Elaine Cunningham - Forgotten Realms - Evermeet

Evermeet: Island of Elves

Elaine Cunningham

27th day of Eleint, 1367DR

To the esteemed scholar, Athol of Candlekeep, does Danilo Thann, his erstwhile and

unworthy student, send greetings.

My old friend, it is with enormous satisfaction that I take up quill and parchment to begin

an endeavor that may, in some small measure, begin to justify the care and effort you once

lavished upon my education. I thank you for that, and for your offer of assistance in my new

effort. It is my desire to gather some of the tales told by sages and bards, warriors and rulers, and

fashion them into something resembling a history of the elven island of Evermeet. Without your

aid and introduction, I would not presume to approach the mighty, the famous—and the

well-armed. Those who do not know me would surely hes-itate to contribute to so ambitious an

undertaking. As for those who do know me . . . well, suffice it to say the damage is done. Perhaps

the mantel of your fine reputa-tion will enable me to reap credibility where none was sown.

What, you may ask, possesses me to set my hand to so daunting a task as this, a history of

Evermeet? My reasons are threefold.

I believe that the lessons taught by elven history have not yet been learned. Though the

wondrous island of Evermeet seems inviolate, is it truly so much different from Illefarn,

Keltormir, or Cormanthyr? Once, these great centers of elven culture seemed eternal; now they

are merely legend. What then may we expect for Evermeet and the elves who have made the

island their home and their hope? I pray that my views hold more pessimism than prophecy;

nevertheless, change occurs, often when we are least ready for it. In my short career as a bard, I

have observed that facts usually serve only to obscure the truth. Truth, when it can be found at

all, is more likely to be heard when it is pre-sented in stories and song.

You are also aware of my long fascination with all things elven. You may recall that you

enjoyed a brief respite from my lamentable magical pranks whenever your lessons focused upon

the fey folk. Shortly after you retired from your post as my tutor, having expressed your desire to

regain your peace of mind and regrow your eyebrows and beard—for which loss I heartily

apologize (upon my word, that ink was supposed to glow in the dark, not explode when exposed to

candlelight!) I took upon myself the study of Elvish. In the years since, I have achieved a level of

flu-ency that will allow me to read any histories, lorebooks, and letters you can send me. Rest

assured I will treat them with far greater care than I showed my mother the Lady Cas-sandra's

lorebooks, and that I shall return them to Candlekeep without the bawdy asides and small

charcoal sketches that filled the margins of those books—save of course for those that dealt with

elven legend and lore. Even then, I rec-ognized and respected the unique magic of such tales.

My final reason is the most deeply personal. Through the blessings of the gods (which

gods, precisely, remains to be ascertained) I am soon to wed an elf woman of royal blood—and

mixed race. Her greatest sorrow, and therefore mine, is that she has been denied her elven

heritage. While this history cannot restore her birthright to her, it is the only such gift within my

power to give. My lady has little use for anything my wealth can purchase. The things she values

cannot be found in the bazaars of Waterdeep, and are, alas, in scant supply elsewhere: honor,

courage, tradi-tion. As I undertake this work, I keep ever before me an image of this true

daughter of Evermeet, whom I love dearly for her elven ways—and despite them.

A contradiction, you think? So would have I, before I came to know Arilyn. My lady is

capable of inspiring admiration and exasperation in great and equal measure. I suspect that the

story of her ancestors may hold true to this pattern. Yet I will follow the story of Evermeet's elves

wheresoever it may lead, as faithfully as lies within my powers. This I swear to you by the Mystery

I hold most dear—that the fairest and bravest of these wondrous, frus-trating beings could love a

man such as I.

I remain respectfully yours in the service of truth, story and song,

Danilo Thann

Prelude

The Edge of Twilight

1371DR

High above the waters of the Trackless Sea, a silver dragon wheeled, soared, and danced upon

the crisp thin air. For many centuries had the dragon lived, and never had she found a pleasure to rival the

sheer joy of flight—the rush of the wind and the delightful tingle of ice crystals against her scales.

As she soared over a narrow gap in the cloud cover, she noted that she was not the only creature

to take flight on this glorious autumn day. Far below, a flock of white-winged seabirds skimmed over the

waves. Seabirds?

The dragon pulled up, startled. There was no land for many, many miles—how could a flock of

such size sustain itself so far out to sea? Curious, she tucked in her wings and went into a stooping dive.

Down she hurtled, plunging through the mist and damp of the clouds. Out of habit, the dragon stretched

wide her wings just before she broke through the cloud bank, pulling out of the dive and then circling

around in the thin mist to slow her momentum. Staying hidden among the clouds was most likely an

unnecessary precaution, for even the sharpest-eyed seabird would see the dragon, if he saw her at all, as

noth-ing more than a silver speck. But the dragon was a Guardian; it was her task to see and not be

seen. The dragon peered down at the strange flock. At this height she could see that it comprised not

birds after all, but ships. A vast fleet of ships, sailing due west—sailing for Evermeet.

"I could attack," the dragon whispered longingly, yet she knew she could not. There were far too

many ships, for one thing, and her duty in such matters was clear. She wheeled toward the west, her

glittering wings thumping as she climbed back up to the cold, dry air above the clouds. There she could

fly more swiftly.

And fly she must, with all the speed that the magic of dragonflight lent her. The dragon had been

Evermeet's guardian for nearly as many years as Queen Amlaruil had been its ruler. During her

centuries-long vigil the dragon had seen hundreds of ships attempt the passage to Ever-meet. Most lay

rotting on the ocean floor. But this flock, this fleet, was an invasion force of devastating strength. The

dragon could see no other explanation for so many ships—not even during the height of the elven Retreat

did so many ships band together at once. If even a tenth of them managed to get past the island's

safeguards, they might do considerable damage to Evermeet's defenders.

The dragon sped toward the elven island, her mind reaching out desperately across the miles to

search for the mind of her elven partner, so that she might warn him of the approaching danger.

Silence. Darkness.

There was a moment's disbelief—after all, Shonassir Durothil was a formidable warrior, one of

the finest Wind-riders in all Evermeet. Many times had the dragon con-tacted him, even from so far a

distance. If the elf did not answer, it was because he could not. Shonassir was dead; of that, the dragon

was grimly certain. She did not wish to contemplate the severity of battle, the manner of foe that could

send a warrior such as Shonassir Durothil to Arvandor before his time of consent.

The dragon muttered the words of a spell that would speed her flight to the elven homeland. In

moments, the cloud mass below her sped by in a white blur. But fast as she was, the dragon had reason

to fear that she might already be too late.

When Shonassir Durothil died, he had been on Evermeet itself.

High above the deck of Rightful Place, unmindful of the dragon sentinel passing swiftly

overhead, a young sailor clung to the rail of the crow's nest and peered out over the endless waves.

Kaymid No-Beard, his mates called him, for his visage was indeed as smooth as a newly laid

egg. But young though he was, this was his third voyage, and he was proud of his place on this vessel, the

flagship of a mighty invasion force. Even better, as watchman Kaymid might be the first to catch a

glimpse of Evermeet's fabled defenses.

This thought sent a tingle of excitement racing down the young sailor's spine. He had no thought

of fear, for how could they fail? Kaymid knew a secret, a wonderful and dangerous secret that in his

mind spelled certain victory. This adventure would climax in a glorious victory, and then he would claim

his share of treasure and elven wenches. The battles that lay ahead would only whet his appetite for both.

"Soon," Kaymid murmured eagerly, remembering the tavern-told legends. According to those

sailors who had sur-vived such a voyage—which is to say, those who had turned back—the elven

defenses began in earnest a fortnight's sail west of Nimbral. This time was nearly up.

Kaymid intently scanned the sea, his eyes seizing every detail: the long, flickering shadow that the

ship's mast cast over the waves behind them, the leap and splash of a pair of dolphins at play, the sailor

asleep on the deck below, his bald head pillowed on a coil of rope. Kaymid would see everything, miss

nothing.As if to mock his proud thoughts, an island leaped into view, appearing as suddenly as if it had

been pulled from a wizard's bag. Beyond he saw a second island, and then another—there was a vast

archipelago of them! And between the islands, jagged rocks thrust out of the sea like the tombstones of a

thousand unwary ships.

"Danger! Danger, straight ahead!" Kaymid shouted down in a voice made shrill by sudden fear.

"Land, rocky shoals!"

On the deck below, the captain waved acknowledgment and untied his spyglass from his belt,

although more for protocol's sake than from any faith in young Kaymid's enthusiasms. Captain Blethis

was the son of a sailor and grandson of a pirate. The sea sang in his blood; it had been his home for

nearly all of his forty-odd years. He could read the patterns in the stars and the winds as well as any man

alive. No, by his reckoning Rightful Place was hard out to sea and days from any shore. He'd stake his

share of elven treasure on that.

Blethis raised the glass. He recoiled, blinked, then squinted intently at the image it revealed. Sure

enough, there was land ahead, a barrier even more dangerous than young Kaymid's warning suggested.

The slanting rays of the afternoon sun set the islands aflame: The patches of sand were the color of pale

roses, the rocks a deadly garden of sunset reds and oranges.

"A coral reef so far north?" Blethis muttered in disbe-lief. Spinning on his heel, he roared to his

crew to turn hard to the north.

"Belay those orders."

The words were softly spoken, yet some fey magic car-ried them to every corner of the ship. The

deckhands hes-itated at their work, torn between the danger ahead—now visible to them all—and their

awe of the speaker.

A lithe, slender figure emerged from the hold, draped in a cloak against the chill winds and the

sting of the sea spray. "Sail on," he said calmly, addressing the helmsman who stood frozen at the wheel.

"There is no need to alter our course."

"No need?" Blethis echoed incredulously. "That coral can shear through ships faster than dwarven

axes could slice cheese!"

"You yourself have pointed out the unlikelihood of such a coral reef in these cold waters," the

cloaked figure replied. "It is merely an illusion."

The captain raised his glass for another look at the formidable barrier. "Looks solid enough.

You're certain it's not?"

"Entirely certain. We sail on. Have the bosun relay the message to the other ships."

Captain Blethis balked, then shrugged and did as he was told. In doing so he risked all that he

had—his position, his share of the plunder, his very life—but he suspected his imperious passenger had

as much at stake and more.

Although captain of the vessel, Blethis was little more than a hired hand. The ship he commanded

belonged to the elf—in fact, as far as Blethis could figure, all the ships in the fleet belonged to him.

The elf. It still amazed Blethis that an elf would lead an invasion force against his own kin.

Although, come to think of it, men were quick enough to fight amongst them-selves. It shouldn't surprise

him to learn that elves weren't much different, but it did. There were several elves on this ship, for that

matter, and more on several of the others. As far as Blethis could tell, they were all dead set upon

over-throwing the ruling queen and taking over the island themselves. Which was fine with Blethis, since

these par-ticular elves were willing to share the spoils of war—and the glory of conquest—with their

human allies.

Provided, of course, that any of them survived the voyage. The captain strode to the bow and

watched in silence as the ship closed in on the coral reef. Some of the crew, trust-ing the evidence of

their own eyes over the assurances of the mysterious elf lord, leaped over the rail to take their chances

swimming ashore.

"Leave them," the elf commanded. "They will under-stand their folly soon enough, and the other

ships will pick them up as they pass through."

Blethis nodded absently, his eyes fixed on the swiftly approaching rocks. Instinctively he braced

himself for the first grating jolt of contact with the unseen coral shelf, but it did not come. Scarcely

breathing, he stood tense and watchful as the helmsman steered the ship in a weaving course between the

blood-colored rocks, touching none. Touching nothing. It was a feat of seamanship that Blethis would not

have believed possible had he not witnessed it.

It was also effort wasted. In moments the first of the islands lay directly before them, a hopelessly

rocky shore above which loomed a thick tangle of foliage. They were close enough to smell the thick,

earthy scent of the loamy soil and the deep, complex perfume of growing things. A large insect flew

soundlessly by. Blethis instinctively swatted and missed.

Suddenly a weird, undulating hoot pierced the tense silence, rolling out of the dense forest toward

them in chill-ing waves. The call was quickly echoed by other crea-tures—large creatures, judging from

the sound—whose trumpeting roars seemed thick with hungry anticipation.

Blethis shuddered. He'd heard such cries before, long ago, when his ship sailed too near the

shores of Chult's jungles. If the elf was wrong, if the ship went aground on this brutal coastline, all of them

were deader than day-old mackerel.

To the captain's astonishment and utter relief the ship passed through the cove and the rocks,

flowing right into the "forest" beyond as easily as it might slice through mist. The colors of the coral

formations and the lush green foliage played over the ship and the stunned sailors as they glided through

the illusion.

Blethis held up one hand and regarded the shifting pat-terns upon it. He remembered a long-ago

moment when as a child he had stood in the base of a rainbow and watched the colors splash over his

bare feet. This barrier reef, for all its formidable appearance, was no more substantial than that rainbow.

"So much for Evermeet's defenses," he murmured.

The elf's only response was a thin smile.

"Storm ahead!" sang down the young watchman. "Coming this way, and coming fast!"

This time Blethis had no need to raise his glass. The storm swept toward them with preternatural

speed. Scant moments after Kaymid sounded the alarm, angry purple clouds filled the sky and hurled

lightning bolts at sudden-ly skittish waves.

A whirling cone descended from the clouds. More fol-lowed, until a score of them had touched

down upon the sea. The water churned wildly as hungry clouds plundered the waves, and the funnels

swiftly became darker and more powerful with the force of the swirling waters within. Like a pack of

hunting wolves, the waterspouts began to circle the fleet.

"Tell me this is another illusion, elf," Blethis implored. "The storm is all too real," the elf said,

pulling the folds of his cloak tighter about him. "Sail on."

The ship's mate, a burly pirate whose face had taken on a pale, greenish hue that belied his

Calishite heritage, lurched over to clutch the captain's arm. "We've had enough, Blethis. All of us. Give

the order to turn about!"

Blethis read certain mutiny in the pirate's eyes. "Remem-ber the treasure!" he exhorted. The mate,

he knew, gambled at cards, dice, gaming cocks, and the gods only knew what else. His luck with all of

them was monumentally bad; he owed ruinous amounts to people who spared no means to collect debts

owed them. This voyage, Blethis knew, was nothing less than the man's last chance at survival.

"Treasure's of little use to a dead man," the mate replied flatly, his words not only an admission of

his own predica-ment, but a deadly threat. He released the captain's arm, drew a curved knife from his

sash, and raised it high.

As the blade slashed toward the captain's throat, the elf spoke a strange syllable and moved one

golden hand in a flickering gesture. Instantly the knife glowed from tip to hilt with fierce red heat. The

mate jerked back, his aim spoiled. Then, howling with pain, he dropped the ensorcelled weapon and

shook his singed fingers.

Blethis drove his fist into the traitorous sailor's face, and was rewarded with a satisfying crunch of

bone. He hit him again, lower this time, with a sweeping upward hook that drove the broken bones of the

mate's nose deep into his skull.

Instantly dead, the man dropped to the deck. Blethis was tempted to kick him a couple of times

for good measure, but the ship was starting to pitch and roll, and he wasn't certain he could do so without

falling on his backside.

"The storm will not harm us," the elf said, as calmly as if the mutinous confrontation had not

occurred. "This is the hand of a goddess, a manifestation of Aerdrie Faenya, Lady of Air and Wind.

Elven ships may pass through unharmed."

As if to belie these assurances, lightning seared the sky, and a booming crash rumbled over the

roar of the gather-ing winds. Blethis raised his glass in time to see the mast of a distant ship splinter and

fall. The oiled sails, which had been dropped at first sign of the approaching storm, were already

smoldering. In moments the ship would be a torch. Blethis shot an inquiring glare at the ship's owner.

The elf lifted one shoulder in a careless shrug. "The human-made vessels were useful in bringing

us this far—not even the most voracious of Nimbral's pirates would attack a fleet of such size. Some of

the humans have fed the hungry creatures of the sea; some ships were given as Umberlee's toll. But we

near our goal; it is time to cull the fleet. Most of the human ships will be destroyed long before we reach

Evermeet."

Blethis clung to the rail and struggled to absorb this callous pronouncement, and the fact that the

vast fleet would be cut nearly in half. "But nearly threescore elven ships will remain," the captain

persisted, raising his voice to be heard over the gathering tempest. "That's an inva-sion force! Whether

the ships are elven or not, Evermeet's elves will figure out your intent. Suddenly, our chances look about

half as good as they did when I signed on!"

The elf's oddly cold smile returned. "You are more cun-ning than you appear, Captain Blethis.

But do not concern yourself. Not all ships sail to one port; Rightful Place will be one of three ships

docking at Leuthilspar. And I assure you, Queen Amlaruil will receive us."

"This fool was not far wrong," Blethis said hotly, nudging the downed first mate with his boot.

"And he won't be the last to take up arms to end this trip. If you've got some good news, this is the time

to speak."

"Listen, then, so you can calm your crew's fears and set your own mind fully to the task ahead,"

the elf conceded. "One of the elves aboard this ship is Lamruil, youngest son of Queen Amlaruil and the

late King Zaor. The only sur-viving royal offspring, if all has gone as our allies planned, and therefore

sole heir to the throne of Evermeet." The elf paused, and a flicker of distaste crossed his golden face.

"Though Prince Lamruil himself is not particularly impressive, his presence on this ship gives us

tremendous power.

"And so," the elf concluded with grim satisfaction, "the queen has little choice but to receive us.

Evermeet's future, one way or another, is in the hands of her worthless brat."

"Your advisors have assembled in the throne room, Your Majesty."

Queen Amlaruil nodded, not lifting her gaze from the too-still face of her firstborn daughter. "I

shall be along directly," she said in a voice that bore no hint of her weari-ness or her grief.

The courtier bowed deeply and left the queen alone with the fallen princess.

Ilyrana—that was the name Amlaruil had given her daughter those many years ago, a name taken

from the High Elven word meaning "an opal of rare beauty." Ilyrana had been so lovely as a babe, so like

the precious stone for which she was named: milky white hair highlighted with the palest of greens,

luminous skin so white that it blushed blue tints, and large grave eyes that could change with light and

mood from the color of spring leaves to the deep blue of a summer sea. Ilyrana was lovely still, Amlaruil

noted wistfully, even in the deathlike slumber that had claimed her since the battle two nights past.

Like most of the Seldarine's clerics, Ilyrana had gone to do battle against the fearful creature

unleashed upon the elven island by the evil god Malar, the Beastlord. By battle's end, many priests and

priestesses had fallen: Ilyrana was simply gone, although her body remained behind. Amlaruil had not

been surprised by this, for there had always been something otherworldly about her oldest child.

Knowing Ilyrana's utter dedication to Angharradh, the goddess she served, Amlaruil suspected that her

daughter had followed the fight to its ultimate source and was even now standing firm at Angharradh's

side. If that were so, then the goddess was well served indeed.

And if it were so, then Ilyrana was unlikely to return. Few elves who glimpsed the wonders of

Arvandor, even in such dire circumstances, could ever reconcile themselves to the mortal world.

Amlaruil whispered a prayer—and a farewell—and then rose from her daughter's bedside. All of

Evermeet awaited her. There was little time to spare for her own per-sonal tragedies.

The queen swiftly made her way to the throne room. A large assembly awaited her: the surviving

members of the Council of Matrons, representatives from each of the noble clans, leaders from among

the elven warriors, even a few of the other fey creatures who made Evermeet their home and who fought

alongside the elves. As one, they knelt in the presence of the elven queen.

As was her custom, Amlaruil bowed deeply to the People she served, then bade them all rise to

tend to the matter at hand. She took the throne and called upon Keryth Blackhelm, the Moon-elven

warrior who com-manded the island's defenses, to give his report.

But Keryth was not fated to speak this day.

The explosion was sudden, silent—and utterly devas-tating. There was no thrumming crash, no

vibration to set the crystal towers of the city keening in sympathy, not even a tremor to shake the

gemstone mosaic floor beneath their feet. Yet there was not an elf in that chamber—not an elf upon all of

Evermeet—who did not feel it or who failed to understand what it meant.

The Circles had been shattered. Evermeet's unique magic was gone.

For nearly five days the battle for the elven homeland had raged. Armies of monsters had arisen

from the sea and descended from the skies, human wizards of unspeakable power had challenged the

Weave of elven magic, ships bear-ing mounted warriors had swept in upon the island from every side.

Worse, creatures from Below had found a path to the island, had sullied the haven that was Evermeet,

and had slain many of the island's best defenders. Although the besieged People were unspeakably

weary, they had not grown dispirited.

But this blow was surely more than they could bear.

Moving as if in a dream, Queen Amlaruil rose from her throne and made her way over to the

open window. Below her was laid out a strange tableau: The teeming streets of Leuthilspar, which

moments before had been alive with elven warriors rallying in response to yet another threat from the

coast, were utterly silent. The elves stood motion-less, frozen in a paroxysm of anguish.

Amlaruil lifted her eyes toward the north. Far away, in the deepest and most ancient forests of

Evermeet, the twin spires of the Towers of the Sun and the Moon had reached to the sky. Now they

were gone, and the High Magi of Ever-meet with them. Amlaruil allowed herself a moment's grief for the

loss of friends she had cherished for centuries.

The queen turned to her advisors, who for once were beyond speech. All of them knew what this

meant. The only thing that could possibly destroy the Towers was another powerful circle of High Magi.

And in these days of diminished power and fading magic, only on Evermeet could such magic be cast.

Beset on all sides by invaders, they had nevertheless stood firm. The devastating blow, the only one for

which they had not prepared, was this betrayal from within.

Finally Zaltarish, the queen's ancient scribe, gave words to the tragedy.

"Evermeet is lost, your Majesty," he whispered. "The twilight of the elves has come."

Book One

The Fabric of Legend

"If ye ask my advice—and ye have—I'd say to give over this task to thine Uncle Khelben.

Of the two of ye, he's the more deserving of it. But since ye don't seem the vengeful sort, ye might

as well start this tale at the beginning. It seems to me ye can not tell the story of the elven People

without speaking of the gods. Indeed, I've known many the elf who'd have ye believe there's little

difference between him and them." —excerpt from a letter from Elminster of Shadowdale

1

The Godswars

Before time began, before the fabled realm known as Faerie began its descent toward twilight,

there was Olympus.

Home of the gods, Olympus was a vast and wondrous place. Here were limpid seas from whose

depths sprang new life—beings who would in time find homes upon the infant worlds awakening beneath

a thousand suns. Here lay verdant meadows as whimsically fertile as the minds of the gods who walked

upon them, and gardens like vast and glorious sunsets. Here was Arvandor, the forest home of the elven

gods. It was to Arvandor that he fled now, wounded and heart-sick, and as near to death as ever an

elven god had come.

He was Corellon Larethian, the leader of the elven pantheon. Lithe and golden was he, and

beautiful despite the ravages of battle. Though gravely wounded, he ran with a grace and speed that a

mountain cat might envy. But the elf lord's face was taut with frustration, and one hand was clenched

around the empty scabbard on his hip.

Corellon was a warrior—the father of all elven war-riors—and he wanted nothing more than to

stand and see the battle through to its conclusion. But his weapon was shattered, and he was bound by

honor not to use his godly magic against his foe. There was no choice but retreat, for if Corellon

fell—Corellon, the essence of elven strength and magic and beauty—then the destruction of the elven

People seemed assured.

He took some comfort from the knowledge that for each drop of blood he spilled an elven child

would be born. Thus had it been many times before: This was not his first battle with Gruumsh. He

suspected that it would not be his last.

Since dawn had the battle raged, and now dusk was drawing near. All but deafened by the

pounding of his own heart, the elf lord faltered to a stop and looked about for a place where he might

take a moment's rest and shelter. Such places were scarce on the Moor, a place of endlessly rolling hills,

shallow seas of peat, and a few stubborn trees. One tree huddled nearby—a low, gnarled cypress whose

twisted and thinly leaved branches swept down to touch the ground.

Corellon ducked into the meager shade and sank down to rest. Even as he did so, his eyes swept

the hills and he mapped out plans for a battle that might yet overtake him. He acknowledged that the

Moor was not without a certain austere beauty; even so, it was hardly the place for an elven god.

Corellon was outside his element, and well he knew it.

Olympus knew no finite boundaries, and within it were lands that defined paradise for many,

many peoples. This place had been chosen as a courtesy to another god, one with whom Corellon had

sought parlay: Gruumsh, the First Power of the orcish gods.

Gruumsh was at home in the wild moors, hills, and mountains of a hundred worlds. Although the

orc lord could never have defeated his elven counterpart amid the trees of Arvandor, here the advantage

was his. The famil-iar setting had apparently emboldened him. From his first strike, Gruumsh had seemed

more confident, more grimly determined, than ever before. He came on still in swift and dogged pursuit of

the elven god.

Corellon's sharp eyes caught a glimpse of his foe cresting a distant hill. Taller by half than any of

the Moor's gnarled trees, Gruumsh was corded with muscle and armored with a gray hide nearly as

tough as elven mail. His bearlike snout twitched as he scented the air for the passing of the elf lord, and

his iron spear bounced on his shoulder as he strode along. The bestial god bled nearly as profusely as did

Corellon, for the battle between them had been long and fierce. The difference between them was that

the orc lord still held his weapons, while Corellon's sword lay in scat-tered shards among the heather.

As he watched the orcish god's approach, Corellon understood for the first time the depth of his

own folly. He had asked Gruumsh to come to Olympus so that they might discuss an end to the

destructive war between Gruumsh's orcs and the elven children of Corellon—a war that was threatening

to shred the very fabric of the ancient realm of Faerie. Corellon had invited, and Gruumsh had accepted.

Accepted, and then betrayed.

The elf lord blamed himself. Although he would have liked to claim that he'd treated Gruumsh as

an honorable foe, offering good faith and expecting it in return, he had not been particularly surprised

when the orc lord broke truce. In truth, Corellon had been willing to surrender nearly every advantage

because it had never occurred to him that he might lose a fight.

He was proud, perhaps too proud, as were his elven chil-dren. Corellon had reason to know the

cunning and battle fury of his orcish adversary, but he had trusted in his supe-rior agility and in

Sahandrian, his marvelous sword. Even now he could not fathom how the orcish god had managed to

shear through Sahandrian's magic and metal with naught but a rusty, one-handed axe.

Treachery, Corellon concluded grimly. There was no other explanation, for Sahandrian was far

more than a common sword. It was Corellon's own work—he had lav-ished untold centuries upon the

crafting and enchanting of it. Nor was he the only god who'd had a hand in its creation. Sehanine

Moonbow, the elven goddess of moonlight and mysteries, had bound moon magic into the shining blade.

Since beauty has a power of its own, Hanali Celanil had made of the sword's hilt a work of art replete

with gems and intricate carvings. Upon the blade she had etched runes that portrayed—and perhaps

captured—the enduring strength of elven love. His beloved Araushnee, the patron goddess of artisans

and the goddess of elven destiny, had woven with her own hands the intricately designed silken sheath

that padded Corellon's scabbard and warded him with a web of magic.

All of these goddesses had worshipers among the People; it was possible that a high cleric had

caught a glimpse of his Mistress's magical essence, and had somehow turned this knowledge against the

elf lord.But why? For what purpose would any elf turn against his own gods? This question, a question

that Corellon had never before thought or needed to ask, haunted him as he watched twilight purple the

sky and Gruumsh draw ever closer.

The single moon of Olympus crested the distant hills, an amber orb that paled to silver as it rose.

Its light sent a hulking, moon-cast shadow stretching out before the orc lord. Noting this, Gruumsh bared

his fangs in a savage grin. The bright moonlight was as much his ally as the open terrain, for it made

tracking all the easier.

A slight movement on the horizon caught the orc lord's eye. It was little more than a shimmer,

rather like the col-ored lights that danced in the cold northern skies on one of Gruumsh's favorite worlds.

But he recognized its source, and grimaced.

Sehanine.

Gruumsh hated all the elven deities and loathed their not-quite-mortal children, but he reserved a

special enmity for this wench. A wisp of a female, pale as moon-light and insipid as a bloodless meal, the

goddess Sehanine was nonetheless a potent adversary. This offended Gruumsh. Female orcs were

generally smaller and weaker than males, and as a result, they held considerably less power. Orcish

young learned the precept: "If Gruumsh had intended females to lead, he would have given them bigger

muscles." He certainly wouldn't have equipped them with Sehanine's fey magic, or that subtle mind whose

depths no orcish warrior could fathom. Corellon was bad enough, but at least Gruumsh knew what to

expect from the elven god: battle—straightforward, bloody, and invigorating. That he could understand

and respect.

The orc watched with apprehension as the dancing lights coalesced into a slender, feminine form.

Like a luminous cloud, Sehanine walked toward him, rapidly taking on sub-stance as she came. Night

was her time, and she seemed to draw sustenance and power from the moonlight. In her hands was a

shining sword, held point-up before her.

Gruumsh knew at once that this was no common weapon, even as gods reckon such things. No,

this sword was a living thing. It was as alive—and as troublesome—as any elven world and all the beings

that walked upon it, as vast in power as the sun that warmed that world and the skies that cradled it. The

stunned orc noted the thou-sands of tiny stars that swirled within the wondrous blade and sensed the

magic that pulsed through it like an ocean's tides.

It was Sahandrian, the sword of Corellon, made whole and new!

Surprise turned swiftly to rage, and Gruumsh let out a furious bellow that rumbled like thunder

over the Moor. The proudest moment of the orc lord's godhood had been shat-tering that sword,

watching the glowing fragments fade and disappear. Somehow, this great triumph had been undone by a

scrawny elven wench. The orc's hatred of the moon goddess increased a thousandfold, and he howled

out a fearsome oath of vengeance upon her and all creatures elven.

But Sehanine walked on, not sparing the furious Gruumsh so much as a glance. She crested the

hill on which he stood and began to pass down into the valley, moving within easy range of a spear's toss.

The orc lord's brow beetled at this tacit insult. He whipped his spear from his shoulder and

hauled it back for the throw.

The faint sound must have alerted his target, for Seha-nine turned to him at last, an expression of

faint disdain on her face. Too fast—impossibly fast—she leveled the elven sword at the orc lord as if it

were a wizard's staff. A single pulse of silver light burst from the weapon and engulfed him in a

shimmering sphere. Blinded and snarling with rage, Gruumsh fisted his free hand and dug furiously at his

eyes in an attempt to banish the stars that swam and spun behind his eyelids.

By the time the orc lord's vision returned, the goddess had moved far beyond the range of his

spear. She stood beside a gnarled cypress that clung to the top of the hill beyond. To the orc's dismay,

Sehanine was not alone—a familiar, golden warrior came eagerly toward her. She knelt to him,

Sahandrian held out before her. The lights that whirled within the elven weapon flared and leaped as the

rightful owner reclaimed his sword.

Gruumsh shook his now-useless spear and fairly danced with rage. "Knave! Coward!" he howled

at Corellon Larethian. "Bested in single combat, you hide behind a female's skirts! And what of your

oath? You swore that no elven magic would be brought against me, yet you suffer this witch to undo my

victory!"

"Not so," Sehanine said firmly, her silvery voice floating out over the valley that lay between them.

She rose and faced down the angry god. "You have broken the truce, Gruumsh of the Orcs, and thus it

will be remembered for all time. Corellon holds to the contract he has made with you and to all the tenets

of honorable battle. He was never bested. Destroying his sword was no victory of yours. By an elf was

Sahandrian undone, and thus it falls to the Seldarine to restore their own."

With these cryptic words, the goddess turned back to Corellon. Her silver eyes swept over him;

tears sprang into them as she took note of his many wounds. Sehanine wiped the tears from her cheek

and reached out with gentle fingers to touch the god's bleeding face. Instantly the mingled droplets on her

hand took on a mystic glow.

"Children of the moon and the sun," she whispered. "Behold, my lord, the souls of elves yet

unborn. Even battle with a dishonorable foe cannot diminish the magic we share."

She started to say more, but the bright moonlight that sustained her suddenly dimmed, and the

rising wind chased a welter of black clouds across the moon. Sehanine cast a glance over her shoulder.

The orc, as she expected, had kicked into a running charge, seizing what must have seemed to him a

moment of elven weakness.

The goddess's face hardened. "Kill him, my lord," she whispered fiercely, and touched her fingers

Elaine Cunningham - Forgotten Realms - Evermeet

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