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.
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,
