The orc watched with apprehension as the dancing lights coalesced into a slender, feminine form. Like a luminous cloud, Sehanine walked toward him, rapidly taking on substance as she came. Night was her time, and she seemed to draw sustenance and power from the moonlight. In her hands was a shining sword, held point-up before her.
Gruumsh knew at once that this was no common weapon, even as gods reckon such things. No, this sword was a living thing. It was as alive—and as troublesome—as any elven world and all the beings that walked upon it, as vast in power as the sun that warmed that world and the skies that cradled it. The stunned orc noted the thousands of tiny stars that swirled within the wondrous blade and sensed the magic that pulsed through it like an ocean’s tides.
It was Sahandrian, the sword of Corellon, made whole and new!
Surprise turned swiftly to rage, and Gruumsh let out a furious bellow that rumbled like thunder over the Moor. The proudest moment of the orc lord’s godhood had been shattering that sword, watching the glowing fragments fade and disappear. Somehow, this great triumph had been undone by a scrawny elven wench. The orc’s hatred of the moon goddess increased a thousandfold, and he howled out a fearsome oath of vengeance upon her and all creatures elven.
But Sehanine walked on, not sparing the furious Gruumsh so much as a glance. She crested the hill on which he stood and began to pass down into the valley, moving within easy range of a spear’s toss.
The orc lord’s brow beetled at this tacit insult. He whipped his spear from his shoulder and hauled it back for the throw.
The faint sound must have alerted his target, for Sehanine turned to him at last, an expression of faint disdain on her face. Too fast—impossibly fast—she leveled the elven sword at the orc lord as if it were a wizard’s staff. A single pulse of silver light burst from the weapon and engulfed him in a shimmering sphere. Blinded and snarling with rage, Gruumsh fisted his free hand and dug furiously at his eyes in an attempt to banish the stars that swam and spun behind his eyelids.
By the time the orc lord’s vision returned, the goddess had moved far beyond the range of his spear. She stood beside a gnarled cypress that clung to the top of the hill beyond. To the orc’s dismay, Sehanine was not alone—a familiar, golden warrior came eagerly toward her. She knelt to him, Sahandrian held out before her. The lights that whirled within the elven weapon flared and leaped as the rightful owner reclaimed his sword.
Gruumsh shook his now-useless spear and fairly danced with rage. “Knave! Coward!” he howled at Corellon Larethian. “Bested in single combat, you hide behind a female’s skirts! And what of your oath? You swore that no elven magic would be brought against me, yet you suffer this witch to undo my victory!”
“Not so,” Sehanine said firmly, her silvery voice floating out over the valley that lay between them. She rose and faced down the angry god. “You have broken the truce, Gruumsh of the Orcs, and thus it will be remembered for all time. Corellon holds to the contract he has made with you and to all the tenets of honorable battle. He was never bested. Destroying his sword was no victory of yours. By an elf was Sahandrian undone, and thus it falls to the Seldarine to restore their own.”
With these cryptic words, the goddess turned back to Corellon. Her silver eyes swept over him; tears sprang into them as she took note of his many wounds. Sehanine wiped the tears from her cheek and reached out with gentle fingers to touch the god’s bleeding face. Instantly the mingled droplets on her hand took on a mystic glow.
“Children of the moon and the sun,” she whispered. “Behold, my lord, the souls of elves yet unborn. Even battle with a dishonorable foe cannot diminish the magic we share.”
She started to say more, but the bright moonlight that sustained her suddenly dimmed, and the rising wind chased a welter of black clouds across the moon. Sehanine cast a glance over her shoulder. The orc, as she expected, had kicked into a running charge, seizing what must have seemed to him a moment of elven weakness.
The goddess’s face hardened. “Kill him, my lord,” she whispered fiercely, and touched her fingers to Corellon’s scabbard as if in grim benediction. When the dark clouds parted, she was gone.
Corellon bit back the words of thanks and tamped down the questions burning within him. Later, he vowed, he would seek out the moon goddess and have from her an explanation concerning the magic she had done, and the elven treachery to which she’d alluded.
But for now it was enough just to hold Sahandrian again. The elven god raised his sword high, exulting in the feel of the wondrous weapon in his hand and the prospect of renewed battle. With a ringing shout, he raced down the hillside to meet the orc’s charge.
They met in the valley below with a thunderous clash. Sparks flew like shooting stars as the elven blade struck the iron haft of the orc lord’s spear. Corellon deliberately allowed his blade to glance off the spear; he knew he could not equal or even counter the force of the orc’s attack. His advantage was agility. Never once slowing his momentum, the elf ducked beneath the crossed weapons. Metal screeched over metal as his sword slid up the spear’s haft with deadly intent.
Gruumsh twisted his spear sharply to one side, flinging the oncoming blade wide. He spun, stepping back to move himself beyond the elf’s reach. As he turned back toward his foe, Gruumsh brought the blunt end of his spear down, swinging in hard and low at the elf lord’s booted feet.
Corellon danced nimbly back—exactly as the orc hoped he would. Gruumsh’s primary weapon was considerably longer than the elf’s: Not even Sahandrian could cut what it could not reach.
With a fierce smile, the orc completed the sweeping arc, swinging his weapon up so that the shaft was level, the iron tip aimed at the elf lord’s throat. With all his strength he lunged forward, thrusting as he went.
Corellon made no attempt to parry the mighty blow. He ducked under the rushing spear, then pivoted back to face his foe, using his speed to lend power to Sahandrian’s swing. The sword scored a stinging blow to the orc lord’s hip. Gruumsh whirled at the elf, his spear out full length before him. But the elf stepped in close, too close for the sharp tip to find him. His sword darted in and ripped yet another gash in the orc lord’s hide before the shaft of the spear smashed into his ribs.
The elf rolled with the blow, coming up on his feet and once again lunging in close. But Gruumsh had tossed aside his spear. In one massive hand he held a dagger, in the other, the axe that had somehow destroyed Sahandrian earlier that day.
For many moments the foes stood nearly toe to toe, and the clash and shriek of metal upon metal rang out over the watchful Moor. In the hands of the elven god, Sahandrian whirled and thrust and danced, moving so fast that it left ribbons of light in its path. But this time, Corellon’s sword held firm, turning aside the orcish god’s axe again and again without taking so much as a pit along its gleaming edge.
The enjoined shadows of the battling gods grew shorter as the moon rose high in the sky. Gruumsh’s breath was coming hard now, and his ears buzzed as if a swarm of angry insects had taken up residence in his skull. The orc was the stronger by far, but try as he might, he could not get past the elf’s guard to strike with his full power. Nor was Gruumsh as agile as the elf, and though he had two weapons to Corellon’s one, the elven blade slipped through his defenses again and again. His hide was crisscrossed with garish stripes, and the grip of his axe was slippery with his own blood. It began to come to Gruumsh that the battle he’d thought already won, the victory he’d purchased from a traitor’s hand, would once again belong to the elven god.
As if he, too, sensed the turn of battle, Corellon surged forward, ducking under the orc’s lumbering swing to leap, sword leading, at the orc lord’s throat.
Gruumsh knew at once he had no hope of parrying the elf’s attack. Instinctively he ducked and flung his dagger hand up to block the killing thrust. The elven blade bit deep into the orc lord’s forearm, sinking between the twin bones—and driving his arm up into his face.
Too late, the o
rc realized that he still clenched his dagger. His own blade stuck him hard, parting the hide on his meager forehead. Gruumsh heard the horrid sound of metal sliding wetly over bone, felt the sudden easing of resistance as the blade slipped down. Then all other sensation vanished in a white-hot explosion of pain.
Corellon leaped back, tugging his sword free of the orc’s arm before the god’s fall could bring him down, too. For a long moment he stood and regarded his fallen adversary. On the battle-sodden ground, the orc lord rolled and tossed in immortal agony, his hands clutching at his eyes—one of which was blinded by the copious flow of blood from the gaping head wound, the other blinded for all time. Other than the ruined eye, most of Gruumsh’s wounds would heal—too quickly for Corellon’s peace of mind—but there would be no more fighting this night.
The elf lord slid Sahandrian back into its scabbard. His fingers touched leather, and a pang of sadness filtered through his elation. Though victory was his, the wondrous padded sheath his Araushnee had woven for him—which he had carried into battle as her token—had been lost during the horrendous fight.
“You are forsworn, blinded, and utterly defeated,” Corellon said coldly. “Yet I find these things little enough payment for what I have lost this day.”
The orc dashed blood from his face and squinted at his foe with his one remaining eye. “You don’t know the half of it, elf,” he growled. “And you can’t begin to understand what you’ve lost—you don’t even know the names of your foes! As for defeat, I admit none! Kill me now, if you can, and your own silver whore will bear witness that you struck down a wounded and unarmed foe!”
Corellon glanced moonward, and knew that, at least in this much, the orc spoke truth. The goddess of moonlight and mystery would see all and would be compelled by honor to speak of such dishonor before the Seldarine Counsel. Even if Corellon wished to do so, he could not slay the downed orcish god. Nor, by the terms of their agreement, could he banish Gruumsh from Olympus before the orc chose to go.
“You spoke of others,” the elf lord said, glancing over the silent hills, “but I see no one ready to take up your fallen weapons.”
The orc smirked. “As long as you’re on the open Moor, I need no help from anyone. It’s a long walk to Arvandor, elf, and you’re swaying on your feet like a sapling in a strong wind. Go if you can—I’ll not be far behind you. One eye is more than I need to follow a trail through these hills. If you’re still standing when I find you, we will fight again. If not, I will kill you where you lie!”
Corellon found that he could not scoff at this grim promise. The heat of his battle fever was fast slipping away, and the weight of his wounds pressed heavily upon him. It was possible that the orc, grievously wounded though he was, could do exactly as he promised. Without another word, Corellon turned once more toward Arvandor.
Dense and deep was the forest curtain that surrounded Arvandor. Lost beings could wander in the woodlands beyond its borders for many days, never once passing over the invisible boundary, perhaps never even realizing that their way was barred. Ancient trees shifted to confound the passerby, paths appeared seemingly at random only to disappear into a forest pool or a bed of ferns; brooks suddenly widened into vast yawning chasms; thick tangles of vines suddenly sprouted thorns or simply refused to part. Arvandor was a haven and a fortress.
Hidden among the green shadows that surrounded and protected Arvandor, an elven goddess clung to the uppermost branches of a tree and peered out over the woodlands. Her slender black fingers clenched tightly around her handhold, and her beautiful face was taut with foreboding.
Three long days had passed since Corellon Larethian, her lover and her lord, had gone to meet with the orcish god. Araushnee awaited the outcome with tense anticipation. She had much at stake. There was no telling what might happen among the Seldarine if Corellon did not return. Although none among the elven gods could truly replace Corellon, many would certainly try.
Araushnee’s relationship with the Seldarine’s leader was unique. Corellon Larethian was all things elven: warrior and poet, mage and bard, even male and female. But since the coming of Araushnee, the deity had settled into a single aspect: that of a Gold elven male. In Araushnee, he had seen his perfect counterpart: female to his male, artist to his warrior, the mysteries of midnight to balance the brightness of day. Though Araushnee was but a minor goddess, Corellon had been utterly enchanted with her beauty and had made her his consort. She had borne him children—twin godlings as darkly beautiful as herself. As the beloved of Corellon, Araushnee held a place of honor among the Seldarine, as well as new powers that the elven god had bestowed upon her. By Corellon’s decree, the destiny of the mortal elves who shared her dark beauty was in her keeping. She had learned to enjoy that power, and she feared its loss at least as much as she feared the battle’s outcome.
Her sharp ears caught a faint sound—the distant hiss and rustle of underbrush trampled underfoot. No elven god would make such a clamor. Araushnee had her answer, at last.
The goddess slipped down from her perch on a thread of magic. Her slippers touched the forest floor without a sound, but before she could take a single step toward the victorious orc, her eyes fell upon a most unexpected sight.
Corellon.
The elf lord was but a few dozen paces away. His progress was slow, and he looked as battered as a trod-upon flower, but still he moved through the woodlands like a breath of wind. Araushnee’s gaze dropped to his hip. The sheath she had woven and enchanted was gone, and the sword Sahandrian was whole. An invisible aura clung to the sword—the unmistakable touch of Sehanine’s moon magic.
Araushnee’s crimson eyes flamed at this new evidence of her rival’s hand in her personal affairs. Dizzy with rage, the goddess flung out one hand as if to erase Sehanine’s handiwork. Magic burst unbidden from her ebony fingertips, spinning out into a vast curtain that blocked the forest in either direction, as far as her eyes could discern.
Corellon stopped, clearly puzzled by the glistening barrier that presumed to bar Arvandor to him.
Chagrin tore through Araushnee. Surely the god would know whose hand this was. Even as besotted as he was with her, he would certainly see this act as treachery. And even as weakened as he obviously was, he could easily overshadow the magic of a minor goddess. Then where would she be? Damned by a single impulse, all her work undone.
Thinking quickly, Araushnee began to weave another sort of web. She stepped out of the shadows into plain sight, her face alight with feigned relief and welcome.
Pass through, my love, she said silently, willing her words into Corellon’s mind. The web will not hinder you but will bar the orc. Go, and find healing.
She felt the answering surge of Corellon’s gratitude and love—and was buffeted by a nearly overwhelming wave of exhaustion. As if he sensed this, Corellon quickly withdrew his painful touch. The elven god slipped through Araushnee’s net as easily as a falcon pierces a cloud. He kissed his fingers to her in a salute, then disappeared into the forest to seek the trees of Arvandor.
Araushnee stayed where she was. Distasteful though the prospect might be, she had to speak with Gruumsh, for she had questions that only the orc could answer.
She did not have long to wait. Gruumsh apparently had caught an elven scent—whether hers or Corellon’s she did not know or care—and he came crashing wildly through the forest toward her.
Toward the web.
The orc blundered right into it. Flailing wildly, he roared and cursed and accomplished nothing but getting himself hopelessly entangled. From the forest beyond, Corellon’s laughter floated back toward him like golden bells—beautiful even in mockery.
The orc lord’s struggles redoubled, but he was well and truly stopped. Of course, Araushnee mused with a wry smile, the natural defenses of Arvandor would have accomplished that with or without her “intervention.” Apparently that thought had not occurred to Corellon. He was too much entangled in Araushnee’s charms to see any tapestry but that of h
er own weaving.
“Fool,” she hissed as she regarded one captive and contemplated the other. And as she spoke the epithet, Araushnee wondered whether orc or elf deserved it better.
2
Master of the Hunt
t was no simple undertaking to slip away from the plane of the gods, to take on avatar form and to seek a godly ally in the unfamiliar forests of a mortal world. Not easy, but then, nothing about the task to which Araushnee had set her hand would come without price.
The elven goddess slipped silently through the forest, following unseen threads of magic to a place of unusual power. The Weave was strong on this world. It was a singularly beautiful place, with its single vast expanse of land set like polished jade upon a sea of lapis blue. Dragons roamed the forests and ruled the skies, but other magical races were drawn to this land as bees to clover. New races were rising, as well, increasing their numbers rapidly. Even gods saw promise in the burgeoning world—of late, there had been a veritable migration of powers both great and minor. Araushnee hoped to find an ally among these gods, one powerful enough—and malleable enough—to replace the recalcitrant Gruumsh.
After his battle with Corellon Larethian—not to mention the adventure’s ignominious end as a orcish fly in the web of an elven goddess—Gruumsh had adamantly refused to have anything more to do with Araushnee and her ambitions. She was an elf and therefore his immortal enemy, and there the matter lay.
So be it. Araushnee was just as happy to rid her nose of the orc god’s stench. There were other beings who could be tricked, cajoled, or seduced into doing her bidding. So she focused on the lines of magic, following them into the very heart of the land. In time they converged into a dense net over a certain ancient wood.
It was a forest as dense and deep as any in Arvandor, and nearly as fey. Enormous treants, almost indistinguishable from the venerable trees around them, observed the goddess’s passage with the apparent disinterest common to long-lived beings who measure such events against the passage of eons. Small graces of unicorns scattered and fled before her like startled, silvery deer. Darting pinpricks of light suggested the presence of sprites or faerie dragons—or perhaps the more malevolent but still intriguing creatures known as will o’wisps. But for all the forest’s wonders, there was ample evidence of danger: the distant roar of a hunting dragon, a feather fallen from the wings of a molting griffin, trail signs that spoke of manticores, footprints of a passing orcish war band.
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