The warrior found herself alone in a world of swirling gray mists. Distant cries and groans resounded through the dank air, but there was no sign of life except for the giant mushrooms that squatted in the sludge.
Suddenly the mist parted, revealing the tanar’ri Haeshkarr. With two of its hands, Haeshkarr held the struggling Anarallath slung over its shoulders, as a hunter might carry a slain deer. The creature lifted one of its free hands and pointed at Kethryllia.
“Kill her, then attend me,” it snarled to no one that Kethryllia could see. Knowledge of her foe wouldn’t have mattered, for the elf was already sprinting toward the tanar’ri. But the dense gray fog snapped shut around the demon and the captive elf like a cloak.
A hollow, hooting cry echoed directly over Kethryllia’s head. The warrior ducked as an eagle-sized creature burst from the sheltering mist in a flurry of wings.
She darted aside and squinted up into the foul mist. Six leering, winged creatures flapped overhead, circling her like ravens assessing the repast offered by a recent battlefield. Kethryllia drew her sword, slashing out as another of the imps dived at her. But the creature was agile enough to veer away before she could touch it. They continued like this, harrying her from all sides. It soon became clear to the elf that she could not overcome these creatures while they flew.
Kethryllia deliberately slowed her sword, missing parries and accepting a few hits from the creatures’ teeth and talons. As soon as she thought she could convince them she was bested, she crumbled and fell face forward onto the seething ground, her sword lying beside her limply curled fingers.
The imps landed and began circling her cautiously. One of them leaped forward and took an experimental rake at her hand with its talons. Kethryllia forced herself to stay absolutely still. Cackling with evil glee, the imps closed in to feed.
Kethryllia snatched up Dharasha and swung it around hard and low, using the momentum to pull herself into a sitting position. As the mighty sword circled, it cut through two of the startled creatures. The other imps squawked and started to flap away. But the elf continued her spin, coming to her feet as she went. By the time she’d circled three times, spiraling up with her sword as she went, five of the imps lay dead.
She leaped at the sole imp who had succeeded in taking flight, and just barely managed to seize its ankle. The thing was stronger than she’d anticipated and it pulled her sharply forward. They fell together, both of them landing face first in the sludge. But the imp was up in an instant, hobbling along at astonishing speed—and dragging the elf behind.
The warrior tried to bring her sword arm up and to bear, but the heavy sludge through which the imp dragged her kept it pinned to her side. She hooked her boots around a mushroom stem, hoping to slow the imp’s headlong flight. The fragile plant gave way immediately, sending a spray of stinging, foul-smelling spores into the air. Kethryllia’s eyes burned as painfully as if she’d caught a skunk’s blast full in the face.
Blinded, aching in every muscle, the Moon elf refused to let go. There was a chance she could subdue this imp and force it to bring her to its master. At the very least, she could destroy the tanar’ri’s minions and hope to draw its wrath upon herself. She was not sure how else she might find the tanar’ri and her love in this vast gray place.
Suddenly her arm jerked upright with a force that pulled it painfully loose from her shoulder. The imp had despaired of shaking her loose, and had once again taken flight.
Kethryllia still couldn’t see, but she knew where to swing. She scrambled to her feet, half-dragged upright by the desperately flapping imp, and swung Dharasha in a sweeping arc. There was a brief, terrible scream and then a flood of scalding ichor.
The elven warrior tossed aside the portion of the imp she still clutched and then staggered out of the steaming, foul-smelling puddle. She sheathed her sword rather than plunge it into the ground—for she did not trust the churning sludge beneath her feet not to snatch it from her—and began to tend her hurts.
First she clutched the shoulder with her good hand and forced the bone back into its proper place. The pain was intense, and the shoulder would be very sore for many days to come, but she needed whatever use of that arm she could muster for the battle ahead. That done, she groped in her bag for the healing potion that every elven warrior of Sharlarion carried. She pulled the stopper with her teeth and poured a small amount into one hand, then massaged it over the lids of her burning eyes.
She was aided by the terrible, numbing cold of the Abyss, which oddly seemed to ease the pain and speed the return of her vision. Or perhaps she was just noticing the cold now that her pain was receding. Whatever the case, the dank, vaguely chill air had suddenly taken on a wintry blast—and carried on the cold winds was a stench beyond anything Kethryllia had imagined possible.
Through the haze of her still-aching eyes, the warrior saw standing before her a beautiful, black-skinned elf, taller and more terrible than any mortal being and quivering with barely suppressed rage. Despite the cold, the elflike creature was dressed only in filmy black scarfs and a veritable dragon’s hoard of silver jewelry.
Standing in neat formation on either side of the goddess was a squadron of vacant-eyed elves, some of whom were badly rotted. Though all had once been black of skin, most of the creatures’ faces had faded to dry and dull gray. Green flesh, even bone, showed through where the dead skin had peeled away.
Kethryllia’s throat tightened with horror and dread as she considered these unnatural creatures. All of these undead elves were well armed, and though they would fight without passion, they would fight with all the skill they had known in life. Kethryllia had faced living dark elves before, and she knew just how formidable these skills could be.
The Moon elf turned to the tall dark elf and talked fast. “Great goddess, I have no quarrel with you or your warriors. I will leave your realms at once, if that is your wish—only first tell me where I might find the tanar’ri Haeshkarr.”
“Haeshkarr?” the elflike being echoed in a shrill, sulky voice. “He is a minion of Lloth. What business do you have with him?”
“Revenge,” Kethryllia said grimly, and was surprised to see the goddess’s scarlet eyes light up with insane glee.
Just as quickly, the light snapped out. “A mortal,” the dark elf sneered. “What use could you be to the great goddess Kiaranselee? Many desire vengeance, but few have the means or the will to achieve it!”
“Then let me prove myself,” the elf said calmly, for a plan was quickly formulating in her mind. “Send any three—any five—of your undead warriors against me. If I prevail against such as these, perhaps I might be of some value to you in your own vengeance against Lloth.”
It was a guess, but apparently a good one. The goddess clapped her hands in delight, then swept a pointing finger at several of her dark-elven slaves. “Kill her, kill her, kill her!” she shrilled at them.
Five of the zombies lifted their weapons and advanced on Kethryllia. The Moon elf drew her enchanted sword and lunged at the nearest undead. The creature blocked the strike with a jerky, yet precise parry. Kethryllia flung the enjoined blades high, then pivoted to the side and kicked out hard at the creature’s knees. The desiccated bone crumbled, and the undead creature went down. The elf brought Dharasha down in a sweeping backhand. The moment that the enchanted sword touched the undead dark elf, the creature dissolved into dust.
The goddess Kiaranselee shrieked, whether from rage or excitement Kethryllia could not say. Nor did she have time to ponder the matter. The Moon elf warrior blocked the high sweeping cut of another zombie’s sword, then spun back to parry the lunge from the undead who crept up behind her. She dropped low to the ground in a crouch, then brought down both of them with a deft leg-sweep. She stabbed first one, then the other creature, before either had the chance to rise.
The remaining pair of zombies rushed Kethryllia while she was down. She rolled aside, then rolled back, bringing the flat of her sword swinging over to smack th
e nearest undead. This one crumbled instantly, as well. The Moon elf leaped to her feet and faced off against the remaining dark-elven slave. In moments, it too lay at rest—if a drifting pile of foul-smelling dust could be considered eternal peace.
Breathing hard, Kethryllia faced down the dark-elven goddess. She knew that even at her best—rested and unhurt—she could never overcome five dark-elven fighters. But Dharasha had been enchanted to destroy undead creatures with a mere touch. It held no such power over the denizens of the Abyss. Kethryllia figured that the goddess didn’t need to know any of this.
The goddess of vengeance and the undead applauded. “Oh, well done, mortal! Not even the tanar’ri can overcome the best of my servants with such ease!”
Kethryllia lifted her sword to her forehead in a gesture of respect. “Then command me, and tell me how I might serve both your vengeance and my own.”
With a lightning change of mood, the goddess drew herself up into a regal pose. “Swear allegiance to me, first,” she demanded. “Follow me in life and beyond, and you will ever be first among my servants.”
The Moon elf hesitated—after all, Anarallath’s life was at stake. Though her first instinct was to agree to anything the obviously insane and undoubtedly evil goddess demanded, Kethryllia found that she could not.
“I am sworn to Corellon Larethian, the master of both magic and the fighting arts,” she said stoutly. “I will serve you as best I can in this matter alone, but I can swear allegiance to no other god.”
Amazingly enough, the flicker of temper in the goddess’s eyes did not erupt into full-scale wrath. “Corellon Larethian,” she repeated slyly. “Oh, how that will sting! Very well, mortal, I will tell you where Haeshkarr might be found. All that you need do in payment is this: with each tanar’ri you slay, proclaim that you do so in the name of your god!”
Lloth clutched at the armrests of her mushroom throne and gazed down into a scrying pool she had fashioned from black slime. She watched in rage and disbelief as a mortal elf cut her way through a horde of powerful tanar’ri. With each creature that fell, the elf woman proclaimed a victory for Corellon Larethian. And each victory was a dagger-thrust at Lloth’s pride.
Without noticing what she did, the beautiful tanar’ri slipped down from her throne to kneel at the edge of the pool, watching in disbelief as the flame-haired elf brought a single sword against the four matched weapons wielded by the mighty Haeshkarr—a tanar’ri that even Lloth herself did not command without a certain degree of diplomacy. Her nails dug deep into the muck as she watched the powerful creature fall—and the victorious elf woman fall into the arms of a mortal being whose golden beauty was far too reminiscent of Corellon himself.
Lloth’s first impulse was to seek out and slay the mortals who presumed to enter her realm. The desire to destroy this knight of Corellon was like a fever in her soul—the first true heat she had felt in this world of half-light and eternal despair for many, many years. But enough remained of the wily Araushnee to stay the tanar’ri’s hand—at least until she could ascertain how best to serve her own purposes.
Thoughtfully, Lloth watched as the elven lovers struck out in the direction from which the female had come. In time, they would find a gate back to their mortal home. If she did not hinder them, they would probably escape the Abyss. But, Lloth reasoned, they need not escape her.
The tanar’ri’s heart quickened as she considered the possibilities. She would follow this formidable champion of Corellon Larethian, and the male cleric whose purity of heart was an offending blot of light on the Abyssal landscape. If these elves were representative of the People they left behind, what better place to begin her vengeance against Corellon and his precious children?
Lloth’s lips curved in a smile. And where there were elves, there were potential worshipers. She had little hope of corrupting such elves as these she had seen this day, but did not even the evil and insane Kiaranselee have her followers? Lloth would follow the elven lovers to whatever world they called home, and see if she might stake out a claim there.
The goddess once again consulted the scrying pool. In it she conjured the image of the red-haired warrior and the golden male she had rescued. Lloth watched as the pair emerged triumphant into a ravaged forest, as they waded through the carnage left in the wake of the tanar’ri Haeshkarr. Lloth was intrigued—she had not known that her minion demon had such interesting toys at his disposal as rampaging orc hordes. The destruction they had visited upon the elves was most gratifying. Lloth remembered Malar, and the Great Hunter’s desire to gather to him orcish worshipers. She wondered how he’d fared, and whether it might not be time to visit him once again.
As she viewed the world, Lloth felt the tug of a familiar presence. Dimly, she recognized it as the one elven god from whom she was not entirely estranged by her new nature as tanar’ri—her son, Vhaeraun. Curious now, she commanded the scrying globe to seek out the young god’s territory.
The scene changed from the trampled elven forest to a city that surrounded a long, narrow bay. Here also was war, but war at its beginning rather than its grim conclusion. The goddess watched with intense interest as hordes of dark-skinned elves readied for battle. A delicious tang of evil was in the air, a weave of dark magic that centered on a single elven male.
Lloth gazed with interest upon the leader of the ready army, a dark elf called Ka’Narlist. Though he looked young and vital, Lloth sensed that he was an ancient being, sustained long past the normal years of an elf by the force of his magic. The source of this incredible power fascinated Lloth: The wizard wore a cunningly woven vest fashioned of chain mail and dark pearls—each of which contained the essence and magic of a slain Sea elf. Delightful, this elf!
The goddess eased her way into his thoughts, and found that his mind was not barricaded against such as she. What she read there was grim enough: Ka’Narlist was utterly rapacious and powerful enough to feel himself able to indulge his desires without qualm or restraint. What he wanted now was power—magical power, and the power that came with conquering and subjugating the fair races of elves—but his ultimate goal required nearly the power of a god. He was vain enough to believe it within his grasp.
Lloth rather liked him.
She smiled as she beheld the ancient, resourceful wizard. She approved of his ambitions, and she eyed with interest the things he offered: a powerful army ready and eager to crush the fair elves, magic that fell just short of godhood, followers that might well become hers. That she would snatch him from his current devotion to Ghaunadar added hugely to his appeal.
A shimmer of anger passed through the dark goddess at the thought of the Elemental Evil, but this time her ire was directed at herself rather than some other being. While she had busied herself carving a vast domain from the Abyss, her conquered subjects had found more interesting things to do elsewhere.
No more. Before her, Lloth saw possibilities far more to her liking than tormenting the creatures of the Abyss. The dark elf Ka’Narlist was a being she could truly enjoy. Perhaps it was time that she take a new consort. She had no doubt that he would accept her joyfully—they were as like each other as two dark pearls. She might even bear children to him, and why not? She would not be the first god to be tempted by a mortal, nor was she likely to be the last. And the children they might spawn—ah, the possibilities of breeding such delicious evil into a race of elves! Such elves would trample Corellon’s children, conquering the world and breeding worshipers for Lloth, followers she could claim with pride!
Ka’Narlist’s dark and vaulting ambitions set new flame to her own. Lloth would be a goddess once again. She who once had spun the thread of the dark elves’ destiny felt that her hands were set once again to the loom of fate.
The scene in her scrying globe changed again, returning to the forest and the pair of elven lovers. With a cynical smile, Lloth observed as the survivors of the elven settlement lauded the warrior and her lover as heroes.
There was little that Lloth enjo
yed more than dark irony. More satisfying than hatred, more subtle than vengeance, here it was before her, and in plenty! What would these elves think, she wondered, if they knew what eyes had followed their beloved Kethryllia to their forest home? If they knew what evil the flame-haired warrior’s courage and devotion had unleashed among them?
Even as the thought formed, Lloth felt a familiar pulse of evil emanate from the scrying pool. She reached out for it, seeking the source. An ancient dagger in Kethryllia’s weapon belt pulsed with subtle, malevolent energy.
After a startled moment, the goddess recognized the source of that evil: the dagger had been sent north by Ka’Narlist himself, several centuries past. He had waited with rare patience until someone had found the hidden dagger, and had worn it in respect for the honorable elf who once owned it. And Ka’Narlist, sensing the energy, prepared his warriors to march in conquest. Irony upon irony!
Lloth threw back her head and laughed with dark delight. Ah, but she had chosen her new consort well! For once, she did not begrudge Sehanine Moonbow or Angharradh their place at Corellon Larethian’s side. She, Lloth, had found a mate much more to her liking!
9
The Sundering
enturies passed, centuries during which the children of Lloth preyed with increasing strength and ferocity upon the children of Corellon. Such was the force of their enmity that the fair races of elves, Gold and Silver and Green, set aside their constant rivalries to seek a combined deliverance from their dark elven foes.
They gathered in the very heartland of Faerûn by the hundreds, the High Magi of the elven people. All the fair races of elves—except for the sea folk, whose magic had long ago dwindled almost to nothing—sent the best and most powerful of their mages to the Gathering Place.
Upon a broad plain, a place set aside long ago for this use, the elven mages met to prepare for the greatest spellcasting any of them had ever known. On the land surrounding this place, farm villages and a trading community had grown with the sole purpose of preparing for and supporting this event. The elves of Gathering Place—for so it had been known since the childhood of the most ancient elves still walking in mortal form—had made this day their life’s work. Though there were hundreds of magi, each found a carefully-prepared welcome that would do honor to a Seldarine avatar.
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