Evermeet: Island of Elves

8

The gray sludge that covered the Abyss suddenly bulged into a large bubble, which popped and sent sulphurous steam and globs of foul-smelling muck spewing into the dank air. The being who had once been the goddess Araushnee dodged the splatter instinctively, not giving the eruption so much as a thought. She was accustomed to such things by now, for the Abyss had been her home for a very long time.

Like most tanar'ri, she had taken a new name. She was now Lloth, Demon Queen of the Abyss. Or, to be more precise, she had conquered a considerable portion of the Abyss, and was considered to be one of the most powerful tanar'ri in that gray world. Entire leagues of the fearful creatures trembled before her and hastened to do her bidding.

Lloth's dominion encompassed not only the denizens of the Abyss, but also some of the gods who had come to this place either by choice or exile. Her struggle with Ghaunadar had been long and bitter.

The Elemental Evil was not one of the gods whom she had recruited in her attempt to oust Corellon; he had come to Olympus unbidden, drawn by Araushnee's ambitions and her vaulting pride, granted entrance by the seething evil within her heart. Her fall from Arvandor had delighted Ghaunadar, for he desired the restless energy that was Araushnee, and wished to assimilate her into himself.

The ancient god had followed her from Olympus into the Abyss, and he had tried to woo and then to conquer-and he had failed at both. In his rage, Ghaunadar had slain many of his most powerful worshipers, and robbed others of their sentience. Entire species of beings were no more, others were reduced to sluglike creatures without thought or will. And in doing so, Ghaunadar destroyed much of his own power, as well.

This he blamed on Lloth. He was her enemy now, and a rival in all things. Yet even such as he, an ancient god, had to acknowledge Lloth's greater power. Nor was he the only deity to do so-even that wretched Kiaranselee gave homage to the Demon Queen.

Lloth cast a disgusted glance toward the corner of the Abyss where the goddess of the undead held sway. Kiaranselee was a dark elf, like herself, though she called herself "drow." Her followers were pitiful shadows of the creatures they once had been, evil elves from an ancient world whom Kiaranselee had slain and made into unthinking minions. When she was not on distant worlds bedeviling her drow children, Kiaranselee was content to rule in her frigid corner of the Abyss. She demurred to Lloth because she had no choice in the matter. In this place, the former goddess of dark-elven destiny ruled.

And so it was that she who had been Araushnee had come to possess everything that she once thought she wanted: power beyond imagining, a kingdom of her own, gods kneeling before her, mighty creatures trembling at her whims.

Lloth stifled a yawn.

It was all so predictable, the Abyss. She had conquered, and she reigned, and she was so bored that she had once or twice been tempted to try to strike up a conversation with some of Kiaranselee's undead minions. She had power, but found it did not satisfy her cravings.

"I curse you, Corellon, you and yours," Lloth murmured, as she had so often over the many centuries that had passed since her banishment.

The darkly beautiful tanar'ri sank onto a throne which her minions had carved from a giant, desiccated mushroom. Propping her chin in her hands, she once again pondered her fate.

None of the power that Lloth had gained in the Abyss could amend for her lost status. She was no longer even a goddess, but a tanar'ri. Her form was more comely and her power was greater than most of the creatures that inhabited this place, but she was not what she had been. No amount of power in this gray, mushroom-infested plane would erase Corellon's unpaid debt.

Suddenly Lloth sat upright, her crimson eyes blazing with inspiration. Of course! Now that power was hers, she would reclaim her godhood. The way to this goal had been blazed by Ghaunadar himself; the Ancient One was seeking new worshippers so that he might rebuild his power. Why could she not do the same?

As a tanar'ri, Lloth could never return to Olympus. Even as a goddess, she might never amass the power or find the opportunity to enter Arvandor as a conqueror. But she would strike at the Seldarine where she could.

She would destroy their mortal children.

Centuries had passed since the death of the great mage Durothil, and the passing of master dragonrider Sharlario Moonflower into Arvandor. Their descendants no longer spoke of Faerie, except as a place of legend. Faerun was truly their home, and they had built a wondrous culture that owed to all the worlds from which their ancestors had fled.

Some of the forest folk lived as they had for centuries untold, but many elves drew away from the ways of the forest to build themselves cities that rivaled even fabled Atorrnash for splendor. Hidden among the trees and clinging to the mountains were marvelous dwellings of crystal and moonstone, streets paved with precious stones, and communities of artisans, scholars, musicians, mages and warriors. These elves produced marvelous works of beauty, magical weapons, and dazzling skills in the fighting arts.

In these centers of learning, the art of High Magic thrived. The Circles were established-small bands of powerful High Magi who together could cast spells beyond the imagining of any solitary elf. Each Circle was based in a tower, which quickly became the focal point of any elven community. One of the more immediately useful functions of the towers was the ability to send communications swiftly from one elven enclave to another, preventing the communities from becoming isolated. Despite the growing problems with the Ilythiiri in the south, it appeared as if the People of Faerun would achieve remarkable unity.

But this very wealth and power drew many new dangers upon the elves. Dark-elven raiders from the south foraged northward, attacking trade routes and farming villages. Some of these raiders settled in the far north, hiding in caves by day, and coming out to strike under the cover of darkness.

Dragon attacks continued, though between High Magic and the dragonriders, the elves were showing promise of supplanting the dragons as Faerun's dominant race. But it was not the powerful magic of the south or the might of dragons that the elves had most to fear: Their most dangerous enemy had become the orcs.

For many years, orcs attacked like the rogue wolves that from time to time stole a goat from a remote pasture. The orcs struck at the elves whenever they happened upon them. Most elven communities, even tiny farm settlements, were more than equipped with arms and magic-and the skills in both-to turn back these occasional attacks.

But orcs were nothing if not prolific. From time to time, their numbers grew so great that their clans spilled out of their highland lairs to form a horde that swept like locusts over the land, devoured everything before them.

In the autumn of the Year of Singing Sirens, the orcs marched in numbers greater than the elves had ever seen. They overran the northland plains and plunged deep into the forests. The city of Occidian-that great center of elven music and dance-was conquered and the orcs pressed on to the very gates of the ancient city Sharlarion.

At that time, Durothil's Keep was held by the archmage Kethryllia. This warrior-mage was also known as Amarillis, the high elven word for "Flame-Flower"-partly for her red-haired beauty, and partly for the searing anger she loosed in battle.

Like many of the elves, Kethryllia studied many arts during her long life, but concentrated her skills upon a single great work. For decades, this work had been the forging and enchanting of a great sword. Just two nights past, in a rite that gathered starlight and magic upon the mountaintop plateau known as Dragonriders' Leap, she had completed her task. For years, the mystics had been predicting that this sword, Dharasha-"destiny"-would play an important role in the history of the People.

What better task than this, the protection of their city?

In her tower, Kethryllia heard the desperate murmurs of her people, and their frantic preparation for war. Their skill at arms was their last defense, for the Tower of Magi stood empty and silent. The Circle had bonded with their distant brother and sister magi of Occidian's Tower to aid and support their defense of that city. But the orcs and their unknown allies had inexplicably broken through the magical wards, and the Occidian Tower had been shattered. The magical backlash had slain the High Magi of Sharlarion, as well. Thus it was that the elves were left to depend on their weapons and battle-magic, and upon those whose skills in such matters were proven and renown. Kethryllia Amarillis was chief among these-songs and legends of her exploits followed her like shadows.

In her centuries of life, the Moon elf warrior had helped turn back orc hordes, had battled bands of dark-elven raiders, and helped her people track and slay a green dragon that bedeviled travelers to their forest city. She had even stood against dark sorcery-that which could raise the dead into mindless, nearly unstoppable warriors. Kethryllia had lost her sister, and very nearly her own life, to the tireless swords of a zombie host. Her response to all these evils was the power of the enchantments she placed upon Dharasha. It was time to put the weapon's powers to the test.

But it had been many years since Kethryllia had been in battle. Of late she had been thinking that perhaps it was time to settle down, to raise a clan before the call to Arvandor grew too strong for her to ignore.

Kethryllia's lips curved in a smile as she thought of Anarallath, the light-hearted cleric of Labelas Enoreth with whom she shared a bond stronger than friendship or passion, though certainly there were those things between them as well. It was time that they were wed. She was no longer young, even as elves consider matters of youth, though she was still as lithe and flame-haired as she had been as a maiden. It was time and past time that they formalized their love.

As Kethryllia prepared for battle, she gave no thought to the possibility that their bonds of love might be broken this day, and that the clan she hoped to found might die unborn.

The elf woman quickly dressed herself in padded leather armor, over which she placed a long vest fashioned of tiny bronze and silver plates, a wondrous armor that was nearly as flexible as mail, and that paid homage to the bronze and silver dragons who served as guardians of the city. But the dragonriders, Sharlarion's second-strongest defense, were far to the south, where a pair of mated black dragons ravaged the countryside to create new territory for their maturing brood.

The High Magi were dead, the dragonriders gone. This fight belonged to Kethryllia, and she found that she was eager for it. She thrust her sword into its new scabbard and tucked knives into sheathes set into her boots and strapped to her forearms. On impulse, she picked up an ancient dagger-a wonderful jeweled weapon that she had recently discovered wrapped and warded and stored in a chest in a far corner of Durothil Keep. Legend suggested that it was once owned by one of their city's founders. She would carry it now, in defense of the city and the legacy that Sharlario Moonflower had left behind. Thus prepared, she tucked her flaming braids under a winged helmet and strode out into the courtyard.

The city was strangely silent, though nearly every elf who lived within it was ready for battle and in position. They stood in disciplined formation. First, a vast shield-wall of elves formed a barrier beyond the perimeters of the city-Sharlarion had no walls of stone or timber, for it melded with the forest. Behind the first defense stood the archers. The ground before them bristled with ready arrows, and their quivers were as large and full as a farmer's basket at harvestide. Immediately behind the archers were elves armed with swords and spears. This group would quickly dispatch any orcs who managed to break through. The next ring of defenders were wielders of magic-not High Magi, but formidable nonetheless. Clerics stood ready to tend the wounded, and even the children moved with quiet efficiency: bringing buckets of water, crushing herbs for poultices, rolling bandages.

Kethryllia nodded as she surveyed the battle-ready elves. She took her place among the fighters, and with them listened to the rumbling, ominous crescendo of the orc horde's approach.

When the first of the orcs came into sight, a murmur of consternation rippled through the elves. The orcs marched boldly down the trade route in precise and orderly fashion. Keeping pace alongside them were other squadrons, who kept as tight a formation as the thick foliage allowed.

This was unusual behavior for orcs. It was apparent to Kethryllia, who knew firsthand of horde tactics, that some greater intelligence was directing their movements. And since orcs respected brute strength far more than they did intelligence, it was likely that their unknown commanders possessed a formidable amount of both.

For the first time, Kethryllia's confidence in the battle's outcome began to waver.

The orcs came to a sudden stop. There was a flurry of movement back in their ranks, but none of the elves could discern its cause. Suddenly a harsh thud resounded through the trees. With a whine and hiss, an enormous flaming arrow soared up over the heads of the orcs and descended in an arc toward the city.

"A ballista," Kethryllia muttered in disbelief. The orcs were barely beginning to manage the simple long bows they copied from their elven foe. Where did they learn of such weapons?

Fortunately, the elven wizards had expected fire arrows-albeit, a considerably smaller version. A pale-haired female pointed her crystal staff at the oncoming blaze and shrieked a single word. White fire flashed from the staff and leaped up to meet red. The ballista's flame was frozen instantly; the weapon hung in the air for a moment, glowing like a giant magical torch fashioned of amber and ruby. It fell to shatter harmlessly against the paved courtyard of an elven dwelling.

More flaming arrows followed, with the same result. When it became apparent to the attackers that this tactic was availing them nothing, a horrid, rumbling command rolled out over the orc horde. Scores of the bestial creatures broke into a screaming charge.

The elves' shield-wall dipped, and archers sent a storm of arrows into the oncoming ranks. Deadly accurate were their arrows, and the orcs were cut down like grain before a scythe.

Wave after wave of orcs came on, only to be felled by the elven archers. Soon the attackers were climbing over a thick carpet of the slain, only to fall themselves. So vast were the numbers of dead orcs that soon the elves who formed the shield wall were forced to fall back toward the city.

Kethryllia frowned as she watched the continuing slaughter. Despite the number of orcs who lay on the forest floor, many remained to carry on the attack. It occurred to her that the elves might well be defeated by their own success.

The piles of corpses were hemming them in, pushing the elven defenders back into the city itself. It would not be long before the outer buildings were within the reach of the orcs. Once the invaders captured the outer buildings, they could easily overrun the city, for most of the buildings were connected by intricate walkways that wove a nearly invisible web through the trees.

Moreover, the grisly wall was impeding the archers' effectiveness. The elves could no longer see their targets, but were shooting blind up over the heaps of slain orcs in hope that the falling arrows might find a mark. The clank of arrows against unseen wood and leather shields suggested that this tactic was not meeting with much success.

Suddenly Kethryllia understood the horde's strategy. The orcs were deliberately using their brothers' bodies as a bridge to victory. Soon, they would swarm over the top of the pile in numbers that the elven archers simply could not decimate.

Well, the elves would simply have to beat them to it.

Kethryllia lifted her sword high. "To me!" she shouted. "To me, all who would take the fight into orcish ranks!"

There was a moment of stunned silence as the fighters regarded the apparently suicide-bound warrior. Then Anarallath shouldered his way through the clerics and came to stand at her side.

She gave her love an incredulous look-he was no coward, but neither was he trained for such fighting. Anarallath smiled and shrugged.

"Perhaps I grow homesick for Arvandor," he said with forced lightness. Then his face grew deadly serious, and he lifted his voice to carry out over the ranks of the elven warriors. "If we do not fight, all of us, then Arvandor will be the only home remaining to our People!"

Anarallath's words galvanized the fighters, and they came as one to stand with the Silver elf warrior. If an unarmed cleric had the courage to charge an orc horde, they could do no less. Which, Kethryllia suspected, was precisely what Anarallath intended.

The elven priest cast a smug grin at his love as he accepted a short sword from one of the fighters. "Well, Flame-Flower, will you lead this charge, or shall I?"

"We go together," she said with deep gratitude. Then, because she could not resist teasing him in kind, she added, "But do try to keep up."

Anarallath's laughter was lost in Kethryllia's ringing battle cry. The Moon elf warrior scrambled up the wall of fallen orcs and flung herself into the next wave of attackers.

This development startled the orcs and halted their headlong charge. But it was only for a moment-the creatures' fangs bared in fierce grins as they came at the elven warriors with renewed vigor. Orcs enjoyed killing elves in any number of ways, but few things were as satisfying to them as hand-to-hand combat.

The nimble elves darted and spun amid the churning melee, making several hits for every one the much-slower orcs managed to land. Kethryllia seemed to be everywhere, her great sword flashing as it turned aside the battle-axes of her foe. And where she went, so did Anarallath. He was not as skilled a fighter as she, but the mind-and-soul rapport the lovers shared enabled them to work together as smoothly as if they were Tower-trained magi melded together in the casting of a single spell.

But as the battle raged on and on, Kethryllia began to wonder if this had been a wise strategy, after all. The elven warriors were pinned between the dead orcs and the host of attackers. Fortunately, the orcs' own vast numbers seemed to work against them. So eager were they to engage their elven foes that they all but clambered over the orcs in front of them to get at their preferred opponents. As often as not, their axes and swords bit into orcish flesh-either by accident, or in sheer impatience.

At long last, the battle was over. Most of the elven defenders had fallen, and only a few score of orcs remained of the hundreds who had marched upon Sharlarion. These survivors fled noisily into the forest.

"May you be greeted by the teeth of the Iythari," Kethryllia muttered as she sheathed her sword.

It was then that she saw the orcs' commander. A darkness that she had taken to be a forest shadow broke free of the thick foliage and rose to a height twice that of an elf. The creature's horned head had a face that reminded Kethryllia of a slavering, battle-mad wild boar. Its massive body was shaped like that of an orc, but an extra pair of muscled arms erupted from its hairless torso. Wings like those of a gigantic bat sprung from its shoulders. Except for a pair of burning crimson eyes, the creature was the dull and lifeless color of desiccated wood.

A roar more terrible than that of a dragon broke from the Abyssal creature, and it lifted its two pairs of taloned hands in preparation for a magical attack. "You have not yet defeated Haeshkarr!" the creature rumbled.

This, Kethryllia had not anticipated. As the warrior stood in stunned indecision, Anarallath shouted for his brother and sister clerics to join him. He darted forward, brandishing his holy symbol of Labelas Enoreth and chanting the most powerful spell of banishment known to the priests of Sharlarion.

One by one, the priests took up the chant. Under their combined assault, the forest behind the tanar'ri seemed to dissolve into a swirling maelstrom of gray mist. The massive figure of the creature began to waver, then faded into a translucent haze that was sucked inexorably toward the swirling mist.

The tanar'ri Haeshkarr shrieked with fury as it was pulled back into the gate. With a sudden surge, almost too fast even for elven eyes to follow, it lunged forward and seized the priest who had defeated him. Then just as quickly, both fiend and Anarallath were gone.

Without thought or hesitation, Kethryllia exploded into action. She ran like a deer for the fading gate and dived headlong into the Abyss.

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 the 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 enjoyed 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!