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What She Came For (standard:fantasy, 2874 words) | |||
Author: Agesilaus | Added: Feb 24 2003 | Views/Reads: 3512/2306 | 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
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