What She Came For (standard:fantasy, 2874 words)
Author: Agesilaus	Added: Feb 24 2003	Views/Reads: 3508/2304	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
Quarla, the Chosen of the Wood, comes to terms with what she is.

Click here to read the first 75 lines of the story

this nonsense about the Chosen of the Wood.” 

Moya had gasped.  “You mustn't say such things, Huscurl.  Not even in
jest!” He'd laughed then, his sloppy red mouth framed by his greasy 
brown beard.  “A free man says what he will.  And I say, it's high time 
Quarla earned her keep.”  Quarla had loathed the way he'd slid his 
bloodshot eyes over her ripening young body.  “You can make us a pretty 
penny indeed in Mon's tavern, girl,” he'd rasped, licking his cracked 
lips with a maggot-like tongue. Something had flared inside her.  The 
Bear was in her head, roaring; the Wolf howled and the Badger snarled.  
“So be it, then.  The Chthod it is, even if the Blaine himself holds it 
in his steel and leather gauntlets!” 

How they'd laughed at her as she defied them, all wild hair and blazing
blue eyes.  Her uncle had choked on his beer, he'd laughed so hard.  
Even her aunt, who was usually patient with her, giggled until she'd 
cried. Getting to the Smoke Tower was a twoday's run, at the pace Wolf 
had drummed into her.  She'd swum the river easily, Otter her cheerful 
companion, and scaled the sheer wall in the moonless night without 
effort.  And now she was here. 

In the gloom of the Chthod's chamber, Quarla clenched her fists as she
remembered.  Now was the time, she whispered to herself.  The Larch had 
agreed with her, even though the Maple and Ash had counseled patience.  
At fourteen summers, in the arrogance of youth, she'd had enough of 
patience, 

Slipping forward, Quarla touched the carven gargoyle softly.  Strange,
she thought.  It's almost as if....as if it's waiting for something.  
But it's just stone, she told herself.  Stone always waits. She climbed 
up to stand on its horned head. 

The Chthod glittered now, white light pouring from it as foam and spray
fly from a fountain. Quarla reached out, grasped its hippogriff leather 
hilt.  As she touched the sword, the light faded, became a glow. 

And the stone beneath her growled. Without thinking, she vaulted to the
side, gripping the short sword tightly to her chest.  Uncomprehending, 
she watched as the granite gargoyle shook itself like a wet dog.  It 
stood straight, tossing the slate slab aside. 

It fixed Quarla with grey granite eyes, opened its stone mouth lined
with marble fangs.  And hissed. Quicker than Fox, Quarla flitted to the 
oak door.  The gargoyle cracked its stone wings, rose to the vaulted 
ceiling.  She looked back, saw the creature begin to stoop at her and 
knew she wouldn't be able to slide through the door in time. 

She whirled, put her back to the massive door and brandished the Chthod.
 With a stone shriek, the gargoyle swooped down upon her.  At the last 
moment, more fluid than Weasel, Quarla twisted aside, falling. The 
gargoyle slammed into the dry door with a tooth-crunching smash.  The 
dry oak tore asunder as the full weight of the creature fell upon it, 
and both went down in the hall beyond in a cloud of dust and mold. 

Quarla was up and bouncing over the debris faster than Hare could have. 
The gargoyle lashed out with a stone claw as it struggled to its feet, 
the tip scoring the inside of her left leg before she was away, 
flitting up the hall with speed that would have astounded Hare. She 
didn't look back as she heard the stone shriek again, and the heavy 
pounding of stone on stone as the gargoyle pursued her.  Her feet 
slipped slightly as she entered the large, tapestry lined passageway, 
but she didn't hesitate.  She gasped her charms of speed and 
protection, and blurring with frantic haste her legs fairly flew over 
the cool slate flags. 

A shout ahead of her, red light.  Two guards in chain mail, carrying
spears and torches, came into view ahead.  Shouting, she waved the 
Chthod and came on. Dumbfounded, they stopped, goggling in confusion at 
the spectacle of a wild young girl, holding their Blaine's Chthod and 
being chased by a stone gargoyle. 

More surefooted than Doe, more nimble than Squirrel, Quarla somersaulted
between the legs of the larger guard and sprang to the arched window 
she'd climbed through only a few moments before. A roar and screams as 
the gargoyle slammed into the guards, tearing at them.  Quarla knew 
that, made of stone, the creature could not differentiate between her 
and the guards.  It sensed only the Chthod, and life.   And hating 
life, the gargoyle destroyed it. 

An arrow whirred, thumped into the stone beside her.  Archers in the
narrow court below, pointing up at her framed as she was in the 
torchlit window.  No time now.  Without thinking, she leaped out from 
the window, jumping farther than Stag ever could have.  Eyes closed, 
she cradled the Chthod to her as she fell, arrow-straight, past the 
courtyard wall missing it by inches to dive into the river beyond. She 
never heard the shouts of disbelief at her leap, never noticed the 
arrows and spears that flashed past her as she fell, never felt the 
impact of the cold water. 

Like Trout, she only breathed and swam the living river as it pulled and
teased at her.  Quarla swam along the bottom for an hour, to be certain 
any pursuit could not trace her.  The cold water stung the gargoyle's 
scratch on her leg. She surfaced slowly, cautiously, extending her 
senses.  Jay was in an ancient Willow by the river bank, and he assured 
her in his cheeky way she was safe. 

Quarla knew better.  She listened and waited.  Nothing, but that
disturbed more than if she'd heard something.  Climbing out of the 
water, she stripped and dried herself on some moss Willow dipped down 
to her.  She asked Jay if he would fly ahead to her home, to ensure all 
was clear.  He chirped an affirmative, but Quarla sighed when he flew 
off in the opposite direction.  Jay was unreliable at best. 

She drew on her damp linen shirt, and quickly wrapped the glowing Chthod
in thick moss.  With a few lengths of vine, she strapped it to her 
back.  She marveled at the dull edge of the blade.  It was as if it had 
never been stropped, she mused, checking her cut leg.  Amazing how it 
could be so deadly in the wrong hands. 

Her cut was red and puckered on the edges, but not bleeding any longer. 
No time for any healing spell—those took too much time.  She searched 
briefly, then finding some bloodweed, chewed it quickly into mulch and 
rubbed it into the cut.  It stung, but the pain and stiffness began to 
fade almost immediately. Satisfied, she pulled on her wool breeches.  
She thanked Willow for her help, then whistled once, short, sharp.  
Bat, hearing her, flitted down from his hunting and squeaked his 
greeting.  She asked him to scout ahead for her, and he was off 
instantly in his jerky, swift way. 

Quarla loped behind him, using the ground-eating stride Wolf used when
she wasn't hunting.  Quarla wished Wolf was here with her now; her 
courage and cunning would be welcome.  But Wolf was deep, very deep in 
the Wood; even this far away from the homes of man was too close for 
her. She ran silently all the rest of the night, then as dawn arose, 
went to ground in a den Bear had shown her last year.  It was small, 
but deep, and the back part was formed from living rock.  Quarla liked 
the slow, steady, vast thoughts of the cool stone as she rested against 
it, clutching the Chthod tightly.  She thought the stone liked her, 
too. 

Her dreams were vivid, almost lurid.  Hairy, stinking men groped at her,
toothless mouths gaping in soundless shrieks.  Shriveled wild-eyed 
women, fingers bent into claws, implored her silently.  Their jealousy 
and fear pounded at her palpably.  But why did they hate her so?  She 
wondered.  Gibbering, slobbering, they surrounded her and reached out, 
slouching and hobbling ever closer.  She shrank away, but there was no 
escape.  The apparitions came on, sighing now in anticipation.  Eagle 
was there then, larger than a dragon, and he drove the shambling men 
off with a huge buffet of his wings.  He fixed her with his golden, 
unblinking eye.  You will outlive them all, he explained.  No longer of 
them, you nevertheless remain man in form, with differences in mind and 
spirit.  Yet Chosen are you, and I have made you mine.  Fear not.  He 
mounted up into the brilliant blue sky on mighty golden pinions, spread 
wider than the heaven.  Eagle screamed his pride, making the foundation 
of the world shiver. 

The scream sounded again, only it wasn't Eagle this time.  She woke with
a start.  Closing her eyes, she listened with her mind as well as her 
ears.  Nothing.  But glancing up toward the mouth of the den, she saw 
twilight had arrived. 

She held the Chthod loosely, turning it in her hands as she waited for
the nightdark.  It fairly hummed with power, and even though she held 
it, a soft golden glow seeped out through the moss.  Quarla knew its 
power was not natural; it had a necromancer's scent of death in its 
aura.  She felt a tug at her will, as though it were tempting her 
somehow.  Shaking her head firmly, she slapped the pull away as a 
strict parent swats a disrespectful child. 

When night was upon her, Bat flitted into the cave and told her all was
well.  He asked her courteously if she was hungry, and she answered him 
politely in the negative.  Bat was always conscientious, she smiled. 

She eased out of the den, tasting the night air.  Cool and fresh, it
beckoned her.  Once assured that she was alone, she sprang away, 
exhiliration giving her feet wings.  The cut on her leg bothered her 
not at all, and the miles fell away rapidly. 

Just before daybreak she reached home.  The village was still in the
damp morning air.  Smoke curled lazily from a few chimneys, a mindless 
chicken pecked desultorily in a wicker pen.  Quarla pitied the domestic 
animals; they had more of man in them than the Wood.  Well, not all of 
them, she rationalized as she padded toward's Huscurl's hut.  Cat and 
Horse hadn't forgotten who they were. 

From out front she heard Huscurl hawk and spit, then yawn mightily as he
rose from sleep.  Without hesitating, she walked boldly into the 
rough-hewn hut.  Moya looked up from the hearth in surprise. Huscurl 
cursed.  “What in hell brings you here at this hour, girl?” Quarla 
smiled.  “I have something for you, Huscurl.” He scratched his 
prodigious belly, belched.  “What, then?” 

Without a word, she took the Chthod from her back, unwrapped it and set
it on the table before Moya.  Thick golden light flooded the hut. 
Proudly, Quarla said, “you wanted your proof.  There it is, the 
Blaine's Chthod.  Only a Chosen could have retrieved it from the Smoke 
Tower, you see.” 

Huscurl and Moya stared, transfixed.  Moya made the sign of the Mother
over her breast, hand shaking. Wiping his slack mouth, Huscurl reached 
slowly for the blade.  Quarla felt its aura darken as he gripped the 
hilt, lifting it.  The short blade looked almost like a toy in his 
large fist. He grinned in disbelief.  “Is it...I mean, it's 
the....real, is it?” he forced out hoarsely. Quarla nodded. Swallowing, 
Huscurl took a few cuts at the air.  The Chthod hissed through the 
thick air of the hut, glowing softly. Moya whimpered, “leave it be, 
Huscurl, leave it be.” “Be silent woman.  Do you have any idea what a 
free man can do with this thing?” 

Quarla fixed Moya with the piercing glare Falcon used just before she
stooped.  “Moya, go to the barn for me,” she ordered, at the same time 
nudging the older woman's mind with her will. Shaking, hand sketching 
the oval of the Mother, Moya moved out of the hut.  Huscurl glanced at 
her, then fixed his eyes back on the Chthod. He laughed, softly at 
first, then gales burst out of him in a sour flood.  “You may be 
Chosen, but you're still a puling fool!” he roared. 

Quarla made no reply. “You don't know what you've done, do you, girl?”
Softly she said, “I got what I came for.” With a bone-shattering 
shriek, the gargoyle smashed through the thatch roof of the hut.  
Huscurl's cry of fear turned to a high-pitched yell of terror as the 
stone monster tore into him. Quarla stood stock still as the gargoyle 
ripped the heavy man's throat out with its marble teeth.  Stooping, it 
gathered its charge, the Chthod, and with heavy stone wingbeats rose 
out of the hut into the morning sky. 

Quarla watched it go.  Without a backward glance, she left the ruins of
the hut and walked slowly toward the Wood.  Moya and a few terrified 
townsfolk goggled at her. Smiling at Moya, Quarla said, “you were kind 
to me.  I will remember.” Waiting for her at the edge of the village 
were Doe, and Hare.  Laughing with joy, she ran to meet them as they 
plunged into the Wood. 


Tweet