The sun was setting in the west, turning the land into a patchwork of gold, red, and black as the shadows lengthened. A warm breeze caressed the Lake of Steam, one last touch of the sun before the bitter cold of night, as Zak Crimsonleaf approached Ankhapur. The mercenary had seen many hardships, and looked as though everything but his essence had been scoured away, leaving an angry, harsh man as unpredictable as a lightning strike and nearly as impossible to avoid if it chose to lash out at you. His face was gaunt and grim, and dark bruises under his eyes showed that he had been getting far too little sleep of late. His clothes were ragged and threadbare, with no evidence of any attempt at their repair. As if to compensate for this, his sword was sharper than ever, and the brass of the hilt glowed in the fading light. His shield gleamed with attention, and his sure, steady stride betrayed a warrior, eager for any chance to fight.

It had cost him a tortorous effort to come so far so fast, but the fires of revenge drove him onwards. His stolen sword was proof that he could be made a fool of, that the great Zak Crimsonleaf was not above such things as theft. That there were those that dared to steal from him. His honor was blackened, and only blood would wash it clean. Even now, he was still a long way from where he had last seen the one that he would kill. Tyra Blackmorn, he guessed, was even now heading north to the Zhentarim fortress of Darkhold. But if she had been in the center of the Citadel of the Raven, with all the forces of the Black Network gathered about her, he would not have cared. He could be patient when he had to. She would make a mistake, sooner or later, and when she did, he would be there. No other outcome was possible.

A grim smile crossed his face as he trudged onward towards Ankhapur. It was close enough to begin asking for news. His path of vengeance began tonight.

Jemic watched him approach, leaning against the cool stone walls of the city. To the ranger, he was only another solitary traveler, distant and shadowed. She sighed heavily, pushing back a few strands of hair that had become disarranged with the wind. The ranger had tired of the city after the first day. Arakanzar, with his typical flexibility, was already becoming entrenched in the city's underworld, spreading the word that a wizard was available for work…the kind not mentioned in polite company. Devlar combed the streets, acting as his eyes and ears among the thieves, and Jemic was left with drudge work, nothing that she could complain was immoral or evil. Hours were spent organizing the half-drow's scribbled notes on magic, sitting in taverns to refer to Arakanzar those who wished to speak to him, and occasionally, there were jobs like this, the ones that made life a little less miserable. She was to watch those entering the city, and let him know if she saw anyone interesting.

Let him think that she was cowed by his speeches and warnings. As soon as an 'interesting person' came along, she planned on using them to get out of the city. Jemic waited patiently. This was no different from tracking a wild animal. All it required was attention to detail, and waiting for the right moment to strike.

With the sun at her back, Tyra approached Ankhapur from the west. The proud priestess had also been changed. Instead of holding her head high, her back was bent, and she shot constant glances over her shoulder. Upon her face was an expression of profound loathing that could not diguise the fear in her eyes. Armand and Dram rode behind her. The blackguard had again donned his black plate mail in anticipation of reaching the city, and wore a black and green fighting surcoat emblazoned with an unfamiliar crest. It was probably fake. Tyra knew that he was about as far from knighthood as anyone could hope to get. But he hid his true nature well, and from his face, you could never tell that he was the same man that had hacked off her hand and threatened to finish the job unless she had did what he said. Dram, the orcish enforcer, was still the same. Sullen, frowning, and ill-tempered. As if sensing her animosity, Armand remarked,

"Impatient to be free of me, priestess? I don't blame you. And don't worry, I intend to keep my word. As soon as we enter the city, you're free to go. Just don't do something foolish, like come after me." Tyra managed something resembling her old sneer.

"I won't. But somebody else might." He smiled thinly.

"I sincerely doubt that. You're not stupid enough to gamble on someone else to take me down. In the unlikely event that you manage to summon up the courage to do it yourself…you'd better know what you're doing." The three of them continued on without a word.

They had drawn within two bowshots of the high walls when, without warning, a man in dark robes appeared before them with a sharp crack like that of a whip. He held an impressively ornate staff in one dusky hand, and his hood was thrown back, showing pointed ears and long white hair. Tyra gave a startled yell and raised her dire mace, reaching for her magic, but Armand snapped,

"Hold! He's a friend." Fighting her instinct to hurl divine fire at the newcomer, Tyra lowered her weapon. The wizard, for so he must be, was not in a good mood. Looking up at the blackguard, he demanded,

"Have you anything to report? Is my wayward relative dealt with?" Armand shook his head slightly, meeting the man's gaze.

"He has not, my lord. I search for him even now."

"I am paying you for results! I do not appreciate having my coin go to waste, and I expect that you will either find him or face the consequences." Tyra scowled. A typical wizard. They expected the world to jump to do their bidding. Without something to restrain them, they were like a pack of wild dogs, leaving destruction in their wake. Armand, she noted disgustedly, did not object, and said only,

"My apologies. Your cousin is a capable man, and Faerun is a big place. But I have heard somewhat of a man resembling him from one of the caravans traveling west. This time there will be no mistakes. Though perhaps," His eyes narrowed. "If you had alerted me that he could cast a teleportation spell, he would not have escaped the first time." Tyra was intrigued at the conversation. So it was the mage's own cousin who wanted him dead. Certainly not a great deal of familial affection there.

"Just find him, and do it swiftly. I don't have time to keep going back and forth between Dambrath and wherever you happen to be." With that, the wizard whirled around, and, pulling up his hood, gestured for them to follow him into the city. The cleric's back was still bent, but her agile mind had never been as active. If Armand expected he could mistreat one of Cyric's servants and live, he would find that he was dead wrong.

Across Ankhapur, Zak was glad, more so than he would admit, to see Jemic again. At first, both of them had been astonished to find the other, whom they had thought dead or worse, alive and well. Before he could react, he found himself on his back, staring up at the spinning sky, his jaw feeling as though it had been kicked by a horse.

"What was that for?" he groaned, getting to his feet. He hadn't exactly expected a warm welcome, but a punch in the jaw from one of the only people who had ever tolerated him because of something other than coin…that was unprecedented.

"You told me you'd gotten out of the assassination business!"

"I'm not an assassin, I'm a mercenary. An assassin kills people for a living exclusively. I do other things too. Besides, the man was obviously not exactly the virtous type, you might have noticed." The ranger was unrelenting, and jabbed a finger into his chest as she snapped,

"Not the point! You don't hide something like this from me, I thought we made that clear when I offered to work with you." He sighed, unable to meet her pained gaze.

"I was going to, but we got sidetracked, and-" She held up a hand, cutting him off, and requested, her voice quietly pleading,

"Please…no excuses." The mercenary flushed red, but he was beginning to become angry again. What right does she have to judge me?

"All right, fine! The money was too good. I can't turn down offers because of any delicate moral arguments. It's what I do. You don't like it, I'll just keep moving. I've had about enough of you and your principles! Every time I take a job, it's 'Who hired you?' 'That's not right.' 'Being broke and starving doesn't justify taking a job like that.' Well dammit to the ninth hell, Jemic! I'm a bloody sellsword, I don't know anything else to do." His voice softened, as he admitted something that had gnawed at him ever since the day he left Scardale. "I don't know what else I am." He looked her in the eye. "But at least I try and make sure I kill the right people. I try, Jemic, it's all I can do. You can't ask for more than that. It's nice to know you're alive and not rotting in some cavern." He turned to go, but a hand caught his shoulder. Jemic's voice was quiet.

"Wait. I'm sorry. I misspoke."

"No, you didn't," Zak chided mildly. "You meant every word you said, just like I did. Don't be sorry." He grinned slightly. "Next time, I'll be sure and wake you up in the middle of the night to tell you that I've taken a job like that. Fair enough?" The ranger nodded wearily.

"Fair enough." She smiled broadly. "It's good to see you."

"Likewise. How in hell did you get out of those cursed tunnels? Thought for sure you'd bit it." The ranger's face darkened at the question.

"I don't want to talk about it just yet...at least not all of it. But there's something you should know. Arakanzar and Devlar are here, in the city." Zak's hand was on the hilt of his sword in an instant, and any happiness that he might have showed was gone, buried deep.

"Where?" Jemic stood firm, and said,

"No." The mercenary's eyes narrowed, and his hands clenched into fists.

"No is not a word that I put up with often. That damned elfblood left me to die, forsaken and alone. I'm going to go and kill him, and you're going to tell me where he is."

"You're not going off to get killed. You have better things to do, and we need to leave this town as soon as possible." the ranger argued. Zak refused to budge.

"Jemic, I don't let people try and kill me and get away with it. You can't tell me you wouldn't like to pay him back too. But since I am trying to turn over a new leaf, give me one reason why he should be spared, and I'll let him live." The silence after his simple offer hung thick in the evening air, a nearly physical prescence as the ranger considered his words. She spoke carefully, hesitant and unsure.

"He saved my life. It's true that he's a despicable person, and he would have left me to die if I hadn't done what he wanted, but for all that, I'm still alive because of him. He could have killed me if he had wanted to, even after we got here. So spare his life this once. But only this once. If he ever goes against you or me again, then fine. But not now, and not this way."

Zak sighed heavily, the fight draining out of him. Suddenly, he didn't seem quite so tall. He looked old beyond his years, and very tired. His voice was flat.

"Very well."

"Thank you." He grunted.

"Don't thank me. I'm already regretting it. I would still like to talk to him. If anyone will know whether she has got here yet, he will." Jemic raised an eyebrow.

"Are we both thinking of the same person?" Zak nodded, grinning.

"Aye, that we are. The wizard might get off, but our favorite priestess isn't. I'm going to get my sword back. Are you with me on that?" She gestured for him to follow.

"As much as I can be, Zak. As much as I ever can be." The mercenary chuckled to himself, remembering the day that they had met.

"And stay out!" Zak Crimsonleaf hit the cobbles with enough force that he was fairly sure he'd broken his nose. Behind him, the door of the Trade of Blades slammed shut, leaving him lying in the street, idly wondering when the world was going to stop moving around. Groaning, he got to his feet, staggering and putting a hand to his head, which had already been muddled enough before someone had decided to use him as a javelin. He was plenty drunk, to be sure, having spent the greater portion of his day in the well-known inn and tavern, which was a popular gathering place for mercenaries, spells-for-hire, and of course, adventurers. He was sure to find work, or rather, he would have been had he not decided to begin a long and impassioned tirade against a priest of Tyr. Turning around, he yelled at the unhearing stone,

"Well, excuse me for havin' a frice-damned 'pinion!" Receiving no answer, he spat off to the side, and wandered off into the night, intent on finding another tavern that was more accommodating. By the gods, but tomorrow they'll learn that nobody treats Zak Crimsonleaf like this. Lost in visions of glory, most of which also involved a great deal of ale, he failed to notice where he was going. When he finally cared to take a look, he frowned, sure that he should be concerned about venturing into the infamous docks. But, feeling not particularly afraid at the prospect, he made a feeble attempt to loosen his sword in the sheath, and went on. Before he had gotten five steps further, a patch of shadow to his right resolved into a man with a knife.

"Whoa there, friend, where are you off to at this time of night?" the newcomer asked, his grin showing several missing teeth. Zak snorted disdainfully.

"Back off, friend, or by the hells, I'll put three feet of steel through ye." He managed to wrap his fingers around the hilt of his sword, though he had doubts as to whether he could draw it without hurting himself. The man flipped his knife up and got ready to throw, murmuring,

"Just hold still a minute, and I promise all your problems will be over." His smile disappeared as an arrow splintered on the cobblestones in front of him, and he cursed under his breath, looking to see who had fired the shot. Zak turned around unsteadily to see someone holding a shortbow, and nocking another arrow. Her voice was steady as she bent the bow to its full extension.

"The next one goes through your knife hand. Find another mark. This one's not worth it." The man spat and ran off, vanishing into the gloom. The archer lowered her weapon, muttering,

"I hate this place." Zak attempted to bow, but nearly lost his balance, and settled for raising a hand in greeting.

"Mush obliged to ye, lash. Zak Crimshonleaf I am, an' I be in yer debt." She nodded, her expression slightly disgusted.

"Jemic. Ah…don't worry about owing me, just let me show you to a decent inn and we'll call it good." He shrugged.

"Sure, ash ye shay." About then the night caught up with him, and he toppled over, landing at her feet, an oblivious smile on his face. Jemic sighed heavily.

"Pleasant dreams, Zak Crimsonleaf."

Arakanzar too watched the day fade from his second-story room in one of the city's less reputable quarters. To his sensitive eyes, the light was a nuisance, a necessary discomfort that he had to endure. Darkness was safer by far, when he could see and common folk could not. He looked down into the street, watching the ebbing flow of people pass by. Sometimes it was a little lonely, being as intelligent and capable as he. Sometimes, he wondered if he should devote himself to something else than his ambitions. Sometimes. But always there returned, the memories of past glory. His home, far to the south, and all the promise it held, that only he could awaken. Dambrath needed guidance, and a ruler who was dedicated, who would truly rule, rather than simply watch over. If it was not him...a dark smile tugged at the corners of his mouth...then it would be. Returning his attention to his work, he was interrupted as Devlar opened the door and stepped in, not bothering to knock. It was one of the wizard's signs of trust, with both he and the thief knowing that there were other precautions taken, on both sides. But it served.

"Boss, we might have trouble," Devlar warned, his expression dark. Arakanzar returned his pen to the inkpot, and, sifting sand over his writing, asked wearily,

"What is this trouble?"

"You know that sellsword we kicked out back in the Underdark?"

"I'm doing my best to forget entirely about Zak Crimsonleaf. What of him?"

"Looks like he didn't die, or if he did, it must be his ghost comin' up the street with Jemic, lookin' like he wants a fight." Arakanzar was silent for a moment, then, with a bitter curse, he rose, snatching up his staff.

"That fool would pick now to show up. This is the last thing I need. I had better cast the illusion now. Go down and wait for my signal. If I have to, I want Jemic out of action, and take care to keep her as undamaged as possible. I'll handle the mercenary myself." Murmuring under his breath, the half-drow's hands moved in a swift series of gestures, and with a crackle of magical energy, down below in the street, an exact duplicate of him appeared. Both of them wore a deep scowl. It was always best to be prepared for anything. No matter if things did come to blows, no matter how fast Zak was or thought he was, he would never have the chance to come close to threatening Arakanzar. Let him be angry, let him be blind with fury, it will only make him easier to kill.

As Zak approached, he was careful to keep his temper under control, if only barely. When he gave his word, he kept it, and he'd be damned if he would break it now. Even so, his hand continually strayed close to his sword hilt. As he drew near to the address Jemic had given him, he saw Arakanzar himself waiting for him, looking none too pleased at the sight, and he gave up any thoughts of revenge. No matter how fast he was, he couldn't cover the ground between them, draw his sword, and spit the half-drow before he got a spell off. Attacking a mage who was ready for you was a quick way to die.

"Well," Zak called from six feet away, coming to a halt and crossing his arms. "I hadn't expected to meet you again so soon, Arakanzar." The wizard smiled coldly, nodding in greeting. No doubt Devlar was nearby.

"The feeling is mutual, Crimsonleaf. If you've come for revenge, you will not have it. If you come to offer your services, and I doubt you are that stupid, I have no need of them. If you have come to talk, which I also doubt, I have no interest in speaking with you. You may proceed on your way, and none of my goodwill goes with you." Zak raised his hands, trying to make the man understand that he wasn't here to kill him.

"I want my sword back, and I know that if Tyra has come through here, you'll know. So tell me if she's been here or not, and I'll be on my way. Arakanzar, as he thought, did not believe him, and took hold of his staff in both hands.

"Begone, Crimsonleaf. This is your second warning. There will not be a third." The staff's tip began crackling with green energy. Zak cursed inwardly. There was nothing for it. He was going to have to decide whether he wanted to continue tempting fate and try to get him to talk. The wizard watched him struggle, one eyebrow arching. Zak lifted his gaze, and opened his mouth to speak, but what he would have said, he was never sure. All thoughts of Arakanzar were driven from his mind, as behind the half-drow, he glimpsed a familiar, hated face. The face of the woman who had dared to steal from him, and not only just that, but to steal his sword, his one great treasure.

"Tyra Blackmorn!" he bellowed, whipping out his sword and charging straight past the surprised wizard, who watched him part the passerby with wild swipes of his weapon, his shield flying off his back and onto his arm. Jemic followed behind, nocking an arrow. Arakanzar, following the sellsword's path, recognized Tyra as well, but before he could decide what he should do about it, a fiery ray sliced through the illusion, which flickered before vanishing completely. Following the origin of the spell, the half-drow spotted a robed figure that could only be Kimdezar. The wizard slammed the shutters closed, hissing a dark elven curse. His world was collapsing around him, and there seemed to be nothing he could do except fight.

Author's Note: More contrived tension! What are the odds? But in all seriousness, there is a perfectly reasonable excuse for Tyra just happening to run into Zak and company. Unfortunately, I can't tell you what it is without spoiling a crucial portion of the plot for next time, which, if all goes well, will be the last, or at least second-to-last chapter. Brave souls who have ventured this far, the end is near, and I salute you for making it this far. Of course, once I finish this, there's another story coming right after, so don't think you're off the hook. Enjoy the show.