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 sounded 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 all 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.
