In a Man's Place
Angrif Djun surveyed the map spread out across the table. Small wooden flags denoted the spread of his army across the breadth of the Plainswaste. The young Djun had grown up watching his empire grow steadily, annexing vast territories from the Djaarlanders and the nomadic elves. As a child he had looked forward eagerly to every monthly war council, when he could cheer the expansion of his lands.
But as he grew closer to manhood, his empire’s growth slowed and stagnated. Now, a mere three years shy of his majority, he had seen his army halted in its westward march.
“Djaar Tyndel still resists us!” he growled, pointing out a city still bearing the purple-and-silver standard. “We gave you five thousand men and enough siege machines to take down the Citadel Mound itself!” he accused the white-haired war-chief. “What have you to show for it.”
“Their defenses are… formidable, Dominance,” the general protested. “They have a deep well, and we suspect supply tunnels as well. If the Hidden Ones are resupplying them–”
“You have sappers, don’t you? Trolls are as mortal as men when you feed them gunpowder and sparks!”
“And we have lost a full third of our forces to plague.”
Angrif glared at him. “Then sling the corpses over the walls and poison the Djaarmen!”
“We have done so, dread lord. They must have healers of great skill.”
“Elven magic,” the Regent growled disapprovingly. “My Djun, we must consider whether it is worth our efforts to keep throwing ourselves against the walls of Djaar Tyndel. We have already secured the richest farmlands and ample pasture–”
Angrif shook his head. “You yourself always told me, Korik, that our empire can only sustain itself though constant expansion–”
“Worthwhile expansion. The highlands have always been the realm of the dispossessed, Dominance. And there is precious little to interest us there beyond rock-sheep and carrion birds.”
“And elves,” Angrif spat. “And trolls. And their tame men.”
“You should be proud of all you have accomplished, Dominance. At your age, your father was only first leading raids into the Djaarland. You have conquered the entirety of the Plainswaste.”
“You have, Korik.”
The old Regent smiled. “You honor me, Dominance.”
Angrif sneered and reached for his flagon of wine. “I didn’t mean to.”
“All I have done, I have done in your name. And the name of your illustrious father–”
“I don’t want to hear about my father,” Angrif dismissed. “I’m sick of his name, and his blood, and his proud legacy. I’m sick of the deed’s you have done in my name. I’m almost a man grown. It’s time I earned something myself. And I have decided on this!” He stabbed a finger on the map, at Djaar Tyndel. “This is the key to the Painted Mountains! This guards the road to High Hope. They say there is a great elfin city somewhere beyond it. A city of white crystal, hidden within a mountain. There are tunnels into the Grey Queen’s realm. There are passes into the forests of the Longriders. Those forests could build us a fleet large enough to take the lands across the sea.”
“All well beyond our reach,” General Tammard said.
“Nothing is beyond the Djun’s reach. Nothing can be permitted to lie beyond the Djun’s reach.” He glanced at the Regent. “You taught me that, Korik.”
“Indeed, Dominance.” The Regent looked troubled. Well might he, Angrif thought with satisfaction. I’m done playing the child with you, old man. You taught me how to rule, now it’s time for you to learn how to serve.
“The Djaarmen have joined forces with the Longriders and the men of High Hope,” the general said. “They claim to be in a confederacy with the Hidden Ones… they call themselves the Pactkeepers. And they are represented by –”
“A churl!” Angrif growled. “The elves’ pet warlord.”
“The ‘Doma’ sire,” Tammard corrected with a stammer.
“And the cur has sent us a scroll, yes?” Angrif asked. He saw how Korik flinched at the revelation. Ahh… you thought that secret was yours alone, Angrif thought smugly. But I have eyes and ears beyond your control.
“The Doma is willing to open negotiations with us–” Korik began.
“To what end? A woman’s peace?”
“An end to this wasteful siege,” Korik corrected.
“You’re getting old, Korik. You’ve lost your guts for war.”
“I fear I have never had the stomach for folly.”
“So, you would make peace with the creatures who killed my father? And the geldings who hide behind their magic shields?”
“There are many battles yet to be found, sire. I would choose a battle I knew I could win.”
“You’re a coward. And a fool. The answer is right in front of us. This ‘Doma’ has given us an opportunity I do not intend to waste.”
“We await your orders, Dominance,” Tammard said obsequiously.
“We will withdraw the army from Djaar Tyndel. We will let them think they have outlasted us. We will give them just enough time to lower their guard. We will agree to meet personally with the Doma – none other. And when we have lured the cur down from the mountains, we we will mount a lightning raid on the city. Like my father did when he took Krooshtevwon. Light cavalry, handpicked for speed. Twenty companies ought to be enough.”
Korik cleared his throat again. “Sire…”
“There is a stream that flows out from the city, carrying out all their waste. That will be our entry point. We will smash their defenses–”
“Sire. Forty siege engines were not enough. I doubt light cavalry will be sufficient.”
“It was for my father. Are you saying he was a better man than I? I will lead this raid!” Angrif said boldly. “I will take Djaar Tyndel, and I will see this Doma’s head on my lance!”
“Do you think it will be so simply done?” Korik asked coldly.
“You will see for yourself! Have someone draft a reply. I will meet with the demon’s puppet–”
“Forgive me, Dominance, but I cannot allow this,” Korik said firmly.
Angrif turned a baleful glare on him. “You. Cannot. Allow. Me? Your dread lord?”
“You are my dread lord. As you are lord to millions. You cannot endanger yourself as your father did.”
Angrif slammed his fist on the table. “The word ‘cannot’ is not to be used in my hearing!”
Korik bowed his head. “Then I shall use others. But the meaning will be the same.”
“I am the Djun!”
“You are still a boy. And far too valuable to risk on such a foolhardy plan.”
“You call it foolhardy? You dare?”
“I do. And with the deepest respect, I taught you to have more wisdom. Impatience and recklessness were your father’s only faults. I had hoped to cure you of them.”
“There is a difference between recklessness and decisiveness!”
“I am afraid, sire, that you lack the years to see the difference clearly. I have not devoted my life to yours these last fifteen years to see you throw it away in some mad pursuit of glory.”
“You dictate to me?”
“I do, sire. Until your majority.”
Angrif leapt to his feet. “Do you want to die, old man? I can see you’ve already lost your wits and your guts! Your head will be next!”
“When you are a man grown, my head will be yours to do with as it please you. But until then…”
“Guards!” Angrif barked. “Remove this old gelding from my sight!”
The two uniformed guards at the door hesitated. They exchanged glances under the shadows of their helms, then slowly looked to the Regent.
“Do you hear your Djun?” Angrif shouted.
The guards bowed their heads but made no move to seize the Regent.
“Tammard! Remove him!”
The general looked down at the table miserably.
“Dog! Have you forgotten your master?”
“Dominance… I serve you… and he who was appointed to rule in your name.”
“I revoke his appointment!”
“Forgive me, dread lord… but you cannot.”
With a hoarse cry, Angrif threw himself on Korik, fists raised. The bearded man took one blow cleanly on the chin, then raised his hand to block the second. He caught Angrif’s fist and squeezed as he slowly rose from his chair. Cursing, Angrif buffeted him with the other arm, then fumbled for his dagger. But Korik held his dominant hand in his iron grip, and he simply clenched ever more tightly, until Angrif’s legs began to tremble.
In a desperate bid to break free, Angrif tried to butt his head hard into Korik’s. But the Regent merely tilted his head a fraction, and the slam of bone on bone left Angrif reeling, stars in his eyes.
Groaning, Angrif began to crumple. Korik effortlessly eased him back into his chair. “The Djun is fatigued,” he said curtly. “We shall take our leave.”
“Damn you, Korik…” Angrif muttered, through the blinding pain. “I will have your head yet…”
“And that will be your right. I can only pray to Threksh’t that you will remember… all I do is in your service.”
“You defy me!” He meant it come out as a roar, but it was only a mewling whimper. “Me!”
“Even your dread father learned from his elders.” Korik nudged the flagon of wine closer to Angrif’s goblet. “Now heed your faithful servant, and calm your blood. We will speak more of this later.”
At Korik’s gesture, the guards withdrew. Korik and Tammard followed, leaving Angrif alone with the map, and his black thoughts.
His hand shook as he poured himself a fresh cup of wine. Dark liquid splashed over the map.
He heard a rustle of silk in the corner. He looked up angrily. Of course she was there, the silent shadow.
She moved swiftly to his side, taking the goblet and refilling it with a steady hand. She passed him the cup, then knelt down at his feet as he drained the goblet in three greedy draughts.
“Dread lord, may I speak?” Gifa asked at length, laying a gentle hand on his knee.
Angrif sighed wearily. “Say on.”
“I understand how angry you are at Korik. I count the days until we come of age and are free of him forever. And yet… forgive me, but you are the Djun, and he is right that you are too precious to lose. If you were to die in battle, all of Djunshold will be lost. If Korik has his way, he will keep you in a gilded cage until you sire an heir of your own.”
Angrif smiled tightly. “He has been pushing high-blooded mares at me of late.”
“But your plan is good, Angrif,” she continued. “It’s brilliant. If you were to send another to Djaar Tyndel… under false pretences of truce…”
“The Elftouched is a cur, but not completely witless. A trap needs proper bait.”
“What if… what if I went and took care of it for you? I could look so innocent… and who better to secure a woman’s peace than a girl? I would meet with the Doma. We would sit at table together. And once I was there, I would have a chance to… I could use poison… or a dagger… nobody would suspect me, because I’m only a girl…. You have nothing to lose,” she added plaintively, gazing up at him. “What good are girls, anyway, save to care for their familes? Let me care this way!”
He found his hand coming to rest on her silken hair, fondly at first. He had ordered her women to keep her modestly gowned, yet he could still make out the swell of her breasts, straining against the fine linen of her smock. At fifteen she was becoming a woman, while he was still a boy. His fingers clenched about a fistful of her hair, but her face betrayed no pain. Her composure never failed to both impress and enrage him. He twisted his hand, just enough to draw a soft hiss from her lips.
“You’re right. Girls are good for nothing… certainly not a warrior’s work. Why should I let you have the honor of killing the Djun’s foe?”
She lowered her gaze helplessly. Her lips moved without sound. He thought he recognized the mutinous furrow to her brow.
“Well?” he growled. “Say on, sister! I know you have words for me.”
“This Doma is no fit foe for a Djun. No one should think so. You… you should not let people think so. If you ride out to crush the wretch yourself, you encourage everyone to believe you feel threatened. The Doma should be nothing to you… just a… a thing. A worm, vermin crushed underfoot. If… if I were to succeed, you could say the worm didn’t deserve a better death. That – that you sent your lowly sister because you couldn’t be bothered to do it yourself.”
A reluctant smile tugged at the corners of his lips. “You’re a stubborn sprat, that much I’ll say. Why does this mean so much to you?”
“Because I want to help you. Because I want to show Korik that you’re not a child. You’re a Djun, and you deserve more than he gives you. And because… because soon he’ll have to give you everything. But what will there be left for me? I’ll be stuck with some big lout and his smelly brats… if I’m allowed to marry at all. If any man can be trusted to wed a Djun’s sister. Your life is just beginning… mine is ending. Please, Angrif. Let me have one this thing. This one chance.”
She looked so helpless at his knee, so frail and submissive. He had it in his power to grant all her wishes or crush her spirit utterly. He felt a curious stirring deep in his belly at the thought.
“Leave me to think on it,” he said, waving her away. “Now get back to your threadwork before Diena wonders where you’ve run off to.”
She withdrew from his presence, as tremulous as a well-whipped dog. At such moments he felt almost tender towards her.
There had been a time, long ago, when he counted her his bitterest foe. One of his earliest memories was an almost-inhuman rage towards her – screams and tears and bloodshed over some nursery defiance. She had brought out the beast in him, with her perverse insolence, her stubborn refusal to submit. He was a Djun, yet she defied him! For years he hadn’t seen her as a girl and a sister, but a demon, kin to the sorceress H’saka who had so misled their father. He had made securing her submission his childhood crusade.
And now submissive she was, as pretty and modest an ornament as he could desire. He only wished he could claim some pivotal victory in his campaign, some great battle where he had finally conquered her. But if pressed, he could not pinpoint the moment when his loathing of Gifa turned to grudging acceptance, nor when she finally shed her childish impertinence and began to act like a proper little lady.
Perhaps it was when their mother had died, and Gifa lost her last true ally. Yes, that was surely it. Mother and daughter had always been conspirators; Lady Algifa had been fiercely possessive of her daughter in a way she had never been of her son. She had always encouraged Gifa in her defiance, in a hundred subtle ways: a kind look his sister didn’t deserve; a kiss at bedtime; the pet name of “Djunling” she always refused to whisper into Angrif’s ear.
He found himself thinking back to his mother’s last winter, when she had finally lost her battle against the growing weakness in her lungs. Angrif had been twelve, and making his first tour of the recently-subdued Djaarland. The note had reached him near the winter solstice, yet he took he time returning to Citadel Mound. The war effort was more important than one dying woman. Korik always said the troops took strength from the sight of their Djun, and it was true. Everywhere he went, people cheered him, no matter how much his war had cost them. Why would he want to forsake that for a bitter, dying woman? When he finally agreed to return home, he couldn’t decide whether he hoped to find her alive or dead.
She had still been alive. He found Gifa at her bedside, brewing noxious herb-tinged steam to aid her breathing, mopping her fevered brow, and bending close as Algifa whispered secret endearments in her ear. When Gifa saw Angrif, she turned pale as death.
“Out!” Angrif ordered. His twin would have defied him, even then, but Algifa made a gesture and Gifa withdrew, after one last ostentatious kiss to her mother’s knuckles.
“I did not think you would come,” the Djunsmother rasped, when they were alone.
“I did not think you wanted me here,” the Djun replied coldly, even as the child in him wanted to weep. Disease had withered his once-beautiful mother into a crone. Under the silken coverlet she was naught but skin and bones. Her breath came in a wet wheeze, and he could hear the death rattle building in her throat.
Yet her eyes were still sharp, and in then he saw no warmth, no motherly tenderness.
“What do you want?” Algifa asked between wheezes.
Your love, he wanted to cry. But he was the Djun, and he could not afford to show weakness.
“You are the Djunsmother, and you are dying. I should be here. It is my duty.”
She gave a bitter snort. “Duty. Korik’s words.”
“Someone had to teach me.” He took Gifa’s place at her bedside, and reached for her hand. She tried to pull it away, and he seized her fingers. He felt how thin they were, how brittle and fragile.
She gave a little whimper of pain. Angrif responded by squeezing tighter. “Even now, Mother?” he accused. “You don’t shrink away from her!”
Algifa licked her chapped lips feebly. “Gifa….”
“You won’t see her again!” he snarled, the beast awakened within him. “Whether you take one day to die or twenty, I swear! She won’t see you until you’re a corpse! No, not even then!”
“Why…?”
“That’s my question!” he retorted. “Why? Why always her?! Why never me! I am the Djun! I am your son! But you saved everything for her!”
Algifa shook her head. “You never needed me. Had… your nurses… your tutors… your… lickspittles….”
“But I wanted you!” he raged. “I deserved your love!”
“No…” her breathing grew shallower now, her words harder to make out. “Only… wanted to take what she had….”
“And why not? Why not? I am your son! Your boy! Your heir! You’re only the Djunsmother because of me! Gifa should be nothing to you. An afterthought. I should be everything – you owe me everything!”
“Everything…” Algifa repeated. “To everyone… except to me. You… were never mine… Angrif… you….” The rattle in her throat strangled her words, then clearly he heard: “Korik… took you… made you….”
It was Korik’s fault! Angrif found himself nodding vigorously. He realized now, how Korik had always been there, protecting, smothering, separating Angrif from the females he kept insisting were of no importance. Suddenly Angrif was sobbing uncontrollably, weeping for the childhood that had been denied him, the love the Regent had decided was unworthy of a Djun.
“But I’m here now!” he wailed. “Mother, I’m here!” He kissed her hand, pressing his wet mouth against her bony fingers.
She struggled for breath. Her lips kept moving. Angrif leaned close to hear what she was trying to say.
“I’ll make you proud, Mother,” he babbled. “I swear it. I’ll be as dread a lord as Father. I’ll be the one they think of when they say ‘the great Djun.’ I’ll be the greatest Djun ever. And you… you’ll be safe with Threk’sht and you’ll look down on me and you’ll be proud of me! You will!”
Algifa’s gaze turned milky and distant. The death rattle grew louder, ghastly. Then all of sudden she drew one clear, unimpeded breath, and her eyes focused on him one last time.
“You’re… no Djun,” she pronounced. And then she died.
Or perhaps she only fell into stupor; perhaps the end didn’t come until after, when Angrif, in his horror, took up a pillow and pressed it down over her face so he wouldn’t have to look into her bulging, unseeing eyes. Perhaps some small spark of life was still guttering out within her when Korik barged into the room and found his young lord taking his rage out on the furniture and the bed hangings. But certainly, she was dead before Gifa was allowed back into the room. Angrif made sure of that.
He still cursed his mother to the doom-pit in his darker moments. But now that he thought of it, he owed her some small thanks. In death, Algifa had done what no man could do: she had broken Gifa’s spirit.
The girl had worn mourning for a solid year, until Angrif gruffly told her he was sick of seeing her in black. He had expected Gifa to protest, but to his surprise, she obeyed him with only a flicker of reproach in her gaze. And as one year turned to two, then three, she showed every sign of having outgrown her rebellion. She stopped trying to steal out of her chambers. She abandoned her attempts to befriend the servants. She never raised her skirts above her ankles to run pell-mell down the hallways. And more, she finally began to treat him like the Djun he was. She always addressed him with proper reverence – no more of this impudent “Brother” in front of his councillors – now he was always “Dominance” or “Dread lord.”
Sometimes he was still struck with whims of violence: idle dreams of throwing her to the dogs, or letting his guardsmen have their way with her while he watched. He imagined the way she would look, the sounds she would make.
But if such moods came upon him, they soon passed. More and more he found himself resigned to the thought of her as a constant in his life. For she was right: she was far too dangerous to be wed. What noble, no matter how loyal to Angrif, would remain so if given the chance to sire whelps with Djun’s blood? No, Gifa’s fate was to ornament her brother’s court, and perhaps one day to oversee the raising of his heirs. She could not be permitted to do more.
And the thought torments her, doesn’t it? he thought with a dark satisfaction. Perhaps she wasn’t as bridled as he had thought. He wasn’t quite sure what to make of her impassioned plea for a chance at glory. Certainly, her plan had some merit. Few would suspect a little mouse of having claws. She had no warrior’s skill, but there were subtler ways to kill. While it wouldn’t be fitting for a warrior, still less for a Djun, to resort to poison… a woman was another matter.
And if she failed, it was no great loss. It might even be a blessing. Imagine the outcry if the Djun’s maiden sister should be cruelly slain by the savage Doma… the entire realm would rise up with a renewed hunger for war. There would be no more of this foolish talk of truces with demon-lovers. Gifa would become a great martyr, remembered in songs forever. And he would no longer be troubled by such conflicting urges when faced with her sweet face and rapidly maturing body….
A Djun needed to consider all his options carefully. Korik had taught him that. But then, having considered, he must be decisive. So Angrif brooded, and he schemed, late into the afternoon. And then he sent for his saddle-chief.
He outlined Gifa’s proposal in broad terms. “And after much consideration, my decision is that Gifa shall go.”
The older man’s eyes widened imperceptibly, but the tight line of his mouth did not move. He stood impassively, waiting for further orders.
“What say you, saddle-chief? Is it a good plan?”
“Dominance, I would never presume to judge…”
Angrif smirked at him. “Just this once.”
“Well now, I’ve always said no good can come of sending a girl in a man’s place. We’ve seen how that’s worked out in the west. But the Djun’s own sister is no ordinary girl… and Djaarlander churls like me know little about the highborn ladies of the Citadel Mound….”
“You know the Doma. You’ve locked eyes with the cur. Shared words.”
He lowered his gaze and coughed into his fist. “That was a long time ago, sire.”
“But you’ve some inkling of how the creature’s mind works. So, tell me, has Gifa a chance?”
“Hard truth, Dominance?”
“I don’t keep you for anything else.”
“A slim chance. The Doma has a soft heart under all that plate armor. If the lady can look vulnerable and helpless enough… she might be able to get close. But she’d have only a moment’s chance, as quick as a sword-draw. And if she misses it, that would be the end of her.”
“And I would swear a holy vengeance on her blood,” Angrif said with satisfaction.
“Sire?”
“You will escort the Lady Gifa to Djaar Tyndel. You will introduce her to the Doma. You will give her her chance. Two days, no more. If she cannot succeed… if she falters, or is too stupid to seize her moment… then you will ensure she meets an untimely end at the hands of the Pactkeepers. Do you understand? At their hands, not ours.”
Now the saddle-chief’s lips did part in amazement, and he swallowed tightly. “Your… your sister, Dominance…”
“Will be slain by treachery, under a banner of truce. And we will have a martyr for our war against the demons and their thralls.” He smiled. “In death my dear sister will do more for my realm than she ever could in life. You do understand, don’t you?”
The bearded man nodded hesitantly. “Aye, my lord. But…”
“Yes?”
“What if… she succeeds? What if she kills the Doma?”
“Then she will undoubtedly be found out, and slain in retaliation, won’t she?”
“Ah. Of course. By your orders, Dominance.”
“Oh no, not mine,” Angrif said sharply. “We never had this little talk, you see. And however it happens, you don’t want to get caught. I’ll shout you down if you point to me. Not that anyone would believe you anyway,” he added with a sweet smile. “Everyone knows how much I love my sister. Isn’t that right, Rowb?”
Rowb bowed neatly. “Indeed, Dominance. As you say.”
“You can fetch Lady Gifa now. I’ll tell her the good news. Then you can go home to Lowtown. Your woman’s just whelped, I hear? A son, yes?”
He swallowed tightly. “Yes, Dominance.”
“Sons are important, aren’t they? The Regent tells me I should start think of making one of my own. Well, give the wench and the babe a kiss farewell. You’ll leave tomorrow. If you do well, perhaps I can find them better lodgings than Lowtown.”
“Dominance.”
“If you fail me….”
“I won’t, Dominance. I swear it on my life.”
“And that of your family,” Angrif added. Then he grinned. “Do try to survive. Sons needs their fathers. And I would be saddened to lose so loyal a saddle-chief.”
* * *
The carriage ride to Djaar Tyndel took the better part of a month. Gifa watched the countryside change from crowded towns to wooded glades, to vast tracts of barren plains stretching as far as the eye could see. They left the last villages behind them, and there was nowhere to camp save for the great road itself. The Djun’s own coach was a veritable palace on wheels, but after over three weeks trapped within its walls day and night, Gifa was near madness.
Her companions were no comfort. Dumpy Diena, her governess and constant shadow, accompanied her, of course, and Angrif had allowed her several lowborn serving maids, who followed the coach on horseback in all weather. But after a few days on the road they had nothing to say to each other.
Worst of all was Rowb, the bearded saddle-chief who commanded her escort of soldiers and who had appointed himself her personal guardsman. When they were on the move she could draw the curtains of her coach and forget about him, but every time they stopped to camp he was at her side, more a captor than a guard.
She knew little about him, other than he’d been a Djaarish sellsword before joining Angrif’s service. One of her handmaids whispered that as a youth Rowb had lived in High Hope, and had even once broken bread with the Doma. But when Gifa had asked about it, he shot her such a forbidding look that she did not dare to ask again.
The golden chain lay against her throat, the pendant concealed under the high neckline of her gown. Inside it was a tiny vial of widow’s wine. Hulda, the old healing woman, had explained how best to use it. The poison was tasteless, odorless; it could be slipped into a drink, sprinkled over meat, or even transferred in a touch, if one could break the skin. The scrape of a ring during a handclasp. The prick of a needle, barely felt and quickly forgotten. If all else failed, it could be painted over heavily-waxed lips, to turn a kiss of peace into one of death. But Hulda had warned Gifa against so desperate a stratagem: “Kills the widow too, as oft as not.”
She might only have one chance, Rowb reminded her constantly, one brush close enough to the Doma to plant her deadly seed. Gifa didn’t need to be told. She had considered her gambit carefully, and she knew the cost of failure.
Her mother’s dying words haunted her, filling her with strength and terror in equal measure. “You are the blood of the Djun, child. Never forget what that means.”
She wouldn’t. She would make her mother proud. She would make her own destiny.
After twenty-five days on the road, Djaar Tyndel finally came into view. It was a depressing sight. All around the walled city, the farmlands had been turned to ash. The outlying villages were only charred skeletons, and the river that ran through the city walls emerged stained with filth. The siege camp was a squalid shamble, with corpses of both men and beasts lying unburied in the ditches. Rowb ordered her keep the windows closed and the curtains drawn to keep out the plague that continued to ravage the camp.
Under banners of truce, the cortège approached the rubble-filled moat and the locked gates. Locked inside her rolling prison, and tightly laced into her severest gown, Gifa waited anxiously. Her heart hammered against her compressed ribs. She grew lightheaded from the close stale air. Finally she heard the groan of the gates opening, and the drawbridge dropping to span the moat.
She peered out the curtains at the streets of Djaar Tyndel, but all she could see were the ranks of her honor guard, pressed tightly around the coach. She felt their ascent to the top of the hillfort, where at last the doors were opened, and fresh air revived her.
Djaar Tyndel’s citadel was no match for the Djun’s, yet it was high enough to afford a clear view of the devastation the siege had wrought. Spread out beneath the hillfort, the city was gray and grim and silent as a tomb. Yet its broad walls imparted a certain feeling of security. Seeing their full measure from her lookout, Gifa doubted they could ever be breached.
“Is it really true?” she asked Rowb when he took his place at her side. “Did the trolls really raise those walls?”
She expected him to sneer and dismiss it as a fairy tale. Instead he said only: “I don’t know, lady. But I’d believe it.”
A man emerged from the keep itself. He was garbed in the fine silks of a Longrider, but overtop he wore a coat of finemail. He had the shoulders for heavy plate, Gifa thought, and a soldier’s stride, for all his finery. His head was shaved bald, save for a black queue that fell past his shoulders. He saw Rowb at Gifa’s side and flinched.
“You!”
“You,” Rowb replied. “Got out of the stables at last, I see.”
The Longrider turned to Gifa and offered her a modest bow. “Lady Gifa Djunschild. I am Khorbasi, First Saddle-chief of the Doma. Welcome to Djaar Tyndel. With your permission, I am to escort you to your rooms so that you may rest and refresh yourself.”
“I’d rather meet the Doma now,” Gifa said, trying to force her voice to remain level despite the butterflies in her stomach. “With respect. We have much to discuss.”
“Your journey has been long, my lady.”
“Too long. And I have no patience for courtly niceties. I never have.” She flashed him a guileless smile. “I’m sure the Doma can appreciate that.”
She felt Rowb’s head turn, his disapproving gaze resting on her face.
Khorbasi nodded. “You’re quite right. The Doma is in the war room. I can take you directly.”
“What are you playing at, girl?” Rowb hissed as they followed Khorbasi up the gentle incline to the keep’s main gate. “The Djun said you’re meant to be a mouse.”
“The Djun always says to strike fast and to strike first,” Gifa countered in a whisper. “I know what I’m doing. I’ve had a lot of time to think about it.”
“It’s both our heads if you’re wrong,” he grumbled.
“Believe me, I know.”
Khorbasi led them deep inside the squat stone keep. Gifa studied every detail around her: the simple, straight hallways, the plain flagstones and masonry, the lack of adornment. It made her feel trapped and exposed. She was so used to her Citadel, where the corridors were built like a labyrinth, and behind every tapestry was a secret door.
The war room was a simple circular chamber hewn of cream-colored stone, its vaulted ceiling supported by broad arches. Skylights let in the sun, to add to the feeble light of the oil lamps. The Pactkeeper banner hung on each wall – a gold-and-silver lozenge on a purple field. A long oak table dominated the room, much as in Angrif’s war room. At the head of the table, a tall figure in steel plate was talking to another silk-clad Longrider.
“Doma,” Khorbasi announced. “May I present the Lady Gifa Djunschild.”
Gifa swallowed tightly and forced her head high as the Doma slowly turned to face her.
The first thought that crossed her mind was: You’re younger than I thought. You’ve not seen thirty yet.
The second thought was: Threksh’t, what a brute! You’re taller than Rowb!
The third was: You are in breeches! I always thought that was just a story.
She was staring. She noticed the Doma’s amusement. She averted her eyes as she struggled to remember the speech she had been practicing all month.
“Doma. I am… honored to greet you as my brother’s emissary… and I pray to Threksh’t Almighty that we may work together to bring an end to this pointless conflict.”
“So we all pray,” came the reply, in a gruff, but kind voice. “And please, call me Shuna.”
Gifa looked up, and saw the older woman was smiling. Slowly, tentatively, she returned the smile.
“Rowb,” Shuna barked. “I see you aren’t dead yet.”
“Not for want of folks trying, Elftouched.”
“How in all the doom-pit did you end up at the right hand of Angrif Djun?”
“He appreciates men of talent. Unlike some.”
Shuna’s expression turned sad. “Bluestar still asks after you.”
Rowb’s voice was strangled. “Don’t, woman.”
Shuna nodded brusquely. “You’re right. Will you sit, Lady Gifa? I can send for some food. Soldier’s fare, I’m afraid,” she said, sinking onto her chair with a graceless clatter of plate. “And we have no wine left in our stores. But we have some ale that’s still wholesome enough.”
“I thank you,” Gifa said, taking her seat at the opposite end of the table. Some twelve feet of oak separated them.
“I admit, I’m surprised your brother answered my request for a parley. Most of my generals told me I was mad. But I’m glad he proved them wrong. And I’m even more glad he’s sent you as his emissary.” Her blue eyes were small in her plain face, but they twinkled with genuine warmth. “It has always been the way of men to hunger for war. As it has been the way of women to work for peace. Together, I think – I hope – we can find a way to bring peace back to this land.”
“You say peace is the way of women. But you are not like other women, are you?” Gifa challenged softly.
“No. I’m not,” Shuna admitted. She looked up at Rowb with something like fondness. “Your friend there once told me a woman in breeches was the devil’s own work. Perhaps he was right. Threksh’t knows my life would have been simpler had I chosen the role of a wife and mother. But these are not simple times. The Pact is broken, the land is bleeding… someone has to make this right. Fate, or Threksh’t, or the Hidden Ones themselves… something willed that someone to be me.”
“They call you Elftouched. They say you have the elf magic in you.”
“I do. Ever since I was a child, and an elfin healer cured me of the Rot, and told my mother the way to High Hope. It’s true what they say: in its streets, the Pact still lives. There, elves and trolls and humans all live and work together. I grew up alongside an elf-lad.” A wistful grin lit up her face. When she smiled, she became beautiful, Gifa thought.
“I still consider him one of my dearest friends.”
Gifa found herself shaking her head. “Friends with an elf… how?”
Shuna laughed, not unkindly. “Elves and men were once allies even in Djunshold. Until your father Grohmul decided to break the Pact. Until your brother’s Regent declared war on all of us – all those who still keep the Pact with the Hidden Ones.” Her smile turned less friendly. “But the elves fought back, and we Pactkeepers fight too. The folk of High Hope – elves, men and trolls – voted me as their leader five years past. And when the Djaarlander nobles fled to the mountains, when the Longriders answered the call of the elves to stand and fight – to defend the Painted Mountains against your brother’s army – they all swore themselves to my banner.” She indicated the purple silks hanging on the walls. Gifa looked more closely at the design in the center. A silver four-fingered hand clasped a golden five-fingered one.
Servants arrived, bearing two trays of dark bread and hard cheese. Ale was poured. Gifa and Shuna both raised their cups, and drank together.
“We are prepared to surrender the lowlands to the Djun,” Shuna announced without further preamble. “Even the most stubborn of Djaarmen can see the cause there is lost. But the highlands are ours. And we will fight to the last of us – man or elf – to defend them. Can your brother not be content with what he has won? We will even cede Djaar Tyndel as a sign of good faith.”
Gifa looked around the room, at Khorbasi, the Longrider servants, and Rowb at her side. “May we speak privately, Doma?” she asked demurely.
Shuna seemed puzzled by the request. “I trust my men. Don’t you trust yours?”
Gifa blushed. “You are right, peace is a woman’s work. Even women who have been forced into roles ill-suited to their nature. And I… am unused to speaking before so many men.”
“Mm. Women are raised to be silent in Djunshold. I remember. I was born there, not far from the Haunted Mountain.”
“There are things I wish to say… things the Djun has instructed are only for the Doma’s ears. And there are other things… which are only for a woman’s ears.”
Shuna studied her quizzically for a moment, then nodded. “Leave us,” she ordered.
“Shuna…” Khorbasi hesitated. But she gave him a firm look, and he withdrew.
Rowb showed the same reluctance to leave, but when Gifa rose and whispered, “Give me my chance,” he obeyed.
The servants withdrew, the doors clapped closed behind them. Gifa remained standing, even as Shuna leaned forward in her chair, one armored elbow on the table.
“How thick are your walls?” Gifa whispered.
“Not even an elf could overhear us,” Shuna said, her voice noticeably flinty. “Now, what words has your brother ordered you to speak–”
“He’s not my brother.”
Shuna blinked. “What?”
“Angrif. He’s not my blood. He’s no true Djun. My mother told me before she died. He was a lowborn whelp the Regent passed off as Grohmul’s son. My mother bore only one child – me.”
She took a deep breath to steady herself as she stepped forward. Her hands went to her neck as she fished out the golden chain. “Angrif sent me to kill you.” She slipped the necklace over her head and threw it onto the table. “Widow’s wine in the locket.”
Shuna rose to her feet, slowly drawing her dagger from its sheath at her hip.
“He’ll never agree to peace,” Gifa insisted. “He’ll never be satisfied until the whole world bows to him. Even then he’d probably wage war on the moons.”
“Why do you tell me this?”
“Because our lands will never be at peace while he is Djun. He’s a brute. Unworthy of ruling Djunshold. My mother knew it. The Regent forced her to acknowledge him, to bow to him, but she never forgot what he was. An imposter. A low thief. He stole the legacy of Grohmul Djun. He stole my birthright!”
The words tumbled from her now, a lifetime of bitter resentment pouring free. “I was raised to believe girls were good for nothing but breeding. But then I heard of you… a woman who wears armor and carries her own sword and rides a war stallion into battle, with legions of soldiers at her back – men who’ll gladly bend their knees to a woman, because they know she can rule! Because even a woman can command, if she has the brains and the guts and the power!
“I am the true heir of Grohmul Djun! I am the only one with the bloodright to rule Djunshold. I’ve come here to ask for your help. Join with me and help me destroy my false brother. Help make me Gifa Djun! And I’ll do more than let your Pactkeepers have the mountains. Together – together! – we’ll set the lands to right. I vow it. Doma and Djun, hand in hand. We’ll end these wars! We’ll hang the butchers, the thieves and the Pactbreakers! And together we’ll show the whole world what a woman can do in a man’s place!”
Elfquest copyright 2017 Warp Graphics, Inc. Elfquest, its logos, characters, situations, all related indicia, and their distinctive likenesses are trademarks of Warp Graphics, Inc. All rights reserved. Some dialogue taken from Elfquest comics. All such dialogue copyright 2017 Warp Graphics, Inc. All rights reserved. Alternaverse characters and insanity copyright 2017 Jane Senese and Erin Roberts.