Tommy Drover knew something was up. Something important. He wasn't scheduled to meet with Ratcher until the following week. But the kenja had sent one of his errand goons to give notice that Tommy's services were required immediately . . . and would he be so kind as to head uptown, as soon as he was able? Which, in Ratcherspeak, meant Tommy was expected to drop everything and get over to the boss' place as soon as he received the message. Ratcher always asked nicely, but anyone who believed they had a choice in the matter was only kidding themself.

This was Tommy's first visit to his boss' new office complex in the upscale Dimerton Square district, and so far, he was underwhelmed. It was true that the relatively new building was notably more spacious and substantially less grimy than Ratcher's old basement office in the Rangoon Casino, but Tommy couldn't come up with a single reason the extra space was even needed, or why Ratcher believed it was necessary to relocate so far from where he set up shop six years ago. For Tommy, the new office meant a good forty extra minutes of walking – each way – just to check in, drop off his payments, or pick up an extra job or two. That was a lot of walking. Tommy wasn't particularly fond of walking. So, as one might expect, Tommy wasn't very happy.

Tommy also wasn't much of an enthusiast when it came to change . . . of any kind. In fact, he couldn't remember a single time in his life when any significant change ever worked out in his favor. He would be the first to admit that he liked routine, and he liked things to be the way he liked them to be. Period. But seemingly, nobody gave a crap what Tommy thought . . . at least not until he had them by the throat and was thrashing them within an inch of their life. Then they cared. Then they cared a whole lot.

So now Tommy found himself precariously seated on a stylish, high-backed, hand-carved chair that was far more amenable to look at than sit on, especially for a man of his considerable size. He had been at the mercy of the useless piece of furniture for a good ten minutes now, but it certainly felt more like hours. Tommy's lower back had started acting up shortly after taking a seat, and now those painful protests were becoming increasingly brasher and harder to ignore.

Tommy sighed loudly, but there was no one else in the outer office to share in his displeasure. He gazed around the open space which felt far too roomy for the few pieces of furniture and fixtures scattered about. While the carefully coordinated decor of these new digs was, admittedly, easier on the eyes than the collection of odds-and-ends in the old, cluttered casino office, it just seemed too extravagant and out of place for the kind of business they were in. And the delicate, sophisticated furniture, which felt more like it belonged in a parlor or a lady's dressing room, had definitely not been selected with anyone's comfort in mind. Tommy already missed the old office. Sure, the place was a bit run down and was situated right on the edge of the Belge, but the shabby couches and oversized chairs were infinitely more comfortable than this dollhouse furniture. And for someone as big as Tommy Axeman Drover, comfort was a rare commodity to come by. And that was a fact.

Tommy wasn't just a large man; he was a genuine freak of nature. He was far bigger and taller than every other man in Ratcher's crew . . . even dwarfing most of the orc brutes the kenja typically surrounded himself with. When clenched, his ham hock fists were about the size of a normal man's head. The thickness of the massive arms and legs extending out from his barrel-shaped torso were more appropriate to tree trunks than human appendages. And, despite the fact he had successfully avoided manual labor most of his life, Tommy was strong enough to effortlessly lift the average person high off the ground, with either arm. And, on the odd occasion – to win a bet or earn some extra coin – Tommy had been known to do the same with a pony or a full-grown hog. Although, that kind of effort usually required the use of both arms.

So, while there certainly were some advantages to being built like an ogre, attaining any level of comfort for one's extra-large backside in relation to the small, hard wooden seat of a narrow parlor chair . . . definitely wasn't one of them.

To reduce the mounting throbbing in his thick lower back, Tommy scooted his butt a tad forward on the seat, then eased down against the rigid back of the chair . . . which did not improve matters one bit and almost toppled the chair in the process. He then sat up straight, twisted, and leaned at the waist to the left, then back to the right, hoping to stumble upon a more comfortable arrangement. But nothing he did seemed to improve the situation. So, considering his limited options, Tommy finally decided to stand before he ended up breaking the damned thing into kindling. There were, of course, three other chairs in Ratcher's outer office, but since they were exact duplicates of the one he had been sitting on, there really wasn't any bloody point in trying them out.

If Tommy had been more honest with himself, he would have conceded that Ratcher's unexpected choice in furniture wasn't the sole – or even the main reason – for his discomfort. Tommy's lower back had been an issue for some time now; ever since he crashed through Charley Grissom's well house roof. If he hadn't landed squarely on top of the old man to break his fall, his injuries might have been much worse. As it was, Charley suffered a concussion, a fractured forearm, a cracked femur and a broken clavicle, which had snapped cleanly in at least two spots. But he lived. And since Tommy had been there specifically to rough up the old man proper in the first place, he simply chalked the entire unfortunate episode up to bittersweet karma. Except for the damage to his own person, that is. Tommy absolutely believed he hadn't deserved any portion of the misfortune he suffered that day . . . which only further confirmed his well-professed conviction that everyone and everything in life was out to fuck him over. Tommy believed, with absolute certainty, that if there was even the slightest chance something bad could happen, it probably would. And the only reason he had survived Thal Doren for three decades was his sheer determination and absolute lack of faith in the integrity and trustworthiness of others.

Despite the back injury that was likely to give him fits for the rest of his life, Tommy Drover was a rough-cut, hard, brutal man, to be certain. There weren't many in Thal Doren who would argue that point, considering that most anyone brave (or foolish) enough to ever do so were no longer among the living.

On the streets of the Belge, Tommy was known as the Axeman, due to the huge dwarven-forged double bladed war axe he carried across his extraordinarily wide back. And while he rarely made use of the fine weapon in the manner its creator intended, he did take the thing with him just about everywhere he went. And, on the rare occurrence, when fists and brute strength seemingly weren't enough to get him out of a bad scrape, Tommy wouldn't hesitate to set the massive razor-sharp instrument of destruction against his adversaries . . . or victims . . . depending on one's point of view. He didn't have any actual training in the use of the dwarven weapon but, seeing as how a single axe stroke from his powerful arm was usually enough to slice completely through a man's torso, he didn't really see how he would benefit from such nonsense. No bloody point to it.

There were plenty of stories and rumors surrounding Tommy's acquisition of the beautiful and lethal Khuzadi weapon. But to date, he adamantly refuted every single one, declining to offer even a meager clue as to how he had come by such a rare and valuable prize. Nearly everyone believed Tommy had stolen the axe, of course. He certainly couldn't have afforded such a weapon, even if he was lucky enough to blunder across one at the underground market.

But with or without his axe, Tommy was a highly effective instrument the Geyaṁ Panja frequently employed with undeniable results. And while he was often called upon to fill a specific need or role, he was predominantly what belgers referred to as a leg man. Anyone unfamiliar with Thal Doren jargon might assume that Tommy was drawn to women who boasted nicely shaped lower extremities over other endearing qualities, or that he was, perhaps, someone who excelled at gathering information for his employers. And while both of these had some modicum of truth to them, Tommy Drover was essentially the kind of leg man you didn't want a visit from after failing to meet a financial obligation to the local underworld moneylenders. At least, not if you wanted to retain the use of your legs. Thus, the undeniably appropriate colloquial designation. Leg man.

Nearly a decade ago, when Tommy still freelanced, he made top scratch. In laymen's terms, he did very well for himself . . . financially, that is. But over the last ten years, the Geyaṁ Panja and the Ul Gasuente had significantly expanded their territories and deepened their pockets to the extent that just about every competing criminal organization in Thal Doren had either folded up shop and moved the hell away, or stood their ground and got brutally and systematically eradicated. For anyone whose line of work ran parallel to what either of these prevailing organizations now claimed under their purview, there was little choice but to suck it up, report for duty, and do exactly as you were told . . . or find another completely unrelated means of gainful employment. People like Tommy, with very particular skillsets and zero desire to bust their hump all day for chicken scratch at the docks, didn't have all that many options. So, Tommy now worked for the Geyaṁ Panja . . . or more specifically, for Selibus Ratcher.

Other than the entrance behind him, which led into the hallway, the stairwell, and ultimately, out to the street, there were three other comparable doors in the room. Tommy could hear muffled conversation from the one straight ahead, which he assumed was Ratcher's office. The heavy oak door did a good job of blocking sound. From where he stood, maybe ten feet from the doorway, he could hear the rumbling banter of voices, but couldn't make out any actual words in the conversation.

One of the voices – the one doing most of the talking – was undeniably Ratcher's. A second was familiar but Tommy couldn't quite place it. The third voice belonged to an orc . . . but not the street boss' favorite head-breaker, Gofzog. That particular orc's voice was unmistakably unique. Gofzog spoke in a low, gruff and gravely tone that sounded like the growl of a male owlbear with a chest cold. Tommy was positive he hadn't heard Gofzog's voice at all.

After maybe ten more minutes of muted discussion, Ratcher's door opened, setting loose a thick haze of tobacco smoke which quickly dissipated as it rolled into the larger room. At the doorframe stood an orc Tommy recognized as Griever's second (or third, or fourth) cousin Zulga. The substantially-sized brute might have been considered massive next to the run-of-the-mill human but, compared to Tommy – or even Gofzog – he wasn't all that remarkable. Still, Tommy had heard good things about Zulga . . . disturbing things, mind you . . . but in this line of business that was usually something that got added into the plus column. Behind the brute, Tommy could just make out Ratcher, sitting upright at the exact same shabby old desk and chair he had used at the other office . . . which made Tommy feel slightly less out of place . . . and even more annoyed that Ratcher had relocated to Dimerton Square.

Zulga grunted and waved Tommy in, then turned and moved out of his view to the right. Ratcher's dark eyes met Tommy's and for a second, the big man felt a chill race down his spine. Ratcher was usually a pro at hiding his emotions. But from here, Tommy could see that his boss was clearly on the edge of losing his cool. Which meant someone was about to take a vertical swim in the harbor. Tommy was pretty sure he hadn't done anything that Ratcher would find fault with. Quite the contrary . . . through sheer dumb luck, Tommy had recently stumbled upon a couple new clients who were willing to pay ten percent a week on a sizeable sum. It was Tommy's first venture in his own loan sharking gig, and Ratcher's take on the vig alone was an extra five hundred a month. As far as Ratcher was concerned, Tommy was one of his most consistent assets. Tommy took the jobs he was given and completed them without fail. And when someone missed a payment or came up short, Tommy was the guy who made sure the deficit was quickly corrected. No . . . it was more likely Ratcher called him here to help out with whatever slapped that murderous look on his face. And everyone knew Tommy was an expert at dealing out Ratcher's brand of payback.

Still . . . Tommy always expected and prepared for the worst. Ratcher might want him dead for any number of fabricated or unsubstantiated reasons, invented by some weasel looking to get in tight with the boss. Tommy always figured Ratcher might eventually turn on him, but only if and when there was some benefit to doing so. The Geyaṁ Panja really only cared about one thing. Coin. And Tommy's special services guaranteed that the anticipated amount of scratch made its way into all the proper pockets. Still, if everything was about to go sideways, Tommy was prepared to drag Ratcher right along with him to the grave.

Tommy lumbered forward, ducking and turning sideways to better squeeze himself through the opening. The boss' office was considerably larger than he had guessed from the other side of the door, but the chairs were basically the same rubbish as in the outer room. There were eight of them spaced evenly around an elegant, oval conference table off to Tommy's right, about five feet from Ratcher's desk. The table matched the look and general design of the chairs . . . although, admittedly, it appeared a helluva lot sturdier. All the chairs on the near side had been turned to face Ratcher's desk.

In the seat closest to where Tommy stood sat Zulga, with his legs stretched out in front of him. The orc was busy picking grit from under his gnarled claw-like nails with an evil-looking street knife. To Tommy's displeasure, Zulga appeared to have mastered whatever skill was needed to maintain his orc-sized ass comfortably upon the flimsy chair. On the opposite side of the table sat another, smaller orc Tommy hadn't met or didn't remember. In truth, a lot of Ratcher's goons looked so much alike, Tommy didn't even bother to learn their names.

On the chair next to Zulga sat Adhim Hakem Hadagir – who most people just called Dagger. His was the other voice Tommy had heard from outside the door. Dagger was human, small, brown, wrinkled, bald and couldn't have weighed more than ninety pounds soaking wet. Yet, despite his deceivingly frail-looking physique, Dagger was a very dangerous individual who had, over a considerable period of time, earned the fear and respect of the Thal Doren underworld.

Dagger was one of the few freelancers left in Thal Doren . . . which meant his services were available to anyone willing to pay his hefty price. His wide-ranging list of clients sat on either side of the law and included some of the most prominent figures from groups such as the Jurcoralan Guild Board, the Verdanti Assembly, the Geyaṁ Panja and even the Ul Gasuente, who almost never engaged outsiders to facilitate their well-kept agendas.

To date, neither the Geyaṁ Panja nor Ul Gasuente had attempted to force the wrinkled old man into their fold or require him to kick a percentage up to any of the ruling bosses. And that was simply because no one had the balls to try. Dagger was old as dirt, tough as a troll and as resilient as a cockroach wearing plate mail. Tommy had heard the old man came over from the Eastern Desert more than half a century back. Which meant Dagger had plied his unique trade in Thal Doren for a helluva lot longer than Tommy had been alive.

Dagger provided one service. He killed people. But he didn't just end lives or make folks disappear. He was a pain merchant . . . a sorcerer who specialized in a kind of dark magic that ended lives in slow, painful, horrible ways . . . with emphasis on pain and horrible. There was one story claiming that, at the request of his client, Dagger kept a victim alive for more than a year, increasing the level of agony the poor bastard suffered every day, until his mind finally turned to jelly. Tommy wasn't sure the story was factual, but he believed that Dagger had the ability, and was certainly capable of such cruelty. Tommy had worked with Dagger just once, and his memories of that job, five years ago, weren't nice ones. Personally, Tommy didn't particularly care for the old man, and he couldn't see any value, whatsoever, in his personal brand of murder. As far as Tommy was concerned, there wasn't any advantage in extending the inevitable. Dead is dead. Take the money, do the job, and move along. If someone needed to die, what was the point in making them suffer for a whole bleedin' year? That kind of retribution was too costly, too messy, and far too complicated. Tommy hated complicated almost as much as he hated change. But whatever he personally felt about the sadistic old wizard and the vile way he earned his keep, Ratcher was the boss, and he called the shots. Just the fact that Dagger was here now – for whatever this was – told Tommy that Ratcher wasn't screwing around.

As surprised as Tommy was by Dagger's presence, he was even more so by the absence of Ratcher's right-hand goon, Gofzog. Ratcher and the orc were practically joined at the hip these days . . . and the skinny was, Ratcher was grooming the monster to take over, on the chance he ever moved up to the GP Council. Tommy didn't see that happening, though. Not the part about Ratcher moving up, mind you. That was definitely going to happen, despite Ratcher's proclivity for violent resolutions. There was an unwritten rule when it came to orcs. The Council had no intention of making one a street kenja. Apparently, that only happened one time and it turned out badly for everyone involved. Orc temperaments were not really suited for the kinds of situations a boss was expected to handle on a daily basis. Orcs tended to resolve all of their problems with the pointy end of a sword. And while Tommy could definitely see the benefit of removing hurdles in such a quick and permanent fashion . . . cooler heads and mutually beneficial solutions were far better for business. Despite Ratcher's own instincts to act in a similar fashion, he ultimately chose whatever option maximized profit . . . which kept the people he reported to – the greedy old men on the Council – out of his business.

"Hello Tommy. Please, have a seat . . . on the table is fine if that works for you. And my apologies for the extended wait. I needed to set a few things straight with our guest, Mr. Hadagir, before I brought you into this." Contrary to Ratcher's reputation on the streets, the man was always polite. That didn't mean he was sincere or wasn't getting ready to plunge a knife into your eye socket and set you on fire. It just meant he had manners. But, for the most part, he never mandated those around him to do the same. And even when he was surrounded by his horde of rude, obnoxious orc thugs, Ratcher maintained a constant air of civility. It was one of the many things that endeared him to the traditional old Easterners on the Council. Mostly, it was the money though. For the last three years running, Ratcher's territories accounted for about a third of the Council's total earnings in Thal Doren. With an organization such as theirs, exact figures were always sketchy, but Tommy had done the numbers and felt pretty good about his estimates. Tommy had always been good with numbers . . . which helped him in figuring who really couldn't meet their deadlines and who was just hurling troll shit. In the end, the hurlers always came up with the funds. Always.

Tommy was only too happy to oblige Ratcher. After walking clear across the city and then standing out in the waiting area, the big man's feet were begging for a break. He slid two empty chairs to the side and settled back against the edge of the table. Surprisingly, the foofy piece of furniture didn't budge any, but it did voice its protest with a noticeable, solitary groan.

Ratcher waited for Tommy to settle and then continued. "Tommy, I think you know everyone here. Zulga and Korag have already exchanged pleasantries with Mr. Hadagir. Mr. Hadagir, I believe you and Mr. Drover have worked together on the odd occasion?"

Before Tommy could answer, the wrinkled old wizard piped in. And though Dagger's voice sounded much like a dry whisper, it certainly didn't lack volume. "Just the one time. Tell me, Axeman, did you ever get all that blood out of your jacket?" The little brown man grinned evilly through overly large, yellowed teeth, as if he was enjoying a private joke at Tommy's expense . . . which he was. In one hand he held a small water pipe he carried with him everywhere. Taking a long draw on the mouthpiece, the wizard paused several second before expelling an abundant plume of sour smelling smoke into the room.

Tommy remembered the jacket, alright. When Dagger took out the first of two targets they had been sent after, he did so with a nasty spell that caused the poor bloke's head to twist around backwards and explode in a foul eruption of blood, muck and bile that hit Tommy, square on. Said jacket was one he just had gotten made . . . a bit of a splurge on Tommy's part. Because of his enormous size, all his clothes were relatively expensive. But at a cost of four cories, it was the most he had ever paid for a coat . . . or any article of clothing. The jacket was a total loss, of course, and the vicious little smartass damn well knew it. This was exactly how the world constantly screwed him over.

Tommy ignored Dagger and turned back to Ratcher. "What's up boss? What's this all this about?"

Selibus Ratcher stood up and remained still and quiet for several moments, staring dead ahead, seemingly considering what he wanted to say. Just for an instant, Tommy feared that maybe he really was in trouble and the axe was going to have to make an appearance. But then Ratcher cleared his throat, and with a cold hard edge in his voice he said, "Tommy, this is long time in coming, but you are about to move up in the world, my friend. I am giving you your own crew . . . starting with Zulga and Korag, here. Dagger will be hanging with you at least for a time, until we complete a very necessary task. And by we, I mean you. You and Dagger and Zulga and Korag. You do this in a timely fashion . . . say, three days . . . and I am gonna give you my old office and handful of guys that report directly to you and toss you a taste of everything they make, every week. Collections, numbers, girls . . . everything."

Tommy was dumbfounded. His own crew meant more money, but it also meant more responsibilities and sleepless nights worrying about making quotas and keeping unscrupulous bastards in line and being responsible for other people's stupid actions. Tommy had never once considered reaching this or any level of any rank in the organization. This was a lot of change and Tommy was already regretting how the day was turning out. He could feel the beads of sweat starting to form on his face, and something in the pit of his stomach began to gurgle.

Ratcher came around his desk and stood right before the giant of a man. He looked up, meeting Tommy's gaze. "Not only that. Tommy . . . this all works out . . . I am making you my number two."

The double headed sledgehammer of change and complicated hit Tommy square in the midsection and he felt a smothering net of overwhelming dread drop right on top of him. "What? Ratcher . . . what? . . . Number two? I don't understand. What about Gofzog?"

Ratcher took a half step closer to Tommy, never letting his gaze stray from where their eyes were locked together. "Tommy, my boy . . . that's the task. That's the job. I need you and your crew to hunt down and bring me the sonofabitchin gnome who killed Gofzog."