Araushnee took her daughter's bow from her shoulder and fitted to it one of Eilistraee's enchanted arrows. She sighted down her target and readied the weapon. Although she fully intended to make a deal with the god, she knew the value of negotiating from a position of apparent strength.

"Hail, Beastlord, Master of the Hunt!" Araushnee called out to him.

Malar whirled toward the musical sound of an elven voice and dropped into battle stance: knees bent and muscles bunched in preparation for a quick spring, arms spread in a parody of an embrace, claws hooked into terrible rending weapons. His eyes narrowed into malevolent slits as he regarded the armed goddess.

"What do you here, elf?" he growled out in a thunderous rumble. "This place is none of yours!"

"No, it is yours by right of conquest," the goddess agreed, nodding toward the fallen god. By now, little remained of the bestial avatar but a dim gray outline. "That was Herne, was it not? I have caught glimpses of him before, on other worlds. A pale copy of Malar, to my thinking."

The Beastlord's arms dropped just a bit. He was obviously wary of the elf but willing to hear more of her flattery. "This orc tribe now follows me," he boasted.

"As they should," Araushnee said, carefully hiding her elation. This Malar was precisely what she needed! An ambitious minor god, almost pitifully eager to expand his influence and power. And most important, a hunter.

She nodded to the shadowy remains of Herne and sighed. "All the same, it is a waste. Not that Herne should fall-never that," she added hastily when a growl started deep in Malar's throat. "A shame only that a hunter as mighty as the Beastlord should waste his talent on easy quarry."

When the god did not seem to take offense, Araushnee lowered her bow just a bit and took a cautious step closer. "I have an offer for you, great Malar, an opportunity such as might never come again to a hunter."

"There is much game in these forests," the Beastlord observed, watching her closely.

"Ah, but is there any challenge that could compare to tracking an elven god through his own sacred forest? That is a challenge only the greatest of hunters would dare take up."

Malar seemed to ponder this, his red eyes glowing intently. "An elven forest, you say? A wise hunter does not lay aside his knife and then walk into the embrace of a bear."

"A wounded bear," she stressed.

"That is even worse."

"As to that, look, and then judge for yourself," Araushnee said. With a quick gesture of one ebony hand, the goddess conjured a shining, multicolored orb and bade the Beastlord look within. Inside the globe was a tiny image of Corellon Larethian, looking (but for his size) as real as if he stood before them. It was clear that the elven god was gravely wounded; the golden light had drained from his skin, leaving him gray and haggard. His steps wove a slow, unsteady path through the trees.

The Beastlord studied the elven god, estimating his size against a stand of golden ferns. "He is small," Malar allowed.

"And weak! See his bandages, already wet and crimson."

The hunter squinted into the orb. "Strange. So much blood, but he leaves no trail."

"You expected anything less of an elven god?" Araushnee retorted. "Even so, surely Malar, the Master of the Hunt, can track him down. Think on it-what renown will be yours when you slay the head of the elven pantheon!"

Malar whuffled thoughtfully. "This forest you show me is elven. Never have I hunted so close to Arvandor."

"What wild place is not your rightful hunting ground?" she wheedled, sensing that the god was sorely tempted. The goddess gestured at the globe. In response, it grew in size until it nearly filled the battle-trampled clearing. "This is a gate to Olympus, great Malar. All you need do is step through."

The Beastlord eyed with great interest the scene within the globe, but he was still not convinced. "You are elven. What has this elf lord done that you want him dead?"

Araushnee thought she knew what answer might best please Malar. "He is weak," she said stoutly. "That offends me."

"If he is so weak, then kill him yourself."

The goddess shrugged. "I would, except that the other gods of the Seldarine love Corellon. They would not accept as their ruler anyone who killed him. And I wish to rule."

"Strange, these elven gods," mused Malar. "It is ever the way of nature that the strongest should rule. Anyone able to kill this god deserves to supplant him. If elves think otherwise, they are weak indeed."

"Not all think so," Araushnee corrected him.

The hunter's crimson eyes met hers, taking her measure. "Perhaps I should kill Corellon Larethian, and you, 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.