and wondered for the first time if this was truly what it felt like to be a leader of men.
N'kee: Slow-acting poison that builds up in the adrenal glands; one of the most insidious
From the reactions of the spectators, Leto knew this would be an event talked about for years. The rice farmers and fishermen led such dreary, hardworking lives. But this celebration would fix a proud image of their Duke forever in their minds. Look what Old Paulus was doing, they would say, despite his age!
Eventually the bull became exhausted, its eyes reddened with blood, its snorts heavy and tired as it spilled its life fluid onto the powdery surface of the arena. Duke Paulus himself now chose to end the fight. He had dragged the sport along for nearly an hour. Though dripping with sweat, he somehow maintained his regal appearance and did not allow his manner to show weariness, or his fine clothes to be disheveled.
Up in the stands, Lady Helena continued to wave her pennants, smiling fixedly down at the spectacle.
By now, the Salusan bull was like a maddened machine, a rampaging monster that had few vulnerable spots in its black-scaled armor. As the beast ran at him again, its gait staggering, its gleaming horns pointed like spears, Duke Paulus feinted to the left, then returned as the bull surged past.
Then Paulus swung sideways, tossed his flapping cape to the dust, and gripped the shaft of his vara lance in both hands. He threw all of his strength into a powerful side thrust. Flawlessly performed, magnificently executed. The blade of the lance drove home through a chink in the Salusan bull's armored hide, sliding through an intersection of bone and skull, skewering straight through to impale both of the creature's separated brains -- the most difficult, most sophisticated way to kill it.
The bull ground to a halt, wheezing, groaning -- and suddenly dead. Its carcass slumped like a crashing spaceship onto the ground.
Planting his foot on the horned head of the bull, Duke Paulus heaved against his lance, pulled the bloodied blade out, and dropped it onto the ash-covered ground. Next he drew his sword and, raising it high, twirled it in a triumphant gesture.
As one, the people in the stands surged to their feet, screaming, howling, and cheering. They waved their banners, snatched bouquets from flowerpots, and tossed the blossoms onto the arena floor. They sang out Paulus's name over and over.
Reveling in the adoration, the Atreides patriarch smiled and turned about, opening his coat so that the spectators could see his blood-spattered, sweat-drenched form. He was the hero now; he had no need to show off his finery.
After the throbbing cheers had died down, many minutes later, the Duke raised his sword again and struck downward, hacking repeatedly until he had severed the head of the bull. Finally, he plunged the bloody sword into the soft ground of the plaza and used both hands to grasp the horns of the bull and lift its head high.
"Leto!" he shouted over his shoulder, his voice booming into the acoustics of the Plaza de Toros. "Leto, my son, come out here!"
Leto, still in the shadows of the archway, hesitated a moment, then marched forth. He held his head high as he crossed the hoof-trampled dirt to stand at his father's side. The crowd cheered with renewed enthusiasm.
Old Duke Paulus turned and presented his son with the bloodied head of his kill.
"I give you Leto Atreides!" he announced to the audience while pointing at his son. "Your future Duke!"
The crowd continued to applaud and shout hurrahs. Leto grasped one of the bull's horns; he and his father stood together holding the defeated beast's head high, the trophy oozing thick red drops onto the sand.
As Leto heard the people echo his name, he felt deep stirrings within, and wondered for the first time if this was truly what it felt like to be a leader of men.
N'kee: Slow-acting poison that builds up in the adrenal glands; one of the most insidious
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