Evermeet

by Elaine Cunningham

  It was the last of these that interested Araushnee most, for on every world that she knew, orcs were the bitter enemies of all elves. Surely this tribe’s god, whoever he or she might be, would listen with interest to her proposal—provided that she, an elven goddess, could gain the ear of such a god.

  While the morning was still young, Araushnee’s sharp ears caught the sounds of battle away to the north, where mountain peaks rose far above the tree line to disappear into gathering clouds. As she drew near, she made out the sounds of orcish voices raised in war cries. But there was none of the clash and clamor of weapons that signaled the usual manner of warfare among Gruumsh’s children. Indeed, the battle seemed to be coming from the mountains far above the orcs, and it sounded more like a contest between two preternaturally strong bears than any orcish duel. The titanic fighters were lost in the dark clouds, but their roars resounded like thunder, and their clashing shook the very ground beneath Araushnee’s feet.

  The goddess noticed the orcs gathered at the foot of the mountain, dancing and howling and hooting in what appeared to be a religious frenzy. She wondered if the stupid creatures carried on so whenever thunderstorms gathered over the mountain. Perhaps it was just a coincidence that this particular manifestation truly came from the hands of the gods. From what Araushnee knew of orcs, she doubted they could tell the difference between the two phenomena.

  The goddess moved swiftly up the mountain, silent and invisible, aided in no small part by the things she had taken from her daughter’s chamber. Young Eilistraee, known among the Seldarine as the Dark Maiden, was already an acclaimed huntress. Araushnee favored flowing gowns and delicate slippers, but these were not suited to her present task or to the wild terrain of this word’s heartland. And so, clad in leathers of deep brown, shod in boots that seemed to absorb sound, and wrapped in a dappled green cloak that shifted its colors to match the foliage around it, Araushnee crept up to the battleground. It is doubtful that the combatants would have noted her approach regardless of these precautions, so furious was their battle.

  She was too late to see the fighting itself, but she nodded with approval as she gazed upon the victor.

  Malar, the Great Hunter, stood over the rapidly fading body of a creature much like himself. Well over twelve feet tall he was, with fur like that of a black bear covering a powerful, thick-muscled body shaped roughly like that of an orcish warrior. Malar lacked prominent fangs to seize and rend his opponents; in fact, he had no snout at all, merely a flesh-draped cavity in the center of his face that served as both nose and mouth. He did not seem to suffer from this lack. From his massive head sprouted a rack of antlers, each point dagger-sharp. The curving claws on his hands were each fully the size of Araushnee’s hand. Yet victory had not come easily to Malar: His huge chest rose and fell like waves on a frenzied sea, and the breath that rasped through his oral cavity was harsh and labored.

  Araushnee took her daughter’s bow from her shoulder and fitted to it one of Eilistraee’s enchanted arrows. She sighted down her target and readied the weapon. Although she fully intended to make a deal with the god, she knew the value of negotiating from a position of apparent strength.

  “Hail, Beastlord, Master of the Hunt!” Araushnee called out to him.

  Malar whirled toward the musical sound of an elven voice and dropped into battle stance: knees bent and muscles bunched in preparation for a quick spring, arms spread in a parody of an embrace, claws hooked into terrible rending weapons. His eyes narrowed into malevolent slits as he regarded the armed goddess.

  “What do you here, elf?” he growled out in a thunderous rumble. “This place is none of yours!”

  “No, it is yours by right of conquest,” the goddess agreed, nodding toward the fallen god. By now, little remained of the bestial avatar but a dim gray outline. “That was Herne, was it not? I have caught glimpses of him before, on other worlds. A pale copy of Malar, to my thinking.”

  The Beastlord’s arms dropped just a bit. He was obviously wary of the elf but willing to hear more of her flattery. “This orc tribe now follows me,” he boasted.

  “As they should,” Araushnee said, carefully hiding her elation. This Malar was precisely what she needed! An ambitious minor god, almost pitifully eager to expand his influence and power. And most important, a hunter.

  She nodded to the shadowy remains of Herne and sighed. “All the same, it is a waste. Not that Herne should fall—never that,” she added hastily when a growl started deep in Malar’s throat. “A shame only that a hunter as mighty as the Beastlord should waste his talent on easy quarry.”

  When the god did not seem to take offense, Araushnee lowered her bow just a bit and took a cautious step closer. “I have an offer for you, great Malar, an opportunity such as might never come again to a hunter.”

  “There is much game in these forests,” the Beastlord observed, watching her closely.

  “Ah, but is there any challenge that could compare to tracking an elven god through his own sacred forest? That is a challenge only the greatest of hunters would dare take up.”

  Malar seemed to ponder this, his red eyes glowing intently. “An elven forest, you say? A wise hunter does not lay aside his knife and then walk into the embrace of a bear.”

  “A wounded bear,” she stressed.

  “That is even worse.”

  “As to that, look, and then judge for yourself,” Araushnee said. With a quick gesture of one ebony hand, the goddess conjured a shining, multicolored orb and bade the Beastlord look within. Inside the globe was a tiny image of Corellon Larethian, looking (but for his size) as real as if he stood before them. It was clear that the elven god was gravely wounded; the golden light had drained from his skin, leaving him gray and haggard. His steps wove a slow, unsteady path through the trees.

  The Beastlord studied the elven god, estimating his size against a stand of golden ferns. “He is small,” Malar allowed.

  “And weak! See his bandages, already wet and crimson.”

  The hunter squinted into the orb. “Strange. So much blood, but he leaves no trail.”

  “You expected anything less of an elven god?” Araushnee retorted. “Even so, surely Malar, the Master of the Hunt, can track him down. Think on it—what renown will be yours when you slay the head of the elven pantheon!”

  Malar whuffled thoughtfully. “This forest you show me is elven. Never have I hunted so close to Arvandor.”

  “What wild place is not your rightful hunting ground?” she wheedled, sensing that the god was sorely tempted. The goddess gestured at the globe. In response, it grew in size until it nearly filled the battle-trampled clearing. “This is a gate to Olympus, great Malar. All you need do is step through.”

  The Beastlord eyed with great interest the scene within the globe, but he was still not convinced. “You are elven. What has this elf lord done that you want him dead?”

  Araushnee thought she knew what answer might best please Malar. “He is weak,” she said stoutly. “That offends me.”

  “If he is so weak, then kill him yourself.”

  The goddess shrugged. “I would, except that the other gods of the Seldarine love Corellon. They would not accept as their ruler anyone who killed him. And I wish to rule.”

  “Strange, these elven gods,” mused Malar. “It is ever the way of nature that the strongest should rule. Anyone able to kill this god deserves to supplant him. If elves think otherwise, they are weak indeed.”

  “Not all think so,” Araushnee corrected him.

  The hunter’s crimson eyes met hers, taking her measure. “Perhaps I should kill Corellon Larethian, and you, too, and then take my own chances among your pantheon!”

  Araushnee laughed scornfully. “One wounded elven god you could surely slay, but all at once? No, content yourself with the trophy you see before you. Corellon is a far greater prize than any you have won this day.”

  Malar nodded toward the foot of the mountain, where the orcs’ celebration had reached what soun
ded like a death-dealing frenzy. “A god needs worshipers.”

  “And so you shall have them,” said Araushnee, certain that she knew at last what bait would lure Malar into her web. “The orcs value strength: That tribe will follow you because you defeated their god. How many more orcs will join their ranks when they learn that you have succeeded where Gruumsh One-Eye could not?”

  “That elf blinded Gruumsh?” the Beastlord asked, caution creeping into his voice as he regarded the image of Corellon with new respect. Malar knew all too well that Gruumsh, the First Power of the orcs, was a force with which to reckon.

  “Yet another sign of Corellon’s weakness,” Araushnee said hastily. “He should have slain the orc when he had the chance. I would have. Or, at the very least, I would have gelded him!”

  A low chuckle grated from the hunter. “It is not my way to humiliate my quarry, but to destroy it. Your ways are not mine, elf, yet I cannot deny the appeal in the picture you paint. A gelded Gruumsh! I am not a subtle god, but there is irony even I can appreciate!”

  Araushnee seized upon the moment of grim camaraderie. “Then go, destroy, and claim your trophy. And when it is done, you will have what you most desire,” she said in a voice that was all silk and temptation.

  “Which is?”

  “Quarry—quarry that will tempt the finest hunters of this world and win you many new followers. Elves,” she said, spelling it out at last. “When I rule in Arvandor, I will send tribes of elves to this world. Orcs will hunt them, and in doing so they will follow Malar, the greatest elf-hunter of all.”

  “Elves!” Malar snorted. “There are elves here already. The Weave is strong: Where there is magic, there are always elves.”

  The goddess quickly covered her surprise. She had not sensed the presence of elven people upon this world, something that any member of the Seldarine could easily do. Perhaps she had been too absorbed in her quest to be attuned to their presence.

  “But the elves here are few and of no real power,” she said, hoping that this was indeed the case. “I will send entire clans. Elves who will build cities and craft weapons of magic. Your primitive orcs will rally to you in hope of seizing such prizes. You will become a great power—the god of all those people who hate and hunt Corellon’s children!”

  At last the Beastlord nodded. “I go,” he said simply, and then he leaped into the shining globe.

  The vision that Araushnee had conjured dissipated with a faint crackle. When it was gone, so was the Master of the Hunt.

  A triumphant chuckle started in Araushnee’s throat. Her laughter deepened to shake her flat belly and grew in power as it rolled out in peal after peal over the mountains. On and on it went, growing higher and more uncanny until it seemed to meld with the shrieking of the wind.

  And in the valley below, the fierce orcs paused their orgy of slaughter and celebration to listen to the ungodly sound. For the first time that day, they knew true fear.

  The long night of battle was a memory now, and the morning sunlight that filtered through the forest canopy brought warmth and strength to the wearied elf lord. Corellon was almost home—he could sense the change in the air, feel the power in the ground beneath his feat. Already he could feel the magic of Arvandor flowing through him. He picked up his pace; the battle with Gruumsh was over, but it had raised many questions that demanded resolution.

  A low, bestial growl came from a cluster of scarlet sumac bushes behind him. Corellon stiffened, doubly startled. He’d heard no animal’s approach, and he knew no animal in the forest as enemy. He turned cautiously to the sound, hand on the hilt of his sword, just as the foliage seemed to explode from the force of a running charge.

  A monstrous, fur-clad being leaped at him, arms out wide and claws curved into grasping hooks. Corellon struck out, slicing across one of the creature’s leathery palms. Before the bestial thing could react, the elf had skipped well away.

  “Malar!” he called out sternly, for he knew of the Beastlord—albeit, nothing good. “How do you dare to hunt in an elven forest?”

  “I hunt wherever I want,” the god growled, “and whomever I want.”

  So saying, Malar lowered his head and came at the elf lord like a charging stag. As he came, antlers sprang from his head, each instantly branching out into a score of lethal, bladelike tips.

  Corellon stood his ground. Holding his sword firmly with both hands, he thrust up into the rack of antlers. Instantly he twisted so that his back was to Malar, then he bent quickly forward, heaving his entangled sword forward and down with all his strength.

  The incredible speed of the elf’s maneuver, combined with the momentum of Malar’s charge, sent the Beastlord hurtling up and over the much smaller elf. He landed on his back, hard enough to bounce and even skid forward a pace or two. Corellon nimbly leaped forward. With one booted foot he pinned one of Malar’s forearms to the ground, and he pressed the point of his sword tightly to the black-furred throat.

  “Yield,” the elf lord demanded. “Do so, and you will depart this place unharmed.”

  Malar let loose a defiant snarl. With his unfettered arm, he took a mighty swipe at the elf’s legs. Corellon’s blade flashed forward to parry. He batted the arm aside—and sheared off a couple of the god’s claws for good measure. Quickly Corellon reversed the direction of his swing, slashing back at the Beastlord’s throat.

  But Malar had simply disappeared.

  The point of Corellon’s sword sliced into the flattened grass and carved a deep furrow into the ground below. For the briefest of moments, Corellon teetered, off-balance. Before he could get his feet solidly beneath him, a blow struck him from behind and sent him flying. A low, grating chuckled rumbled through the forest as the nimble elf lord tucked and rolled.

  Corellon was angry now. It was one thing for Gruumsh to challenge him on this, his home plane: Gruumsh was First Power of his pantheon, a mighty god and a worthy, if treacherous, adversary. Malar, on the other hand, was a minor god who scavenged for worshipers among a hundred worlds and as many races of predatory beings. That such a god would challenge Corellon was beyond insult.

  The elf rose and whirled, sword in hand. Hanging in the air before him was an enormous, disembodied limb that looked like the foreleg of a titanic panther. The claws were velveted; Malar had batted at Corellon like a malicious kitten playing with a mouse.

  Corellon’s fist tightened around the grip of his sword. The lights within Sahandrian’s lights whirled and sparked in concert with the wrath of the sword’s wielder.

  With a rush, Corellon advanced upon his strange foe. His sword whirled and darted and spun, carving deep lines onto the catlike limb and sending tufts of black fur flying. Malar’s laughter soon turned to growls of anger and pain. The pantherlike claws darted and slashed in return, but never once did they touch the elven god. Corellon danced around the Limb of Malar, taunting, offering an opening where there was none, luring the Beastlord into another attack and then yet another—each time dealing swift and terrible reprisals.

  Malar’s rage, his overwhelming instinct for the kill, drove him to fight on and on, until his panther fur was sticky with blood, the hide torn to expose sinew and even bone. Many long moments passed before it occurred to the Beastlord that his tactics were driven more by bloodlust than sound strategy. Again the god changed form. As a shroud of utter blackness, he enveloped his elven foe.

  Corellon froze in mid-swing. Not because he was startled by the sudden midnight that had fallen around him—he knew of Malar’s manifestations and he had expected this—but because of the suffocating sense of evil in the miasma that surrounded him. Corellon instinctively darted to one side; the cloud that was Malar simply moved with him. Deep, snarling laughter resounded through the blackness, deepening the smothering pall of evil.

  An eerie red glow fell upon the elf lord. Corellon looked up into the enormous red eyes that floated near the top of the cloud. Without hesitation, the elf lord hauled his sword high overhead and threw it up with al
l his strength. Sahandrian flipped end over end, twice, forming a spiral of pure light as it carved through the pervasive evil. The tip of the sword sank deep between Malar’s crimson eyes.

  With a roar of anguish and rage that shook the surrounding trees, Malar disappeared.

  Corellon blinked in the sudden brightness and sidestepped the whir that announced Sahandrian’s triumphant descent. The sword thudded point-down into the ground before him.

  As the elf lord wiped his sword free of the blood and ichor and clinging soil, his thoughts lingered on the battles he had won. Gruumsh had been dealt a grave and lasting injury, Malar utterly vanquished and banished—at least for a time. These were feats that would be remembered in song, and woven into the fabric of a thousand legends.

  Yet Corellon found little pride in these victories and nothing of joy. Pressing hard upon him was the presentiment that what he had truly won this day was not glory but new and deadly enemies for his brother and sister gods and for their elven children.

  3

  Dark Tapestry

  raushnee made her way swiftly back to the heart of Arvandor, to the forest home she shared with her children by Corellon Larethian. Though she was returning home, the goddess was not in good spirits.

  She had witnessed the battle between Malar and Corellon through another of her magical globes. In the space of a single day, two of her chosen agents had failed to do away with the elven god. Once again Corellon had unwittingly blocked her progress toward her rightful place at the head of the elven pantheon.