After a few minutes, the mysterious arrival began to stir. Watching her out of the corner of his eye, Zak absently wished he had more healing potions with him to spare. While he would have no compunctions about leaving her here if she turned out to be evil-aligned, he was always corteous to his friends. Well, those friends he had, anyway. Whatever else he was, he was honorable, and fairness figured very highly among his values. That was why he hadn't called upon his sword's full might in the tavern. If he won fights, he'd do it on merit. That wasn't why he had fled. He had done that because he was well aware of a tavern crowd's propensity for turning on a single opponent, and wanted no part of it. Keeping one of his daggers near to hand, he sat back and waited. Opening her eyes, which, to his delight, turned out to be a very nice shade of green, complementing the black hair, she sat up, groaning, and looked around. Seeing him, she jumped and groped for the dire mace, but he held up his hand.

"I wouldn't," he advised her pleasantly. "Seeing as how I did just help you out, not to mention the fact that I could easily defeat you, in that condition." If she had been at her full strength, he would've given her only 18 to 1 odds, as opposed to his normal 20 to 1 against any one challenger. Her muscle tone was good enough to really swing that weapon, but the anger crackling in those eyes warned of a short temper. He was reminded of himself, with less control and skill. She sat back down, but glared fiercely at him.

"Who are you? Where am I? Answer me!" she snapped, her hand finding the dire mace's oak handle. Zak raised his eyebrows and shook his head.

"With an attitude like that, it's no wonder you arrived here half dead. My name…is Zak Crimsonleaf. You've heard of me of course. This is a desert, as you may have observed by now." The woman's reply dripped contempt, but she loosened her grip slightly on the wood.

"I know it's a desert, but which desert? No, I've never heard of you in my life. And as for attitudes, watch your own or I'll-"

"-injure yourself even more trying to assault me," finished Zak, idly twirling his dagger between the fingers of his right hand. He gave her a contemptuous glance. "Don't try it. I'm not one to suffer fools gladly."

"If there's any suffering, it's you who'll be on the receiving end," she returned, letting go of the dire mace's handle, and trying to straighten the rather shredded dark studded leather armor she wore beneath what might have been a wizard's robe at one point, but was now just a scorched and blackened mess. Zak stiffened, and the dagger stopped it's twirling and was stowed in his left wrist sheath that nestled beneath the hardened leather bracer there.

Making a show of tolerance, he replied, "I should call you out for that, but I've already beat the hell out of somebody today, so you're off the hook. Be reasonable, lady. Alone, you'll be bleeding to death with no hope of finding your way to civilization. I can help you," Zak offered, reaching out a hand to help her up. She slapped it away.

"I never asked for your help, desert scum! You decided to help me by yourself." Zak's hand shot to his sword hilt, and he automatically tensed for battle at the insult she had offered. The third greatest effort he had made in his life was towards to contain his anger. The second was spent in taking his hand off the sword hilt and extending it to the woman again. The greatest effort he had ever made in his life was very nearly insufficient to contain the new eruption of rage when she slapped it away again. So she was going to be difficult about it. "That was a mistake," he promised grimly. "But, as you said, I did decide to help you, and I intend to stick to that. If there's one thing I can do well, it's protect people, even from their own stupidity."

"What about your own stupidity?" she retorted, grimacing in pain as she sat up all the way, and felt around a scalp cut that was bleeding freely, as most scalp wounds do, and making her hair sticky. Zak shrugged. She was touching on a issue that he knew all too well.

"Usually, I can handle that too, but once I get mad, well, a man as skilled as I am can be very dangerous. I might tell you that I never lost a fight. Even got run out of Silverymoon," he claimed proudly. She shook her head in dismay.

"You are one angry person. Who are you angry at?"

"Yes, I am." Zak admitted, sidestepping the second half of the question. "Well, is there anything that I can do for you at all?"

"Yes. You can lead me to a town or someplace where I can obtain half-decent help." She flipped a copper coin at him. His left hand snatched it out of the air, and he studied the faces. His own expression darkened. "This coin is from Zhentil Keep. This is the Black Network's mark."

"So?" she asked, her tone one of great exasperation. "You must have seen lots of coins like that while traveling, or do you suspect everybody you meet of being a Zhent?" Zak threw up his hands, a smile spreading across his face in spite of himself. Maybe his god was smiling, but this looked to provide some good excitement. Though he didn't know how much more 'excitement' he could handle, with his ring of cat's grace half depleted for the day.

"Well, I've found it's a good policy to assume that everybody is plotting against me from the beginning, but in your case there's no need. Why assume that the sky is blue, when I've eyes to see it for myself." He watched with great satisfaction as a series of strangled noises emerged from her throat, and her complexion began to redden even more than it already was with the heat. He went on as if nothing had happened.

"The thing that gets me is just that it seems newly minted is all, and those I don't see every day. Relax, I'll take you to a town." Indeed, he was beginning to become seriously rattled by meeting somebody with so much the same attitude as himself. Looking at the sort of person he believed he was from the outside was very disturbing, and he couldn't find the will to condemn the woman's behavior when it was almost an exact model of his own. With that in mind, he figured, we should get along just fine. He tucked the coin away in the bag of holding. He planned to whip the snot out of quite a few famous people, should he ever meet them, just for being that way, but was willing to share his supplies with somebody he hardly knew, on faith. He had tried to ponder these contrary views that coexisted within him once, but wound up with a headache.

"It's not every day that I meet people such as yourself while traveling through the desert," Zak observed. "What brings you here?" She hesitated for a second.

"I'm a apprentice mage. I was attacked by an enemy of my teacher, and barely managed to use my escape plan. I hired another mage to make me a ring of teleportation that would put me somewhere that was out of the way and not the Underdark. I suppose this was his idea of a joke." She was lying, which jangled his nerves through the ring of truth on his right hand, but Zak was in a tolerant mood now, and had full control of his temper.

"No kidding," he sympathized. "While, I was planning to sneak back into the town just across the way." He indicated the direction he had come. "You want to come with?" She smiled slightly, but there was no joy in the expression.

"Just get moving." Zak offered her his hand yet again. "I can get up fine, thanks," she refused, getting to her feet, but with a visible effort and her balance was uneasy. Some of the deeper wounds were still bleeding. Shaking his head, Zak dug out a healing potion from his bag of holding. If he had his way, she'd be paying for the whole bottle. Potions didn't come cheap, and this one was more than half empty.

"This is no good. Swallow that, and I'll see about getting us back into town. By the way, might I ask your name?" Taking a healthy gulp of the blue-green liquid, she wiped her mouth and stated clearly, "Tyrahae Blackmorn. Tyra will do." Her wounds began to mend, but slowed down and stopped far short of completely vanishing. "Tyra, then," Zak agreed, rising to his feet, and began laying out a plan in his head. First, he'd get Tyrahae some help, if he could, and then, he'd head north across the border to Tethyr.

"What is that ice doing in the middle of the desert?" Tray asked, gesturing at the results of his wand.

"Melting," Zak ventured. Indeed, even after so little time under the sun, the surface was already becoming slick and and uneven. She shot him a look, and tried to stride off, but stumbled and nearly fell. Zak didn't bother to hold out his hand a fourth time. If she wanted help, she'd ask for it. He could respect that. He resumed thinking. His little escapades certainly had put him on the most wanted list in the Dales and surrounding areas. Not to mention the Silverymoon incident. If she was from anywhere near that place, and the Zhent coin indicated that she might be, she should have heard of him. Either she didn't care about anybody famous or infamous, or was from somewhere else. Even considering the reputation developed during his travels, there were plenty of places that she might be from. He resolved to give her the benefit of the doubt for now, but Zak Crimsonleaf hadn't made it this far by being completely trustful. If she tried anything, he'd see that she got what was coming to her. That was the only way to deal with threats.

Tyrahae, however, was thinking about how to best complete her mission. She cursed her own ill fortune in giving Zak that coin in particular. As a matter of fact, she was from Zhentil Keep, and proud of it. Unfortunately, her assignment wasn't going as planned. It was only supposed to be a simple spy mission, but her cover had gone up in flames. She considered killing Zak and going into town alone, but decided that he posed more of a challenge than she could handle in her current state. She had no idea who he was, that much was true, but could make an educated guess. She had heard about the ruckus in Silverymoon, and reports were that the man responsible hadn't actually been arrested, but had left the city of his own free will. Just for the way he had spoken to her, she vowed silently, she'd put eliminating him as a top priority. The man was just infuriating to such an extent that for a minute or two she'd thought of just attacking him anyway, and to hell with her condition. Nursing dark thoughts, she followed along behind the mercenary, occasionally cursing silently at the sand for being so unstable.

Recently

Tyrahae shifted yet another book aside, sending up a cloud of dust, and peered under it for the notes she was looking for. Just more notes on spells and other wizardry junk. Wiping the dust off her forehead, she cursed the mage in question for being so disorganized. Though in a way, she realized belatedly, it constituted somewhat of a defense against exactly what she was trying to do. If nobody could find it but you, why bother to tidy up the place? But if she could just get hold of a plan, an outline, something that told her what was going on with this strange alliance between the gray dwarves of Underspires and the dark elves against the gold dwarves, and how the Zhents could profit from it, she could go back to Zhentil Keep and keep her head. Calling down a curse upon all wizards, she moved over to the next table, which appeared more promising, as it wasn't quite so dusty, and the notes about current plans would have been handled recently.

She skimmed over the titles on the reports on the top stack of papers, but it wasn't until the middle of the stack that she found what she was looking for. A clearly written plan of action jumped out at her like a trapdoor spider. The first lines gave her cause to whoop in triumph. The alliance prospers. The drow were skeptical at first, but between their forces and those of the duergar, we have managed to turn the tide on the gold dwarves and send them into retreat. Another few weeks of this and we might drive them back to the Deep Kingdom. Then, presuming that everything goes as planned, we can rather handily eliminate the duergar forces as well. It's fortunate that drow are renowned for treachery. But just in case they are unable to finish off the Army of Steel, I have engaged the following mercenary groups. Below was a list of some obscure sellsword companies, each with a price next to it. She whistled in a low tone when she saw how much just the first five were costing per tenday. Flipping through the next few sheets of paper, she found that there were about fifteen pages of notes.

Suddenly, the sheaf of paper was yanked from her hands, and went flying across the room towards the door, where the tower's owner stood before her, watching with a bemused expression. She leaped backwards, her hand going to her dire mace. The wizard walked forward slowly, his neatly brushed white hair and bushy eyebrows giving him an air of authority. "So, Maelora, I see you've found something interesting," he commented, commencing the opening gestures of a spell. She had gone by that name to gain entrance to the man's library, posing as a Zhent war wizard. It had taken all the charm she could muster, plus an offer of Zhentarim tribute to the cause of the alliance to get her this far, and in a scant five seconds all her plans were undone.

Tyrahae's gaze darted around the chamber for something she could use to get away fast. But the wizard finished the spell before she lit on anything like that, and an arrow dripping with acid leapt out at her. Snatching up a branch of ironroot, she blocked the projectile with the spell component, which resulted in a two-inch hole in the branch, growing larger by the second. Dropping the useless thing, she rapped what looked like a wizard's staff on the floor, while muttering,

"Blackmorn." Blackmorn, besides being her adopted surname, was engraved on the dire mace that took the staff's place. In fact, that was where she had gotten it from. The dual spiked ends had a faint reddish glow about them that hinted at greater damage-dealing ability than normal, and the hardened wood of the shaft was steady under her touch. It was a devastating weapon for those with the strength of arm to swing it. The spiked heads of dark steel shone coldly in the dim candlelight. She rushed forward, swinging the dire mace in an uppercut motion that would lacerate his neck. He merely held out a hand and spoke a single word, and she felt a hammerblow to the side of her head, and stumbled, while he stepped swiftly to the side.

Unable to stop, she tripped, and sprawled on the floor, her head swimming. A slight ringing in her ears warned of serious damage. She staggered back to her feat, and started her own spell. Guessing her strategy, the wizard began casting again, but a second too late. His next spell, which undoubtedly would have finished her off, merely drained the strength from her limbs once it got through her spell shield that had been thrown up. It was time to use the contingency plan. Removing one hand from the handle of her weapon, she took a cheap brass ring from her hand, and broke it in half. The teleportation spell contained therein spiraled out, and she heard the wizard curse, as his final spell slammed into her. This one was made up of fiery rays that scorched and stung as the walls of the library blurred and faded. Distracted by the pain, she lost her focus, and her vision blurred. She idly hoped that the person who had given her the contingency spell ring had actually intended for her to survive failing the mission, before another wave of pain swept over her, and she blacked out.

Now

Zak, having led Tyrahae on a ten-minute hike around to the north side of the city, peered over a sand dune, and tried to figure a way in through the gate without having the guards see him. There were four visible guards, two at the gate and two on the towers on either side of the gate. The two on the towers were armed with longbows, and would cut him down in a second given the order. The two at the gate he could handle, they only had the same kind of blades that he had faced at the tavern. Apparently they were the usual weapons of the city guards.

"Well?" Tyra hissed in his ear. "Anytime this century would be good."

"Keep your shirt on," Zak muttered back. Then, on instinct, he added, "Or maybe not, because it has been a while-" as a slow grin spread across his face. In truth, he was a bit unnerved of his reactions in that direction, because whether it was sincere attraction or just his overbearing ego at work he had yet to figure out. A sudden wrenching pain in his arm made him reconsider his words.

"All right, maybe that was just a tad uncalled for, but that's no reason to-" The pain intensified. "Ouch! All right, all right already, just let go of my arm, ye barbarian!" Tyra released her death grip on his forearm, and fell back, breathing heavily from the exertion of the hike and the arm twisting. Coming to a decision, he took off his distinctive red headband and tucked it into a pocket, exposing the elven points on his ears. Next, he unslung the shield and sword from his back, and took off the bandolier that held them there, and stuck the shield into his bag of holding. He knew from experience that he couldn't expect to put anything else bigger than a snuffbox in the bag and have it fit, but it would serve for the time being. Taking the bandolier, he slipped one of the ends through the sheath's belt loop, and buckled it securely. That should probably serve to disguise him to most casual glances. The actions came easily to him, the result of long practice. This was not the first time he had punched a law enforcement individual, and it wouldn't be the last. "All right, here's the plan. The smart money says they won't recognize or care about me at all once we get up to the gates. You throw your arm over my shoulder and just be some injured person. They don't ask questions around here. Understand me?" Too tired to offer a biting reply, Tyra nodded, and they set off. As they approached the gate, one of the guards came to life to ask,

"What 'appened to 'er?"

"Dunno." Zak grunted, not stopping. "Figure to find out, maybe."

"Right." With that exchange, they were into the town again.

Zak led Tyrahae off down one of the narrow side streets that seemed to be an inbuilt feature of all settlements, however large or small. He'd be willing to bet money that in a town of ten buildings; back alleys would materialize out of nowhere as soon as nobody was looking. Crouching in the shadows, he put his hands on Tray's shoulders, and forced her to the ground. It wasn't difficult, and blood was starting to run out over her armor. The stress of running had undone some of the healing potion's work. Zak bit his lip. He didn't think she'd last too long without a competent healer, and that meant a priest.

"Sit here and be quiet. I'll be back with help," he instructed her, and before she had a chance to bite out a suitable reply, turned around and made for the other end of the alley. He walked slowly along, trying to form some semblance of a plan. Medical help wouldn't be easy to come by in this mess of a city. The walls hardly stretched two miles on one side, and chances were that the guard he had fought would recognize him if they even caught a passing glimpse. With that in mind, Zak mentally marked that whole quarter of the city as off limits. Good thing it only contained the inns and alehouses that catered to the caravans, though he never had gotten the full worth of his coppers before he was forced to scramble off. Lost money irked him to no end, but it wasn't worth his hide. The market might be a likely place, but that was chancy.

If the place had a temple about, that would be the first place he'd go to look, but he hadn't seen any towering structure upon entering the city. Still, there were almost always clerics of some god in a city, just not always the goodly kind, which Zak far preferred to deal with. Well, there was only one other place where he might find a priest of any kind, and that was by paying one of the knowledgeable types hereabouts to point him in the right direction. If his expenses went anywhere over a copper piece, he'd certainly have to ask Tyra to cover his expenses, and if that coin was any indication, whoever she was working for didn't give her much to spend on frills. Humming to himself, he raked his eyes over the crowd in the marketplace with a practiced glance. Merchant, merchant, caravan guard.

"Excuse me, Zak Crimsonleaf, but might I have a word with you?" a quiet voice that resonated with self-confidence asked from the side. Zak whipped around and confronted the voice's owner, a tall person swathed in a hooded desert robe. Zak could see stark white hair plaited in a loose queue disappearing down the back of the robe, and knew who he was dealing with.

"I don't deal with dark elves," he responded, his tone rock hard.

"I regret to correct your hasty assumption, but I am only half-drow," the man said, holding up a hand to stop Zak from moving off. "My name is Arakonza to some. I really hate to sound formulaic, but I hear you've been looking for me."

"And if I have been?" Zak queried, crossing his arms, and scanning the crowd for any sign of the 'enforcers'. Nothing.

"Then, you have found me. What is it you wish to discuss?"

"I need a clerical healing spell." Arakonza's eyes narrowed, and he began to think aloud, a amused smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

"Not for you, that much is for certain. You escaped entirely unharmed from that fray at the tavern. And you were not observed leaving with a friend. You must have found some poor soul struggling through the deep desert and offered them salvation. You most likely tried your own potion, but failed. A mercenary is never without at least one healing potion, and certainly not one of your means. The case is urgent, and the price will, correspondingly, go up." Zak frowned. He hated those who would capitalize on somebody else's misfortune. But he had to deal with them if he wanted to save Tyrahae's life.

"Hey listen, pal, I ain't gonna be extorted or nothing, so you just watch yourself, because I'm the one with a loaded crossbow." Arakonza gestured to the right. Zak looked over and saw one of the man's enforcers come around the corner, with a readied heavy crossbow. Looking back to Arakonza, he saw the man pointing left, and found a similar situation there. Finally, the half-drow pointed straight up. Shading his eyes, and looking into the sun, Zak saw a third man standing on the roof of the building.

"You'd have to be extremely fast to avoid three bolts at once," Arakonza figured, not altogether in the wrong. While Zak was confident that he could fight his way out, he wanted this to go as smoothly as possible. Trying to be reasonable, he asked,

"Well, do you have a priest or not?"

"As it happens," Arakonza said, grinning widely. "I know just the person." His teeth shone white against his dark complexion.

"It will of course necessitate a small fee to lead you to him, and he will no doubt want compensation for his work. How badly is your friend injured?"

"Lead me to the priest, and I'll tell him," Zak countered, hooking his thumbs in his belt. Arakonza shrugged.

"As you will. Come! Let us remove ourselves from the premises." He rose smoothly to his feet and beckoned Zak to follow. As they walked along, Zak asked, trying to sound flippant, and noting that the half-drow's guards didn't follow them,

"So, which god does this priest pay homage to anyway?" Arakonza held out his rough and callused right hand to his side without looking back.

"Money first, friend. Then information." Annoyed, Zak flipped him a silver piece, which he deftly vanished into the folds of his sleeves.

"The individual to whom I am leading you to is a devotee of Mask, Lord of All Thieves, as well as a quite excellent rogue in his own right. Not so high in his god's favor though. He may not be able to completely heal your 'friend' if they are gravely wounded," Arakonza informed Zak, stopping at one of the residential buildings and knocking on the door in a sequence of one, three, and two. Zak chewed his lip uneasily. Tyra's injuries had looked bad. But if he asked for another priest, the price would go up. Still, he didn't want to chance the lady dying before he could get any more information out of her, not to mention he didn't think much of stinginess when it came to saving lives. Just that he wouldn't stand to be ordered around by anybody was all.

"Do you know of any priest more powerful, just supposing that I wished to see them?" he asked tentively, already mourning the lost silver. Arakonza held up his hand.

"Wait a moment, and see the first priest first and the second priest second, if the first does not satisfy your request. It is always good to do things in the proper order." The door finally opened, and the thief gestured for him to follow. Zak ducked inside, thankful for the relief from the heat that the shade brought, though the air was more stagnant and oppressive. A somewhat dirty and unkempt northerner, though you could hardly tell it from his native garb and heavy sunburn, was slouched against the wall over in the farthest corner of the little room. A warped and twisted table occupied the center of the room, and a few chairs that looked as if they'd be better off chopped up for firewood were arranged around it. A set of stairs in the back led up to the higher levels. Arakonza ignored the doorman, who closed the door after them and went back up the stairs, and walked straight over to the other man.

"Ah, you are still here, I see," he congratulated him. "Haven't died yet?" A crooked smile spread over the man's face.

"Not yet. What do you need me for now?"

"This gentlemen has a companion in need of your aid, servant of Mask," Arakonza replied with extreme formality, though he was still smiling. Zak cleared his throat, and flipped a gold piece up in the air, letting the light coming in through the single window catch it. The supposed priest heaved himself to his feet. He went barefoot, like most people in the place, and ran a hand through hair like dirty sand that stood out wildly in all directions. He turned to Arakonza.

"How do I look?" he asked, striking a mock dramatic pose.

"Like you looked five minutes ago." Arakonza sniffed. "That good?" The man feigned astonishment. He held out his hand to Zak, who shook it firmly. "Name's Devlar Sorentann, swashbuckler extraordinaire. Just lead the way, and I'll see what I can do."

"Just this way, then," Zak said, and the two of them trailed along behind him as he opened the door again, and strode back out into the heat.

Tyrahae sat against the wall and tried to stay conscious. After that little excursion around, into, and through the city, her vision was growing hazy at the edges. But she never lost sight of her duty. She had to get back into the Underdark, and find out what in all the Hells was going on, whatever it cost her. And kill that little arrogant bastard who had the gall to jest around her! She scowled darkly at the sand, and muttered, "I hate my life!"

A Tenday Ago

Tyrahae slowly made her way through the huge cavern, taking care to treat with extreme deference any drow that happened by, and sneaking continual glances at the structure to which she was hurrying towards. The unnerving thing about all the traffic was that it was very quietly done. Even the duergar went about their business with a minimum of clanking. In contrast, Tyrahae felt very noisy and noticeable. Each time she dislodged a rock, she cringed at the tumbling that resulted. But there was nothing else for it. She had been given leave to wander through the city, and it was important that she should establish a set routine of looking around, so that the guards would perhaps become more relaxed. The majority of this cavern was occupied by the dark elves, and it was their wizardly building that she was making for. A massive fortress wall that enclosed the entire outpost, save for the tunnels that led out it's rear and back to some sinister drow city, could be seen from anywhere.

The stream of Underdark dwellers and a few merchants from the Realms Above flowing through the city noted well the power of the wizardly might the order wielded, and kept out of it's way. But wizards weren't the only ones who could cast spells. Unfortunately, she had been told not to cast any spells unless critically necessary, for if a wizard were to identify her magic as divine, she would be summarily executed. While neither the drow or duergar were famous for their justice, they at least had to keep up a pretense of justice, and something so obvious as lying about her occupation would earn her the death penalty. That, or carrying about two holy symbols, one of Cyric and one of Bane. She mentally checked to make sure her mental wards were still in place against undue intrusion from the once and perhaps future God of Strife. Up until her initiation into the ranks of Bane's clergy, life as a devotee of Cyric had been harsh, especially in Zhentil Keep, where although the temples to Bane's successor weren't desecrated or burned down, those who attended them wound up dead in the streets more often than not if they let their guard slip.

That had all changed when she had volunteered to infiltrate Bane's faithful as a spy for Cyric. Honestly, she had just accepted the mission because she was tired of scraping a living off of the dregs of everybody else's work. She was just a mid-level priestess, and while possessed of a fiery devotion, not too energetic about actually getting out and smiting a few people. But then Bane's faithful had also given her an assignment. They had heard rumors about somebody orchestrating the alliance between the dark elves and gray dwarves. Suspects weren't exactly populous, either. Naturally, such a force would run counterpoint to the Zhentish empire building that was going on, so they wanted information, and she was there to get it. So now she wore the robes of a Zhentish battle wizard.

There were no winds or breezes in the Underdark either. The stagnant air was oppressive and lay heavy on her. She shivered, but concealed it. Stepping up to the gate to the narrow stone walkway that led to the tower, she greeted the guard cordially, presenting her identification as an emissary of the Zhentarim, sent in good faith to make use of the library in exchange for certain compensations, and so on, and so on. The guard skipped by all that with a passing glance, because he knew the only thing that mattered was the seal of one of the alliance's top brass that had to be attached to the paper, and it was. With that, he opened the gates, and gestured for her to go in. Tyrahae refrained from making a scathing comment about his smug grin. Such a thing would be out of character for the courteous arcane artist she was portraying. Instead she smiled through gritted teeth, and went on ahead.

Now

The sound of footsteps coming closer stirred her out of her apathetic state. Using the wall as a prop, she struggled to her feet again, trying to grip the dire mace with at least a semblance of order. But her legs gave way, and she collapsed back onto the ground, her vision wavering uncertainly. She must have been hit harder than she had thought.

"Whoa! What happened to you?" she heard someone say from somewhere above her. She managed to mumble,

"Zak Crimsonleaf happened." Here was a chance to exact revenge, and still get whatever help Zak was undoubtedly bringing back, just like a fool.

"Crimsonleaf!" one of the men exclaimed. "The guy who just busted his way out of that one tavern and vanished over the walls?"

"The very same. He just dragged me over here from the desert and left me to wait for some help. But for all I care, you can cut his bloody head off. He should be back anytime." One of the men pointed out into the streets.

"Look at that, Nyame, he's coming right now! This is perfect! Come on, we'll lay in an ambush."

"But Arakonza said-" the second guard tried to interfere. The first one made a slicing motion with his hand.

"He doesn't care whether or not somebody who hasn't paid him coin for protection from us goes down, you know that. Besides, he's probably loaded with loot." The guard drew his sword, and he and his companion put their backs to the wall, waiting to intercept the hapless mercenary. Tyrahae tensed in anticipation of seeing the look on Zak's face when he was cut down, as he came around the corner. She was willing to bet that it would be something to remember.

Leading Arakonza and Devlar, Zak knew something was up when he heard the sound of swords being unsheathed. His ears were more sensitive than those of other races, and he used it to his advantage. He drew his sword and took out a dagger. He'd have retrieved his shield from the bag of holding, but he didn't want to be mobbed by angry oasis dwellers. He took the corner much wider than usual, spoiling the ambush, but it was still two against one.

"Let's see what you've got, sellsword!" one of his attackers taunted him, flashing his sword around. Zak smiled. It was not pleasant to look at.

"You have a lot of guts," he commented calmly. Then, with sudden vehemence, he sprang forward, roaring, "Let's see what they're made of!" He took them both on at once, sword and dagger working hard to keep him on his feet. The side with the sword was much more successful, and soon, he felt the familiar clang! of the opponent's blade being caught by his own. But the owner of the caught blade was alerted to that tactic, and he quickly stepped in so close that Zak was forced to hold his sword too far away to apply enough strength to break the scimitar. He exerted all the force in his right arm to shove the second attacker's sword down far enough to step on. The hilt thudded into the dust with the force of his stomp, and he whipped around, thrusting the tip of the dagger into the first enforcer's throat. The man went down, gurgling and spewing blood onto the ground.

Bloody Hell! He'd crossed the line and now he had no choice but to keep killing if he wanted to stay alive. The second guard came at him, but he pulled another dagger from his right bracer, and hurled it with only three feet to the target, to have it clang off the scimitar in a clean deflection. The man had gotten his blade back from the dust while Zak hadn't been looking. Arakonza and Devlar had not made an entrance, and although he didn't think the half-drow would deliberately have him harmed, neither would he interfere. If Zak won, then the men had been taught their lessons. If they won, then Zak was a liability. Too bad he didn't dare look back to flip them another coin or two. He hoped Tyrahae was still alive, because it'd be a hell of a thing if she had croaked while he was gone. The two combatants met in a clashing of steel. Zak's shorter blade could exert greater pressure, but the scimitar was faster. Honestly though, it wasn't all the great a challenge to stay ahead of the guard's frenzied parries and slashes. He was okay, but Zak was just so much better.

Looking to end the fight fast, Zak twisted the abruptly interlocked blades around and around, allowing the foe no opportunity to end the cycle. After two or three times around, he half breathed out, and, taking hold of the hilt of his weapon with both hands, disarmed the man with a intricate twist within a twist, sending the sword flying. Acting fast, he quick-stepped forward, and cracked the flat of his blade against the man's temple. As his dazed opponent sat down heavily, Zak retrieved his daggers. Stepping over, he demanded, "Well? Any other insults you want to throw?" The man shook his head painfully. "Good. Now get your miserable carcass out of my sight." The enforcer took off running, not looking back. "Oh yeah, I'm just that good." Zak commented to himself, nodding. Satisfied that he had stood up against another assault on his pride, he looked back to the three others. Devlar was kneeling besides Tyrahae, but hadn't done anything, and Arakonza leaned against the wall. Catching Zak looking at him, he shrugged, and held both hands up in a gesture of helplessness. Muttering a curse under his breath, Zak cleaned his sword on the dead man's clothes, and shoved it back in the sheath. "I hate it when this happens," he groused to the air.