Corellon made no attempt to parry the mighty blow. He ducked under the rushing spear, then pivoted back to face his foe, using his speed to lend power to Sahandrian's swing. The sword scored a stinging blow to the orc lord's hip. Gruumsh whirled at the elf, his spear out full length before him. But the elf stepped in close, too close for the sharp tip to find him. His sword darted in and ripped yet another gash in the orc lord's hide before the shaft of the spear smashed into his ribs.

The elf rolled with the blow, coming up on his feet and once again lunging in close. But Gruumsh had tossed aside his spear. In one massive hand he held a dagger, in the other, the axe that had somehow destroyed Sahandrian earlier that day.

For many moments the foes stood nearly toe to toe, and the clash and shriek of metal upon metal rang out over the watchful Moor. In the hands of the elven god, Sahandrian whirled and thrust and danced, moving so fast that it left ribbons of light in its path. But this time, Corellon's sword held firm, turning aside the orcish god's axe again and again without taking so much as a pit along its gleaming edge.

The enjoined shadows of the battling gods grew shorter as the moon rose high in the sky. Gruumsh's breath was coming hard now, and his ears buzzed as if a swarm of angry insects had taken up residence in his skull. The orc was the stronger by far, but try as he might, he could not get past the elf s guard to strike with his full power. Nor was Gruumsh as agile as the elf, and though he had two weapons to Corellon's one, the elven blade slipped through his defenses again and again. His hide was crisscrossed with garish stripes, and the grip of his axe was slippery with his own blood. It began to come to Gruumsh that the battle he'd thought already won, the victory he'd purchased from a traitor's hand, would once again belong to the elven god.

As if he, too, sensed the turn of battle, Corellon surged forward, ducking under the orc's lumbering swing to leap, sword leading, at the orc lord's throat.

Gruumsh knew at once he had no hope of parrying the elf's attack. Instinctively he ducked and flung his dagger hand up to block the killing thrust. The elven blade bit deep into the orc lord's forearm, sinking between the twin bones-and driving his arm up into his face.

Too late, the orc realized that he still clenched his dagger. His own blade stuck him hard, parting the hide on his meager forehead. Gruumsh heard the horrid sound of metal sliding wetly over bone, felt the sudden easing of resistance as the blade slipped down. Then all other sensation vanished in a white-hot explosion of pain.

Corellon leaped back, tugging his sword free of the orc's arm before the god's fall could bring him down, too. For a long moment he stood and regarded his fallen adversary. On the battle-sodden ground, the orc lord rolled and tossed in immortal agony, his hands clutching at his eyes-one of which was blinded by the copious flow of blood from the gaping head wound, the other blinded for all time. Other than the ruined eye, most of Gruumsh's wounds would heal-too quickly for Corellon's peace of mind-but there would be no more fighting this night.

The elf lord slid Sahandrian back into its scabbard. His fingers touched leather, and a pang of sadness filtered through his elation. Though victory was his, the wondrous padded sheath his Araushnee had woven for him-which he had carried into battle as her token-had been lost during the horrendous fight.

"You are forsworn, blinded, and utterly defeated," Corellon said coldly. "Yet I find these things little enough payment for what I have lost this day."

The orc dashed blood from his face and squinted at his foe with his one remaining eye. "You don't know the half of it, elf," he growled. "And you can't begin to understand what you've lost-you don't even know the names of your foes! As for defeat, I admit none! Kill me now, if you can, and your own silver whore will bear witness that you struck down a wounded and unarmed foe!"

Corellon glanced moonward, and knew that, at least in this much, the orc spoke truth. The goddess of moonlight and mystery would see all and would be compelled by honor to speak of such dishonor before the Seldarine Counsel. Even if Corellon wished to do so, he could not slay the downed orcish god. Nor, by the terms of their agreement, could he banish Gruumsh from Olympus before the orc chose to go.

"You spoke of others," the elf lord said, glancing over the silent hills, "but I see no one ready to take up your fallen weapons."

The orc smirked. "As long as you're on the open Moor, I need no help from anyone. It's a long walk to Arvandor, elf, and you're swaying on your feet like a sapling in a strong wind. Go if you can-I'll not be far behind you. One eye is more than I need to follow a trail through these hills. If you're still standing when I find you, we will fight again. If not, I will kill you where you lie!"

Corellon found that he could not scoff at this grim promise. The heat of his battle fever was fast slipping away, and the weight of his wounds pressed heavily upon him. It was possible that the orc, grievously wounded though he was, could do exactly as he promised. Without another word, Corellon turned once more toward Arvandor.

Dense and deep was the forest curtain that surrounded Arvandor. Lost beings could wander in the woodlands beyond its borders for many days, never once passing over the invisible boundary, perhaps never even realizing that their way was barred. Ancient trees shifted to confound the passerby, paths appeared seemingly at random only to disappear into a forest pool or a bed of ferns; brooks suddenly widened into vast yawning chasms; thick tangles of vines suddenly sprouted thorns or simply refused to part. Arvandor was a haven and a fortress.

Hidden among the green shadows that surrounded and protected Arvandor, an elven goddess clung to the uppermost branches of a tree and peered out over the woodlands. Her slender black fingers clenched tightly around her handhold, and her beautiful face was taut with foreboding.

Three long days had passed since Corellon Larethian, her lover and her lord, had gone to meet with the orcish god. Araushnee awaited the outcome with tense anticipation. She had much at stake. There was no telling what might happen among the Seldarine if Corellon did not return. Although none among the elven gods could truly replace Corellon, many would certainly try.

Araushnee's relationship with the Seldarine's leader was unique. Corellon Larethian was all things elven: warrior and poet, mage and bard, even male and female. But since the coming of Araushnee, the deity had settled into a single aspect: that of a Gold elven male. In Araushnee, he had seen his perfect counterpart: female to his male, artist to his warrior, the mysteries of midnight to balance the brightness of day. Though Araushnee was but a minor goddess, Corellon had been utterly enchanted with her beauty and had made her his consort. She had borne him children-twin godlings as darkly beautiful as herself. As the beloved of Corellon, Araushnee held a place of honor among the Seldarine, as well as new powers that the elven god had bestowed upon her. By Corellon's decree, the destiny of the mortal elves who shared her dark beauty was in her keeping. She had learned to enjoy that power, and she feared its loss at least as much as she feared the battle's outcome.

Her sharp ears caught a faint sound-the distant hiss and rustle of underbrush trampled underfoot. No elven god would make such a clamor. Araushnee had her answer, at last.

The goddess slipped down from her perch on a thread of magic. Her slippers touched the forest floor without a sound, but before she could take a single step toward the victorious orc, her eyes fell upon a most unexpected sight.

Corellon.