Zak drifted on a sea of black, feeling it soaking into his bones, bringing with it a feeling of weariness beyond mortal limits. Everything seemed to fade, growing more and more distant, lost in the dim reaches beyond his sight. He could hear screams and cries of pain, laughter that froze his blood, and was conscious of a faint echo of agony that ran through him. All the old voices seemed to whisper in his ear as he lay, silent, wondering if he should bother to fight anymore. His father…Keep them ears hid while we're in the city, lad, 'less you want to come out with a bloody nose or worse. His mother…I'm very disappointed in you. His uncle…I didn't want to believe you could do that. Gods help me, I didn't want to even when they showed me the body. There were a few new ones, too. Tyra…Mercenary scum. Jemic…You just don't know when to leave well enough alone. Zak uttered a heartfelt groan, wishing they would all just go away. Maybe if he just let everything go, they would leave him alone. For a moment, he even began to do it. But then, a tiny fire of defiance began to burn within him, as he remembered other things. Times and places where he had mattered, where he had made a difference. His first battle against Sembian bandits. If you hadn't spotted the glare off their lookout's helm, we'd have walked right into a shooting gallery. We owe you one. When he had signed onto the fight against the Tuigan hordes. Crimsonleaf, I never saw a man fight like that. Damn near scared the hell out of me, but it got them to back off, and at two-to-one odds, too. The whispers and murmurs when he walked into a place where he was known. Say, it's him. You think its true what they say? I ain't gonna be dumb enough to ask. And most of all, he remembered his own resolve and determination. His old vow, that one day, he would show the world that he, Zak Crimsonleaf, was the greatest warrior of all time. As the fire spread, sending a rush of new energy through him, he smiled. They won't get me without a fight. Zak Crimsonleaf closed his eyes, and willed himself awake.

The pain was just as bad as he had thought.

"Nine Bloody Hells!" he roared, as the manifold wounds he had taken made themselves known as though they were old friends. He was hurt, bad, but not fatally. The worst parts seemed like the fiery claws that tore at his gut every time he tried to take a deep breath, and the shard of blackened metal sticking out of his leg. The deep gash that was dripping blood into his eye was nothing. Scalp wounds always looked worse than they were, bleeding freely. That piece of metal triggered a memory, and it was one that erased any lingering concern for his own welfare. Gritting, his teeth, he slid the shard out of himself, and began trying to get up, intent on making the rest of Tyra's life as short and painful as possible, but he had only managed to raise himself up on his elbows when his resolve shattered even quicker than his sword had. The reason for that was what was standing in front of him. It was a demon. Only a demon could fit that description.

It towered above him, nearly twice as tall as even the most massive mountain orc, and had a deep black hide that seemed to consist of great overlapping plates of armor, with cruelly hooked spikes protruding at various places. A pair of massive arms reached nearly to the ground, each one bearing a set of enormous pincers that looked wickedly sharp, and two smaller arms, more normal, extended from its chest. Its face was akin to that of a dog's, with a forward-thrusting snout, but no dog had ever had the insane light that was burning in the demon's eyes, the yellowed rows of fangs that were exposed to the view, or the pair of burnished black horns that extended from the back of its head. The sight alone would have sent most people running away screaming. But there was something worse than that.

It was laughing, throwing its head back and raising both sets of hands in triumph, and fires burning nearby, ignited by the fireball of its release flared up even higher, the sickening stench of sulfur filling the air. The sound was unearthly, reverberating with dark joy, and could claim as kin a legion of cats being roasted alive and a battle where thousands met their death in every moment. Zak felt the hairs on the back of his neck standing up, and he involuntarily flinched backwards. But then, he slowly, carefully, got to his feet, trying not to breathe too much. By the time he had finished, the demon had stopped laughing, and was looking at him intently. Zak met its gaze, even though inside he was feeling much more afraid than he had in a long while. It spoke, in a snarling tongue that pained the half-elf's sensitive ears to hear. He drew his shortsword (his longsword was nowhere to be seen) and snarled back,

"Talons of Garagos, but I'll send you back where you came from if I have to! Speak Common or not at all, demonspawn!"

"He said, 'So this is the one who has been wielding me to such deadly effect.', Crimsonleaf." Looking over his shoulder, Zak saw Arakanzar standing there, leaning on his staff, looking slightly scorched and not a little unnerved at the situation. Next to him was Jemic, her bow in hand, but without an arrow nocked, and with a resigned expression. Behind them both, and standing well away, were Kimdezar and Devlar, though the thief was still trying to shake off the effects of the drugged sleep he had been thrust into. I might have known he'd speak its language.

"Well, ask it what happens now," he suggested sarcastically, gesturing for the wizard to relay the message. The half-drow cleared his throat, and managed to wring out a fairly impressive display of growls and grunts from his thin frame. The demon's answer was short, and concluded with a sweeping gesture of all four arms. Arakanzar turned to Zak and translated,

"For providing him with the most deaths at his hands, through the sword, he offers you a boon before killing you, provided that it brings suffering in the world. I advise you not to take too long in answering." Zak nodded, the idea seeming as surreal as his surroundings. A wish that brings suffering, followed by death. I get all the luck, and not the good kind. What do I feel like leaving as my legacy today? He took a slow, sweeping look at the scene. The streets were deserted, save for the two half-drow, Jemic, Devlar…and Tyra, if you could count her. The priestess was sprawled on the ground behind and to the right of the demon, and she lay very still, smoke drifting up from her blackened form. Her neck was twisted at an unnatural angle, and her fierce eyes were glazed over in death. Zak couldn't help but smile bitterly at the sight. Even now, she denies me what I want. I can't even wish for her to die.

"Do what you will, Zak. I trust you," Jemic said wearily. "Even though I shouldn't." Arakanzar shook his head disdainfully.

"Feel free to wish for greater arcane power for me. I promise it will go to good use."

"Both of you shut up!" Jemic flinched backwards. Sighing, he held out a hand, and said, in a lower voice. "Please, be quiet."

Zak closed his eyes, the burden of choice pressing down upon him, heavier than the Spine of the World. He had been a lot of things, but he had never been one to accept responsibility. He had commanded men, but had never admitted to any wrong, never felt regret over those who had died, fighting alongside him. To his mind, they simply weren't good enough to make it. If he could do it, he expected everyone else to be able to do it. What do I want? A plague on the elves? Scardale Town to perish in fire? A falling star to smite Ankhapur so I don't die alone? The dizzying array of possibilities swirled around him, his head growing light. He was in the grip of a dilemma that he had not thought he would ever have to face. Zak Crimsonleaf was concerned over the fate of others.

When he had sworn revenge against those who had wronged him, or he thought he had wronged him, he had never thought he would ever be able to realize that revenge. He was one man with a sword, and they were many, and had the law on their side. It had become a pleasant fantasy, something to while away the idle hours with. Now that he was in the position to kill them, and kill them brutally, he found that merely having the power took away the essence of the task. His revenge would have been great because he had achieved it alone, because he personally would deliver the deathblow, and in such a fashion as to make his fame soar higher and his name a legend. Sending a demon to slaughter them…that would be as bad as anything he had accused them of. He would have become what he hated most. When it came down to it, Zak just didn't have it in him to be an executioner, to order a massacre. It was not his way. But if that was true, what could he do? What could he wish? If it didn't involve suffering, it probably wouldn't be granted. Something that has the possibility of suffering. As the perfect possibility occurred to him, he felt like laughing…or crying…or both. The gods couldn't have concocted a more perfect torture for me if they'd spent a dozen lifetimes planning it. But it's the only way I can see. If only I had more time… The demon growled low in its throat, taking a step forward. Zak opened his eyes. There's never enough time. It's come down to it. Time to make a choice.

"Arakanzar, translate what I say." The wizard shrugged.

"As long as it doesn't result in harm to me."

Zak pointed at Tyra, his voice calm and confident,

"She is an agent of the Zhentarim and a priestess of Cyric the Mad. She'll cause plenty of suffering in the future, believe you me…but only if she's alive." Arakanzar's eyes widened, and he nearly cut himself off, but finished interpreting, and sputtered angrily,

"I urge you to reconsider! Of all the idiotic, thrice-damned, cursed…demonspawned ideas to wish for! You wanted her dead, or have you forgotten? She stole your sword, or have you forgotten that too?" Zak nodded agreeably.

"You're completely right. It's a stupid idea, probably the worst one I've ever come up with. If I had more time, maybe I could think of a better one. But I don't, and I'm doing the best I can with what I have. It might be a damn fool thing to do as a last act, but for all that it goes against every fiber of my being…well, it's something I can live with…or die with. Now tell it I want her to live." Jemic bowed slightly.

"If it helps…I don't think my trust was misplaced this time." Arakanzar looked at him in disgust.

"Crimsonleaf, you are a complete and utter fool, and the world will be the brighter for your passing. But…" his tone softened, and he spoke with a grudging respect, "…damned if you don't know what you want and what you're doing, which is more than I can say sometimes." With that, he relayed the mercenary's request, and the demon snorted, blowing twin plumes of smoke as it gestured with one of its larger arms. Tyra's body arched in a series of violent convulsions, accompanied by a hideous crackling noise as bones snapped back into place. Burns faded and vanished, leaving only faint red scars to mark where they had been, and the priestess spat out blood, coughing heavily as she began breathing again. Her eyes focused once again, although blearily, upon Zak, and he called out jauntily, feeling like his old self, before he had gotten mixed up in this whole sorry mess, and hoping she could understand him,

"You owe me your life, now and forever, and don't you ever forget it!" To the demon, he crooked a finger, and invited,

"Take your best shot." It grinned, exposing its fangs, and began to advance. Zak raised his shortsword, and prepared for his last battle. Unwilling to simply stand there and let himself be slaughtered, the mercenary bellowed defiance, tipping himself into a lurching run forward, knowing that the next blow would be the one he couldn't block or dodge. His foe blurred into motion, and the next thing he knew, he was held firmly by one of the beast's pincers as it tightened like a vise, slowly crushing him to death. He stabbed his shortsword down as hard as he could on the demon's arm, and it snapped off at the hilt as though made of tin, leaving only a slight gouge in the creature's hide. It raised him to face height, its fang-studded mouth opening wide. The mercenary didn't close his eyes or flinch away. Death was something to be faced head-on. So this, he mused, is how it ends. But he was wrong. His ears pricked up as they detected a curious sound. A faint buzzing, almost like a bee. He looked up into the skies, and his mouth fell open.

Armand Lennox was plummeting towards him, having just released his hold on the wasp that had carried him high above the battlefield. The blackguard's sword was thrust out before him, glimmering faintly with the last of the day's light, his hands steady on the hilt. His face was tight with concentration. Like some dark avenger from the heavens, he struck just as the demon was looking upwards to find out what Zak was seeing.

Where the mercenary's shortsword had failed, Armand's blade sheared through the beast's armored skin, the weight of the wielder driving it to the hilt into the demon's broad back. Before the shocked creature could react, he let himself fall, shifting his grip to tear a long gash across its side, sending an arc of some vile greenish liquid through the air. As the sword came free, he hit the ground, rolling to absorb the impact, but still coming to his feet with wince, favoring his left leg. All of that had taken perhaps a threecount, perhaps less. Then, the demon realized what had just happened.

Its shriek of pain was deafening, and it flung Zak aside, who landed much less gracefully, and felt something tear loose inside him. He was out of this fight. But he had a smile on his blood-flecked lips as he watched his opponent howl. Jemic knelt over him, her hands glowing faintly with healing magic, but all of the mercenary's attention was on his rescuer.

"Why?" he managed to gasp out. Armand flicked gore from his sword and raised it in the warrior's salute.

"Because it's my duty," was all he said, before returning his attention to the demon.

"Creature of the Abyss," he declared, "You are not welcome on this plane. Face me, and be sent back to whatever pit you crawled from."

By this time, the beast had gotten over its initial shock, and looked, if possible, even angrier than before.

One of its smaller hands thrust outwards, and Zak felt a wave of twisting energy wash over his mind. Gritting his teeth, he managed to throw off its effects. Armand leaned forward as if into a heavy wind, but when it had passed, looked no different than before. Jemic wasn't so lucky, and an expression of sheer terror came over her face as she turned and fled, dropping her bow, her spell of healing only half-completed. Zak groaned, knowing full well that without her help, he was going to die. Helpless, he still couldn't take his eyes of the battle before him.

Armand moved in once again, sword seeking an opening. His foe, unable to make use of its spells, resorted to tooth and claw, raking a series of crimson slashes across the blackguard's face. He shook blood out of his vision, and maintained the offensive, carving deep gouges into the other's armor, trying to cripple it. Suddenly, with the slight snap that Zak had learned to expect from teleportation spells, it vanished, leaving behind a sulfurous cloud of fumes. Reappearing behind Armand, it moved to catch him in a claw in the same way it had done to him. But Armand had clearly anticipated the move, and, faster than the mercenary had thought possible, swung his sword in a single-handed slash that caught the demon in the gut, resulting in yet more blood soaking the ground. But even so, he had not counted on the demon being able to withstand his stroke, and the great claw clamped shut around him, lifting him off the ground despite his struggles. It spit in his face, drenching him in a steaming purple mess. But even blinded, Armand could still deal death. The blackguard's sword was free, and he hewed down, once, twice, three times in rapid succession, severing the great arm at the wrist. He tumbled to the street, the demon's claw still shut fast, and swiped an arm across his eyes. As he worked to pry apart his prison, the other hand caught him, this time too high for him to do more than make ineffectual cuts, trying to hit something vital. The demon was grinning like a madman, despite the loss of its hand, and started to squeeze, Armand's armor groaning and beginning to crumple inwards under the pressure. He fought to the bitter end, shredding the part of the arm he could reach, even putting his sword clean through it. His foe only laughed. Zak, his sight beginning to go dark as the pain began spreading out, could only watch. Then, the unthinkable happened. Someone else joined the attack.

A torrent of obsidian fire billowed forth to engulf both combatants in flame. The last thing Zak saw, as his strength failed, and his eyes began closing, was the demon turning to face the one that had struck it. Before he could make out who it was, he lost the fight, and the scene faded into the distance.

The awakening was a gradual process, with sight and sound slowly coalescing into familiar forms. As Zak's hearing returned, the first thing he heard was indeed a very familiar sound.

"Zak, you're lucky to be alive after what just happened. Didn't you ever think to get your sword examined?" The mercenary blinked, as the world swam into focus before him. He was staring up at a wooden ceiling, with Jemic leaning over him with a broad smile. For the first time in a long while, he wasn't wearing any armor or weapons. The thought should have unnerved him, but, oddly enough, he found he didn't really care.

"'ey, Jem," he mumbled. "I would've…but…too expensive…needed th' money." The ranger rolled her eyes.

"It's always about the money, isn't it?"

"Damn right…where am I?" He started to try and sit up, but felt a hand on his shoulder keep him firmly pinned.

"Oh, no you don't," Arakanzar admonished him, the wizard's face coming into view from behind. "Trust me, you don't want to know how many things were wrong with you." Zak tried to glare, but only managed a slight frown.

"Wha' you…doin' 'ere?" he asked. Arakanzar raised an eyebrow, and indicated the surrounding room.

"Well, as this is my home…for now, anyway, I feel entitled to enter any room in it. And in answer to your next questions, which will be, in order, why I agreed to this and what happened to bring you here, I agreed because I needed Devlar healed (the damned fool fell and broke his wrist running away from the fight because of that spell of confusion), and because the person who offered to do the job also offered to cast a few spells for me that are…shall we say, beyond the scope of the arcane. As for what happened, well, therein hangs a tale. Suffice to say, the creature that was formerly your sword was sent back where it belong, myself and Kimdezar reached an agreement whereby he gives me a head start and calls off the assassin and I return a few items that I, ah, borrowed from the family treasury, the blackguard, his bargain being null and void, left for parts unknown, taking the tame orc with him, and as you can see, the ranger, I, and Devlar, have remained here for the last two days, waiting for you to decide if you were going to live or die." Zak blinked at the rush of words, and grumbled,

"Got questions…for ye." Arakanzar sighed.

"Yes, I'm sure you do. Please, bother me some more when I've already explained everything of importance. It's things like this that remind me why I left you behind in the Underdark." Gathering his scattered wits, Zak began to speak,

"Jus' three things…Who was it…what fixed me up…why'd they do it…an' what's matters 'tween…ye an' Jemic?" The half-drow glanced over at the ranger, and shrugged.

"Another matter of my bargain with the healer in question. Jemic is no longer in my service, not that she ever did much for me while she was. As for the former two questions, well…" A door creaked open, and Arakanzar smiled at something beyond Zak's sight, "Perhaps I should let them explain that themselves. My lady, your patient has awoken, and wishes to know whom to thank for his continued existence." Zak drew in a breath, intending to protest the servile interpretation of his demands, but let it out again without saying anything when he saw the new arrival. A strangely familiar dire mace thumped against the floor.

"Well met, sellsword," said Tyra, grinning wickedly. "Surprised to see me?" She had a few new scars, and was wearing a new set of polished steel scale mail, but otherwise was the same woman who had given him nothing but grief from the day they had met. The mercenary's eyes widened in alarm, and he sputtered,

"What in….what ye doin' here?" The priestess leaned closer, enjoying his discomfort.

"So, no clever insult this time? Nothing to do but lie there and blink at this new state of helplessness you find yourself in, for once in your life?" Zak wisely kept silent, but began sweating, suspecting that she intended to exact terrible vengeance upon him. "I thought so. Now then, much as I'd like to, I'm not here to bash your head in. I heard what you said, you know, about owing you forever? But if there's one thing we have in common, it's a dislike of owing people. So I brought you back from the edge of death, and got the wizard here to lend me this little room, release Jemic from his service, and obtain healing supplies so that I could stand here, and tell you this one thing." She leaned in close enough that Zak tried to draw back, but couldn't.

"I owe you nothing!" The half-elf groaned, his sensitive ears ringing from Tyra's declaration, though the pain he felt cut deeper than any of the wounds he had taken. Ah, Nine Hells! Zak, you're a damned fool once again. If I'd just wished for something else, I'd be dead and happy. Drawing back to a more comfortable distance, the priestess went on, relishing each word.

"You saved my life, I saved yours, so that makes us even. Don't ever think that I'm indebted to you for anything." She turned to leave, but then, snapped her fingers as though an idea had just struck her.

"Oh yes! A thought just occurred to me." Without warning, she brought her dire mace down at the mercenary's prone form. He watched it descend, time seeming to stretch out as it approached. Arakanzar and Jemic started to move, but they were too slow. The spiked head halted just in time, barely touching his forehead. Returning the weapon to a vertical position, she remarked,

"I could have killed you then. So, doesn't that mean you owe me?" That was more than Zak could bear, and he started to try and sit up again, only to be stopped by Jemic as he protested furiously,

"That don't count, dammit! That weren't in battle, it ain't fair!" She laughed, and turned on her heel, calling over her shoulder,

"I'm heading back north, but I'll probably collect that debt someday. Make sure to remember it." Zak, livid with anger, struggled weakly against the ranger, who was trying, and failing to calm him down.

"Dammit all, I'll get you for that! I'll kill you the next time! Zak Crimsonleaf will not let this stand! Nine Bloody Hells, come back here and say that!" Arakanzar sighed heavily.

"She is not paying me enough for this."

Author's Notes:

Ah, has it really been two years since I started this story? Seems like longer. I began this little tale with no idea where I wanted it to go, a protagonist who I didn't really know how to write, and no idea how to write at all, really. A lot has changed, but I hope that the essence of Zak Crimsonleaf has stayed the same. He might have changed in some ways, but he's still an arrogant, selfish mercenary. To anyone who made it to the end, you have my thanks. As a reward, I can only offer more of my writing, so, I'm announcing a special writing event: Each reader who made it here may request a one-shot of any character in this story as an epilogue, and I'll write it. Only one per character, and no more than five total, though. As well, watch out for my next story, an Avatar: The Last Airbender work featuring more of my original characters. Anyway, I've gone on longer than I intended, so I'll just say, I hope the ending didn't disappoint, and remind you that "A good traveler has no fixed plans, and is not intent upon arriving."