Author's Note: I had the choice of making this one extra-long chapter or two slightly-shorter than I would have preferred chapters, and I chose the second one, so I apologize if this chapter isn't all you expected. Rest assured, things will resolve, one way or another, in the next one. Unless I decide to do an epilogue, I'm still not sure about that. And, in response to the questions from the Green Knight:

1. No, and yes, go ahead, though you're also welcome to forget about that aspect of his character.

2. Yes, he should have cleric levels. I had forgotten about that. How many is up to you.

3. I'll see what I can do. Keep an eye out.

With her first step in Ankhapur, Tyra had been aware of a strange prescence, a faint tingling at her fingertips, a creeping at the back of her neck. The sword on her back seemed to be resonating with magical energy, responding to something beyond her perception. The priestess had suspected what it was right away. Zak Crimsonleaf. I don't know how or why, but the sword is seeking him out. Of course, the notion was absurd. The mercenary should be far away, dead even. Most likely it was only paranoia. There were plenty of other strong sources of magic in the city, no doubt. But Tyra had not gotten this far by ignoring her instincts, and even if it was not in fact Zak, it was something that made her uneasy. The natural thing to do would be to find somewhere to hide or leave the city at once. But in truth…the priestess was tired of running, of living in fear, of constantly looking over her shoulder for danger both real…the memory of Armand's chilling half-smile made her wince…and imagined…she saw Zak claw his way out of a cave entrance, more dead than alive, and bellow to the unhearing skies that he was coming for her, then woke up with a start. So, she resolved, instead of running, to seek the source of her fear…and to deal with it in such a way that it would give her nightmares. And she had come upon what she had, in a way, expected. Zak Crimsonleaf was alive, and thirsting for her blood. Now the mercenary came forward in a headlong charge, his expression determined, and his teeth bared. She cast a few necessary spells, then settled into a fighting stance, feet spread wide and dire mace raised, and watched him come. She taunted him, sneering,

"So eager to die? That's all right, I'm more than happy to deliver last rites!" With the last word, she opened the battle with a low sweep intended to shatter his ankle. Zak skidded to a stop, dropping to one knee and blocking with his shield while his sword flashed forward in a thrust. The priestess parried with her mace handle, diverting the blade upwards and turning the fight into a contest of strength, and with only one hand on his sword, and divine power flowing through her, it was one that the mercenary could not win, and he was forced back a few steps. Tyra did not press the attack, well aware that a quick battle favored his fast, brutal style. He would tire before she did. Zak held off on an immediate counterstrike as well, circling warily, shield leading, sword raised over his shoulder.

"Don't tell me the great Zak Crimsonleaf is losing his nerve?" she said in mock surprise, again trying to provoke him, but he did not rise to the bait. His only reply was a toothy smile, and a wordless battle cry as he came on again.

Jemic watched the pair struggle back and forth, arrow nocked and ready, but did not take aim. She did not intend to loose a single shaft unless it was clear that Zak was losing. The mercenary, she was certain, would not appreciate any help. He hated little so much as unearned victory. So she waited, enmeshed in the intricate and deadly contest that unfolded before her. Zak's bastard sword caught the dying sun in a series of silvery flashes as he executed a blindingly fast series of slashes, each of which was turned aside. Tyra's dire mace bled cold red light, etching intricate crimson patterns in the air as she made full use of both heads to batter away at the mercenary's already dented shield, sparks flying at each hit. Then, Jemic's attention was torn away by the dagger that appeared as if by magic at her throat, the edge sharp enough to pierce skin with even the slightest pressure. She could feel a thin trickle of blood welling up from a shallow cut. The ranger stifled a shout, knowing full well that if her assailant had wanted her dead, she would be bleeding out on the cobbles right now. A strong hand took hold of her shoulder, and slowly, surely, began maneuvering both of them back towards the shadows.

"Well met, Jemic," Devlar murmured in her ear. "You have a lot to answer for."

Arakanzar sprinted down the stairs from his apartment, his mind a whirlwind. He half expected to be consumed in fire at any moment. Kimdezar had never been the subtle type when combat magic was concerned, always figuring that the ubiquitous fireball or lightning bolt was the simplest and best way to end a fight before it started, and he could well have noticed the shutters slamming shut, or even purposefully given Arakanzar the chance to run. The simplest? Possibly. The best? Not by half. And that is a lesson I will take pleasure in making sure he never forgets for as long as he lives. Which will be not much longer. The wizard threw open the back door to the building and vanished into the shadows, already working out tactics and preparations, one thought providing a certain grim satisfaction. He won't go far. He knows I'm not running. It's high time I put the family in their place.

After finding stabling for his and Dram's mounts, Armand had left the orc behind and sought time alone for thought and consideration, beginning to wander the city, his agile mind at work on the complexities of his labors. Who to kill. Who to spare. This contact would be set to seeking a certain item, that pawnbroker was to be checked in with for interesting items, and that tavern would provide the information he would need to tell if Arakanzar was here. It was difficult and demanding work, but it was no more or less than his duty, and he had never shrunk from doing what it asked of him. Though of course…he had not always been that way. The quiet of the evening streets brought to mind his young days in Westgate, when the world was simpler. Stopping for a moment, Armand remembered the past…remembered that terrible day when the first of the illusions of the world were torn from his eyes.

Fifteen-year old Armand Lennox sat despondently on the steps of the temple of Tyr. The building, built of white marble and gray-flecked granite, seemed out of place among the bustling streets of Westgate, and not only because of the style of its making. The god of justice seemed an unlikely person to take interest in the city, for whatever else it was, it was not a place of virtue. Here the rulers were the gleam of gold, the mysteries of magic, and the knife in the dark. Here, the Night Masks ruled when the sun went down, and the merchants, mercenaries, and great guilds held sway when it rose. Nonetheless, it was hard to find it in his heart to fault his home for all his life. He could not look on the familiar sights and sounds without a sense of belonging, of ease. Here, he knew how things worked, and what to do about it. He knew that it was possible to rise above one's roots, that life was worth making something of. At least…he thought he knew. He felt tears welling up, and angrily swiped a hand across his face. His father was dead.

Strictly speaking, of course, Koraven Lennox was not his father, but it was Koraven, a traveling paladin who had seen him refuse to get involved with the thieves, and who had seen something in him. It was Koraven who found him a place at the home of a retired soldier. And it was Koraven who had saw to it that he learned of many things. Weaponcraft. Writing. Geography. History. Though the paladin was not his father, he had been as good as, and Armand eagerly awaited the times when his way took him to Westgate. Not anymore. Not ever again. He had just heard it from the latest merchant train. Koraven had been ambushed on the road and slain. How, no one could say, only that he was dead. The paladin had told Armand that the gods were just, and rewarded those who served them, and that Tyr stood at their forefront, the strong hand of justice. He had been sure that the great god would save him from peril. He had been wrong, and Armand no longer knew what to believe. Was Koraven mistaken? Had Tyr abandoned him? How could it be a just world that took him away? As he sat, and thought, he failed to notice the stranger until they were next to him.

"Something wrong?" Armand's head snapped up. The speaker looked to be a priest or monk, for he wore a plain woolen robe tied with a rope belt, and was getting on in years, his hair streaked with gray. A knowing smile was on his face. Armand shrugged. The stranger sat down next to him slowly, chuckling quietly.

"If you don't want to talk about it, my son, I will not pry. But it will do you no good to let whatever burdens you poison your mind. That I know." He folded his hands and waited patiently, looking out at the city. Eventually, Armand murmured,

"My father just died." The stranger sighed heavily.

"It seems like the world will never be bright again, doesn't it?" Armand burst out angrily, standing up abruptly,

"How can the gods stand for this? How can the world be like this? It's not right."

"No, it is not. Did you think it would be?"

"Well…that's what he told me…that things work out…that that the world is balanced." The stranger shook his head.

"One of the great truths of this world is that in the end, everything comes to nothing. People die, realms fall, the passage of time sweeps everything away, leaving only dust. Someday, all of this…" He gestured to the streets before them. "…will be gone, and no one will remember it." Armand slumped to the steps.

"Then what point is there in doing anything?" The stranger smiled.

"Because although all will one day be forgotten, it is how it becomes so that has yet to be decided. You must focus less on where you are going, and more on how you are getting there. If you already know where you will be at the end of a journey, there is little point in taking the most direct way. Your life may be short, but you decide how to live it. This are only the basic precepts of my philosophy. If you wish, we can speak more of this later, but for now, take heart, and remember that things are not always as bad as they seem." Armand smiled faintly.

"Thank you. May I ask your name?" Getting to his feet, the man bowed low.

"Of course. My name is Vin Therolas."

You did me a great service. In the following years, Armand had been led deeper and deeper into Vin's teachings, absorbing everything he had to say. The man had been about as far from the simple monk that he appeared as was possible. It was he who had made the blackguard what he was, and he did not regret what he had become. Vin's teachings were hardly unbiased, yet in the essentials, they rang true. The distant ring of combat and the call for the watch caused the barest hint of a smile to cross Armand's face. He was quite curious to find out who was brash enough to be dueling on the streets. Ankhapur, while not a beacon of virtue, was hardly the chaotic free-for-all of Westgate or the shadowed streets of Sembia. There were rules, and they were enforced. Of course, that only meant that he was all the more certain to gain from finding out who would break them. Blood and death always attract the most interesting people. He had come to know several of his best contacts, and, if you could call them that, friends, in this way. A stray thought struck him. I wonder if that little priestess has gotten into trouble already? No…even for her, that would be pushing things. But even so… The sword she was carrying was known to him. Though few people would recognize that blade, he had, for nearly thirty years, made it his business to know everything that was worth knowing, and that sword was not something that many people would choose to wield, had they known what it was truly capable of. He had not chosen to tell her of what it was, naturally. He had no interest in owning it. He had, however, given her one warning. Though I doubt she will heed it. More's the pity.

As she fought for her life, Tyra could not help but thinking of the blackguard's last words to her. Steel screeched and sparked as Zak's sword licked in from every conceivable angle, but above it all, she could still hear Armand say, his face set in a scowl, "Whatever else you do with that sword, do not break it unless you have nothing left to lose." Well…it looked like she might be coming near to that point. The mercenary was finding strength he had not had before, and the strain of keeping her dire mace moving was beginning to tell. For a brief moment, they again locked weapons, and she snarled into his face,

"Why can't you just die already!" He grinned, this time supporting his sword with both hands. His answer was quick and final.

"Never!" And he forced her back a step. But by then, finally, their battle once again ground to a halt as a squad of the local miltia came running, and their commander bellowed for the combatants to cease in the name of the king, and drop their weapons. Zak and Tyra glanced over to the soldiers, who were forming into a ring about them, spears and halberds leveled, and exchanged a significant look. The mercenary was furious. Not again! Always something interfering! The priestess' anger was not much less. This is not what I need! If we get taken in by these fools, he'll have the law on his side and demand his sword back. As the demand was repeated, Zak nodded slowly, once, and lowered his weapon. Tyra followed suit. The militia closed in upon them, cautiously, and Zak winked at the priestess, who smiled unpleasantly. As one, the pair whirled around and put themselves back to back, launching a simultaneous attack against the stunned soldiers, who found themselves at a gross disadvantage. Zak rammed his shield into one man's face, feeling his nose break, while Tyra caught another in the ankle with a vicious one-two strike that left him screaming on the ground, thoughts of fighting forgotten. The sounds of battle rose higher.

As Devlar forced her steadily back from the fight, Jemic protested as loud as she dared,

"You don't-" He only increased the pressure of his knife, snapping,

"Quiet! I don't what? Know what I'm doing? What I'm interrupting? The big mistake I'm making? I'm doing what the boss told me to do, and that's keeping you out of the fight. You still owe him service, which it looks like you don't intend to deliver." They were nearly to an alley entrance by this time, and Jemic stopped, refusing to move, even when the rogue's dagger cut deeper.

"This is as far as I go," she stated firmly.

"Keep moving or I'll carve you a new smile!" Devlar hissed. Her answer was contemptuous.

"You aren't going to kill me and we both know it. Now, I am going to say something, and you are going to be quiet, and listen." Glowering, Devlar wisely kept silent, and removed his hand from her shoulder. Jemic continued,

"All I want is to-" She was cut off once again as the pommel of the thief's rapier came down on her head, and she pitched forward, her sight blurring. Devlar's foot came into view, and she heard him say, as if far away,

"I'm not a very good listener, Jemic. You should know that by now." Then a second voice, one she had heard before, but remained maddeningly unfamiliar, answered him.

"Indeed. But I have a feeling you'll make an exception in this case." The ranger shook her head, and began gathering her scattered wits.

Zak sidestepped the thrust of his current opponent's spear, feeling it glance off his armor, and brought his sword down, cleaving the head from the weapon, leaving the man holding a shorn length of wood. He turned and ran, dropping the useless pole. The mercenary let him go, and wheeled to face whoever else wanted to get in his way. The fighting had taken a lot out of him, and he was gasping for breath, his headband soaked with sweat, and sported several fresh cuts and slashes from which blood dripped steadily, mingling with that of those he had not been able to defeat without killing. The cobblestones were slick with it.

"Who else wants to die?" he bellowed, raising his sword. But there was no one to answer him. The soldiers were dead, unconscious, or fled from his fury. A sickening crunch caught his attention, and he saw Tyra, the head of her dire mace buried in the face of her last opponent. A fair number of bodies littered the street about her, and none of them was still breathing. Zak whistled, impressed, and remarked,

"Not bad for a infernal thief and liar."

"You're too kind," she replied, her voice poisonously sweet. "You aren't bad yourself for an idiotic mercenary."

"I want my sword back."

"Come and get it, Crimsonleaf." Zak shook with the effort of holding back his temper.

"You can't win, you know. I'll always be the shadow at your back, a face in the crowd, a sword hanging over your head. Even if you win here, I'll claw my way out of the pits of hell to strike at you!" She spat at his feet.

"Do your worst," she snarled. "I'll send you back as many times as it takes for you to Leave! Me! Alone!" Gathering himself, the mercenary came on once again, sword held high.

Kimdezar considered his options. Arakanzar would be here in moments, if not less, and he wouldn't lift a finger to save his underlings. I have to work fast. He demanded of Devlar,

"Tell me where your master's bolt-hole is in this city, or die here and now." The thief didn't hesitate in the slightest.

"Halfway across the city, among the alchemist's guild. He has a room there under the name of Anthony, an apprentice seeking a master, but they won't tell you that. He claims to have been fleeing a cruel master and given them your description. Some of the wizards among them will fight you if necessary. I'm sure you can handle them, though." Kimdezar laughed unkindly. This is the best he could come up with? Truly, my relation has fallen far.

"You really think you can lie to me? I've spent my whole life sorting out truth from lies, and your skill at the craft…I assure you it is nothing compared to those I usually have to deal with. That was too fast an answer to have been truth, and besides which, he would never tell you that. However, now I know you'll not tell the truth even when threatened with death. There are ways around that." He began casting a spell that would make Devlar believe him a good friend, but just as he was completing the crowning phrase, a cold so intense that it burned like fire burst upon his back, and he felt several shards of something cut through, but the worst of it was deflected by his wards. Whirling around, he saw Arakanzar, his arm still thrust outwards, a bluish mist dissipating from his hand, looking singularly disappointed he had survived. Kimdezar shook his head, sighing.

"Battle was never your specialty. I took some precautions against you, you might notice." The renegade shrugged.

"I work with what I have. Misdirection is. Devlar?" Kimdezar, without looking, shot one hand downward, retrieving a hand crossbow from his sleeve, and, fired it backwards. A few seconds later, there was the heavy thump of a body hitting the ground. Glancing over his shoulder, Kimdezar was impressed. Devlar lay unconscious less than a foot away from striking range for his rapier. Turning back to Arakanzar, he tossed the weapon aside.

"I think this little game of hide-and-seek has gone on long enough. Are you ready to put aside your tricks and schemes? They have all failed you. Now, you die in the straight fight that you have always avoided. A fitting end." His relative took a deep breath. When he spoke, his voice was calm and confident, and a little smile stole onto his face.

"Did you ever wonder why exactly I have always avoided the straight fight? Why I prefer the shadowy corner, the assassin's blade, the subtle spell? Why every time you seek to confront me, I have vanished into the air? Why I was considering leaving Dambrath in the first place, even before my exile?" Kimdezar snorted derisively.

"I can only suppose you're about to tell me, from your dramatic, foolish, and rhetorical questions." Arakanzar finally broke into a broad grin, showing teeth, as he said,

"Because I was just too good at it." With that, he began casting once again, with Kimdezar right behind him. This time, things would be different.

Tyra was losing this fight. With each hit, the priestess could feel her strength ebbing. With each failed strike, she could sense her advantage slipping away, do what she might to hold onto it. Zak, galling as it was to admit it, was too good, too motivated, or just plain lucky. Spells were not an option. The only thing she had left was the sword that started it all. I could give it back. She dismissed that thought almost as quickly as it came to mind. She could never go back. Like as not, he'd just kill her anyway. But before she died, she could make sure he never got what he wanted, and go to Cyric with a smile on her face. We all have to die sometime…and I always knew I would never go quietly.

"Hold!" she rasped, taking a few quick steps back. Zak hesitated, suspicious, but he let his sword fall, resting the point on the ground, and leaned heavily on it.

"Have you come to your senses?" he found the breath to ask. Tyra's dire mace clanged on the ground as she let it fall, raising her hands.

"I surrender. You win. I know when I'm beaten. Here, I'll give back the cursed sword." Reaching over her shoulder, she drew Echoing Courage from the sheath with a faint ring. The blade was as mirror-bright and glistening-sharp as it was the day he had gotten it, and he caught his breath slightly at the sight. But a nagging little voice held him back from running to knock it out of her grasp.

"What's the catch? What trick is this? You're lying!" She laughed, and to his surprise, she meant it. It was the first time he had ever heard the priestess in good humor, and his heart sank at the sound. This is bad, very bad. Taking the sword and carefully drawing a red line across her palm, Tyra replied,

"No, no, no lies this time. No tricks. This thing is too much trouble. You're welcome to it. But yes, there is a catch." Zak began to feel a little better. As long as there were conditions, ironically, he had a chance of getting what he wanted.

"Name your terms, and I'll decide if I just want to kill you instead." Smearing the blade with her blood, Tyra remarked,

"You still haven't won, of course. You're forgetting a few things." Zak's eyes narrowed.

"I'm in no mood for guessing games. Tell me what I've forgotten."

"First, you've left me nothing to lose. You know what it means all too well to be like that, but you've never learned from it, never realized how dangerous someone like that can be."

"I'll try and do better the next time someone robs me of an irreplaceable weapon. Anything else?"

"Second, you think I didn't prepare for this? I might've thought you dead, but I've taken very special care to have something ready in case this ever happened. Flaming Death." Echoing Courage flared to life, the red-gold flames matching perfectly with the colors of the sunset as they twined about the steel, sending up an oily smoke as Tyra's blood was consumed. The sellsword smirked.

"Bring it on. See if I give you time to call on your deluded failure of a god. And if you think I'm afraid of your skill with a sword, I've forgotten more tricks with that weapon than you've ever learned." Tyra smiled slightly.

"I'm sure that's true. Lastly, you're so in love with this weapon. So much so you think everyone feels the same way. But that's not why I stole it. I stole this sword because I wanted to, and to humiliate you. Nothing more, and nothing less. You can dramatize it all you want, lament how I've committed some hideous sin, but I honestly don't care. Which is why…" Her smile began to grow wider. "You would never even consider the possibility…" She took hold of the hilt with both hands, and a horrible, horrible thought began bubbling to the surface of Zak's mind.

"…that I would break it before I give it to you!"

"By all the gods, no!" He hurled himself forward, heedless of danger, feeling an icy dread that he hadn't experienced for a long time, but was every bit as bad as he remembered. He wasn't fast enough. Tyra shrieked out the words to a spell, and Echoing Courage shattered like glass, catching the light in one final burst of brilliance. What happened next, no one was expecting. Except one. A massive fireball bloomed from where the weapon had been, and both sellsword and priestess were flung aside like leaves before a storm.

Jemic, halfway back to her feet, paused, and looked to where a cloud of black smoke rose into the sky. Oh no…Zak…what have you done?

Devlar awoke from his drugged slumber, and tried to make his body respond.

Arakanzar and Kimdezar paused a moment in their battle, and the two wizards whispered in unison, "Loviatar's bloody lash…"

Armand sighed, and drew his sword. Duty calls. May Tymora guide my sword and Tempus aid my arm.

The city of Ankhapur shuddered beneath the presence of something new.