Thug for Hire -- "It always starts with a dame"

[Jake]

"There's always a dame..."

A small lamp flickered in the corner of the room. Its light, the sole source in the antechamber, cast strange shadows against the uneven walls of the room. Carved from centuries of water trickling through underground caverns, the walls still held a glossy sheen that reflected and distorted the light. While Jake studied the shadows flickering along the wall, he fidgeted, his hand going to the pommel of a knife over and over again. He repeatedly drew the knife and tested its edge against a heavily calloused thumb.

Finally, a smallish human came back into the chamber. The runt had pale, unhealthy looking skin, and walked in a permanently cowering hunch. Years of long servitude to the so-called "Beast of Badside" had taught the man that being harmless was vital to his survival. The craven figure gestured with a hand broken so many times, several of the fingers simply flopped about.

The half-orc moved forward, following the damaged human down a narrow tunnel and into an enlarged audience chamber. The chamber was dimly lit, which is how Gorog tended to prefer it. His orcish eyesight would give him the advantage in such conditions against his visitors. Jake did not feel uncomfortable in the relative darkness as his own darksight made it a simple matter to identify the gluttonous beast that lay about in the corner. To be sure, there were concealed weapons trained upon any that entered this chamber; weapons that would not betray themselves with a simple heat signature. If nothing else, the beast was cautious.

A deep rumbling chuckle met the half-orc as he entered, followed by a gutteral string of words in orcish. "Little half-blood, what a surprise. What has chanced to cause you to come see your old master?" The bulk in the shadows shifted, enormous hands pushed aside an empty mug, causing it to clatter to the floor.

Jake paid no attention to the distraction, and instead kept his attention firmly on the large orc. "Hail, old beast. You are fatter than ever."

The huge orc answered with a low rumbling laugh that seemed as sluggish as his movements were. It was a deceit however, as the old orc was much stronger and faster than might be suggested by his appearance. "You amuse me, little half-blood.

"Come, sit, share ale with me. Tell me what has brought you to my door. Have you tired of the life of a brewer? Have you come to fight for me again?" Gorog gestured with a thick-fingered hand to a place opposite of him, where an empty stool waited.

Jake declined the seat with a shake of his head. "I prefer to remain outside of your famous reach, old beast. I will remain here."

The old orc chuckled his rumbling laugh once again. "My reach is long, little half-blood. It can reach many things that would surprise one."

Jake had no doubt that Gorog had a long reach, one didn't become a boss in Badside without it, but he wondered if there had been a note of warning in the statement.

"I'm looking for information, old beast. About someone that might have a lair in Badside."

"Information can be a dangerous thing, half-blood. Badsiders do not like their business poked into. Who is it that has gained your curiousity?"

"A demoness. She goes by the name of Shakira. She might have something of value that belongs to someone else who wants it back."

In the dim light, it was difficult to tell if the change in expression was real or imagined, but the tone of Gorog's reply seemed less humorous. "As I said, half-blood, there are those that prefer their privacy..." the full-blooded orc leaned forward and paused as if considering his next words. "What price would you be willing to pay, little half-blood? What is this information worth to you?"

"The people looking for the information have deep pockets. What price would you name fair?" Jake countered.

The huge orc smiled a large toothy grin. On many, such an act might seem benevolent. On Gorog, the expression seemed malevolent to the point of causing those who saw it to shiver and wonder if they had been added to the menu. "I think I have something else in mind, little half-blood.

"As it happens, a fighter from my stable has gotten himself injured. That will happen sometimes, I suppose. Especially when they become disrespectful of those bigger than themselves..." the orc chuckled at his own humor. Jake began shaking his head in dissent, as the larger orc continued, "I could use a replacement for a match, half-blood."

"You just want me back under your thumb, old beast."

Gorog laughed, "Perhaps I just wish to see an old prodigal fight again." The orc gestured to the human who hovered in the shadows. The hunched figure rushed forward with a large mug of black ale and presented it hurriedly. Gorog brought the mug to his lips and guzzled its contents down. Small streams of ale leaked down the side of the mug, dripping onto the orc's chest, further discoloring a leather shirt that had clearly seen many such stains. "You won me much gold, half-blood." The orc put aside the empty mug. "I am betting you can do so again."

Jake shook his head, but realised the old orc had probably set his price and no amount of arguing would change his mind.

"Fight for me, Jake." The old orc used the half-orc's human name, that did not happen often. "Fight, and I may tell you what you want to know."

"One fight." It was not a question, it was statement. "I fight, you answer..." the half-orc considered for a moment and then added, "...whether or I win or lose."

The larger orc chuckled. "Of course, little half-blood. Of course."

[Jake]

"A Night in the Fighting Pits of Badside"

Jake dropped down into the pit, landing on old bones that crunched under his weight. The floor of the pit was littered with bones, teeth, skulls, bits of armor, broken weapons, and an assortment of small rat-like creatures that scavenged among the waste.

The half-orc gained his footing amongst the debris and looked to the other side of the pit. His opponent had not yet arrived, although judging from the clamor outside the pit, he was making his way closer. Whoever it was, they were popular with the crowd. Jake could hear spectators calling out bets over the din. It was hard to make out how the betting was going. To his ear it seemed as if most were betting on the one that still approached the pit.

Jake grimaced. He felt too old for this sort of fighting. The lust of fighting for survival had lost some of its luster in recent years. Anxiously, Jake checked the leather strips he had wrapped about his fists. Bits of salt and iron were embedded into the outside of the leather. The iron was to increase the damage of his blows. The salt to increase the pain. That's what the spectators wanted after all--blood and pain.

The half-orc flexed his hands, curling them into loose fists over and over as he waited. He peered up, at the top edge of the pit. The spikes that lined the top edge of the pit were all fire-hardened and sharpened to deadly points. Other spikes had been set into the walls around the pit, but not too densely. The crowd didn't want the fights to end too quickly. That didn't cause enough blood or pain.

The rubbish along the floor of the pit was a strong reminder that this was not a ring of sparring. These were not refereed bouts in a tournament. Brawlers fought for survival here. There was no stopping until one or the other was dead or so wounded as to be incapable of continuing. For a half-orc who had been so long out of these pits, it seemed a fool's quest to be here again.

The crowd's roaring had reached a crescendo. A figure stepped from the crowd and loomed over the pit. Jake knew a moment of fear, quickly quashed, as the figure clambered down into the pit. It was huge. A troll, or half-troll, by its skin. The warty, rock-hard skin was as thick as armor. That would make injuring him difficult, without even considering the notorious regenerative powers that trolls were known for.

Jake shook his head. He could imagine the steep odds that were being set. He wondered if anyone was betting for the half-orc to win, or if the bets were just to see if he survived.

The fight started with a roar, literally. The half-troll wasted no time. As soon as his feet reached the floor, the troll was charging across the pit at Jake. Old reflexes took over and the half-orc threw himself into a roll to the side, avoiding the clawed hands raking the air for him. Without thought, Jake lashed out in mid-roll with a kick to the knee. The weight of the troll was tremendous, as was the power of his leg. The troll did not fall as his leg refused to buckle under the impact of the kick.

Jake rolled away, causing a clatter of flying bones and debris. Rats squeaked and scurried out of harm's way, but did not leave the pit, so sure were they that a meal was imminent.

Almost before the half-orc could return to his feet, the troll had turned and was charging at him again. Jake leaped into the air, intent on meeting the troll halfway. A heavy-soled boot, reinforced with a layer of short metal cleats, crashed into the troll's face, crushing a misshapen nose into oblivion. The troll roared, spitting blood, and huge arms raced together to grab the half-orc. Jake allowed his own weight to pull him down, falling to the floor of the pit rather than risk being grabbed. If the troll succeeded in grabbing him, it would be all over, except for the rending.

Blood roared in Jake's ears. Over the pulsing rush of blood, he could not hear the roars of the crowd except as a distant thing. Far away.

Jake's fall landed him among bones and trash that littered the floor. A moment later he was desperately rolling to the side to avoid being stomped by an enormous foot. The troll, his nose already beginning to regenerate, roared in anger and stomped at the half-orc, crushing and shattering bones with every step. Bone chips showered Jake as he rolled away, scrambling to avoid being the next set of bones to litter this floor.

The half-orc regained his feet in time to meet another charge from the troll. Jake started into a leap once again, but the troll was upon him too quickly. The troll grabbed a leg and hurled the half-orc against the wall of the pit. A flow of blood began as a stake set into the wall tore through Jake's leather tunic and gouged a shallow wound along his ribcage. A narrow miss at death. Eight inches to the side and the stake would be standing through Jake's chest.

The troll charged forward again, unprepared to give any quarter in a blood-crazed fury. Jake hurled himself off the wall with a lunge, diving to the floor. His dive turned into a roll, avoiding the stamp of a trollish leg as Jake lashed backwards in a kick to the back of the knee. Alone, the blow would not have slowed the troll, but so close to the wall, it was enough to send the troll colliding against the earthen wall of the pit and directly onto one of the sharpened wooden stakes.

Jake surged to his feet and bull-rushed the troll, powering his shoulder into the lower back of the troll, seeking to force him further onto the stake. Greenish-black blood poured from the point where the stake burst out of the troll's back. The troll roared in pain. Huge hands planted themselves against the wall, pushing the troll back off the wall and the stake.

The half-orc did not slow. Planting a heavily reinforced boot against the troll's knee, the orc clambered up the massive troll's back and slide an arm around his neck. The bull-thick neck would be immune to a chokehold, but the half-orc had something else in mind. Freeing one end of the reinforced leather strap around his hand, he reversed it and pulled it tight against the troll's neck using both hands. With a sharp jerk to the left, and then to the right, Jake sawed the iron and salt infused leather against the troll's neck.

Roaring in pain, the troll lurched off the wall and clawed hands raked the air trying to reach the orc. Jake hung on as long as he could, trying to avoid their grasp. The orc's knees were planted against the back of the troll, giving him leverage in his efforts to saw into the neck of the troll, but it was precarious at best. Jake's efforts were rewarded by a gush of blood from the troll's neck, which pumped over the leather garrote.

The troll swung mightily to and fro, and threw the orc off his back. Jake landed hard amongst the bone-littered rubbish, and grunted in pain. Pain lanced through his arm as it landed on a fragment of bone which embedded itself in his flesh. Jake bit down hard to focus his pain and clear his head. Even a moment's hesitation would be fatal.

Jake grabbed a thigh bone and clambered to his feet and charged the troll before it could charge him. The troll was already turning, arms opening up to receive the orc's rush. Jake leaped into the embrace, daring a bone-cracking hug as he delivered himself into the troll's grasp. Colliding into the troll's chest, the orc brought the broken thigh bone down, point forward and shoved it into the troll's face. An eye would have been good, but eyes were difficult targets. Jake settled for the mouth, shoving the bone deep into the throat of the troll.

Scraps of flesh, already healing along the troll's neck, were treated to second gush of blood as it poured from the troll's mouth. Jake released the bone, assuming the troll would bite it anyway, and planted both hands against the troll's face. Thumbs went immediately into the eyes. A few moments of pressure could blind the troll, even if only temporarily.

The troll, whose arms had been reaching to encircle the orc, moved instead to relieve the pain in his eyes and throat. Jake dropped out, getting out from the grasp of hands large enough to encircle his head. With a hand still wrapped in leather and iron, the orc launched a heavy punch, feet braced into the ground, into the troll's groin. With a full head of adrenaline going, it wouldn't be a crippling blow, but at least it would further distract an enraged and blinded troll.

The roar that followed the punch was proof enough of the effectiveness of the strike. Jake followed up with a kick to the inside of the troll's ankle. The half-orc kicked down with all his might, planting the heavy boot deep into the ankle and felt it give beneath him. Broken or not, the troll fell. Jake made sure not to be underneath.

Face down, the troll's back presented as a target, Jake leaped down him, powering his elbow hard against the back of the troll's neck. As luck would have it, the thigh bone was still wedged in the troll's throat, which had been trying to heal around it. The point of the bone drove upward, through cartilage and into the troll's brain. The huge body spasmed suddenly and violently, and then ceased to move.

The roar of blood in his ears, and the hammering beat of his heart, made the half-orc oblivious to the thunder of the crowd.

The troll lay still, the bone stake wedged deep into the brain cavity. Jake clambered slowly to his feet. Contrary to human myth, even trolls don't regenerate from death. Greenish-black blood covered Jake and mixed with his own red blood which leaked from the bone chips embedded in his arm, and from numerous other wounds, including the one along his ribcage.

Jake rubbed the palm of his hand across his mouth, wiping away a trickle of blood from his lip. Standing with effort the orc looked up at the crowd hovering around the edge of the pit. The noise was deafening. Jake couldn't tell if they were cheering or booing. The blood still pounded in his ears.

One face stood out to him. The face of a massive orc, surrounded by a guard of heavily armed orcs. The face of Gorog beamed down at him with a visceral wolfish grin. The one Jake called "Old Beast" smiled down at the half-orc, eyes glinting with malevolent intensity. He mouthed something at Jake that he could not hear, but he imagined Gorog saying something like "welcome back to the pits, little half-blood."

The roar of the crowd continued to grow as the orc stood, mute, in the after effects of the battle.

[Jake]

It was many hours before Gorog would see Jake again. The half-orc spent them stitching up his wounds and pulling fragments of broken bone from his flesh. The leather jerkin was so stained with blood as to be unwearable. Jake had cast it aside, and rested on a makeshift bed in one of the stables that belonged to Gorog. Other pit-fighters had wandered by, most saying nothing to the half-orc as they assessed his wounds and got a look at the slayer of the troll that had terrorized the pits in recent weeks.

Jake's only responses to inquiries were grunts, perhaps in response to wounds he was still tending. He drank thirstily of ale, relying upon its magical restorative powers to help deaden the pain. When he had assured himself that he would not bleed to death, the half-orc asked for Gorog.

No reply came for many hours. And then the broken human came to him again. He spoke no words. Jake guessed he might not even have a tongue, judging by the old scars the human bore. The man led Jake silently back to the chamber in which Gorog had seen him before.

Jake stood carefully, his weight shifted to one leg. The other had gotten twisted in a fall, and the knee pained the orc if he stood too long upon it.

"You did well, little half-blood. You made me much gold today." The old black orc grinned ferally at Jake. "I knew you would."

Jake stared at the large orc for a moment. "And if I had lost, would you have made as much gold then as well?"

Gorog only chuckled long and low. "Gorog? Bet against his own fighter?" The massive orc did not answer his own question.

Leaning on one leg, the half-orc stared at Gorog. "And my reward? You will tell me where Shakira has been seen?"

Gorog laughed. And then continued to laugh. His rumbling laugh was like stone cracking against stone. "Gorog does not think it would be good to say where the demoness can be found. Instead I will tell you something else."

Rage began to fill the half-orc, but before Jake could speak, Gorog continued. "I will give you something better, little half-blood. Because Gorog likes you. Advice that will keep you alive much longer."

Gorog stared pointedly at Jake and his voice became like steel. "Do not poke into the shadows of Badside, Jake Thrash." The orc paused, letting the advice sink in. "There are things in the shadows that are far worse than old Gorog."

The half-orc stared at the old orc, speechless, torn between rage and shock at the betrayal of trust.

"Go, little half-blood. Go back to the surface and your brewery. Do not seek in the shadows those that do not wish to be found. Live another day, Jake Thrash."

The broken human nudged at Jake's elbow, hinting that it was time to leave. Still in shock at the answer given him by Gorog and groggy from his own recent battle, the half-orc let himself be led away. As he moved into the tunnel, which would carry him away from Gorog's lair, he could hear the orc call after him. "Come back again sometime, little half-blood. Gorog can always use a good pit-fighter."

Gorog's laughter followed the half-orc down the tunnel.

[Jake]

Jake grumbled to himself, and nursed a mug of black ale. His thoughts were black and angry. Scarface, who busied himself at the end of the bar drying a set of mugs, glanced at the orc from time to time to see if he needed another ale. Each time Jake waved him off.

Finally, the bartender could restrain his curiousity no longer and he approached Jake, a fresh mug of ale in his hand. "You're scaring away customers, Jake. If you glowered any more fiercely, I bet you'd be chewing nails."

The half-orc grunted at the grizzled bartender's humor. He set aside his mostly empty mug and accepted the full one. "I'm not in the mood tonight."

"I can see that. The whole bar can see that. What's got under your skin?"

Jake grunted again and stared at a point behind the bar.

Scarface tried a different tactic. "Word around Badside is that you were seen fighting a troll yesterday. You fighting for Gorog again?"

At the mention of the name, Jake's jaw tightened. Scarface nodded briefly, "I figured it might have something to do with that."

A scowl met the bartender's remark. Jake guzzled down several swallows of the mug. "I should kill that fat beast."

"Easier said than done. Or so I hear."

Scarface grabbed another mug and filled it with ale. The bartender, still heavily muscled from his more adventurous days, leaned a hand against the surface of the bar and drank some of the ale. "I got a light crowd. Tell me what Gorog's done that's got you so wound up."

Jake shook his head, but then answered anyway. "I was lookin' for some information he might have. He said he'd tell me if I fought for him, but then refused to live up to his side of the bargain."

Scarface nodded to the orc, listening. "So you're pissed at him for being an ornery old bastard." The tone was deadpan.

A short laugh escaped the orc's lips, then he grunted. "Yeah, I guess I am."

"What information are you looking for?"

The orc glanced about to see who might be in hearing range before answering. "You've heard of Shakira?"

"The one who's the Overlord or something over in that arena up topside?"

Jake nodded his confirmation.

"I've heard of her. What were you looking for?" Scarface held his mug to the side, no longer drinking from it, as he listened.

"I am thinkin' she's got a lair down here. I've got some friends that want to find it."

Scarface nodded and then took a long thoughtful drink from his mug. "What makes you think Gorog knows?"

"He usually knows somethin' about the power players in Badside, I figured he was a good place to start."

"And he won't tell you." It wasn't a question.

Jake swore something in orcish that Scarface either didn't understand, or pretended not to understand. The tone was clear enough. "What about that wretched human I hear that he keeps as a pet?"

The orc paused, his mug lifted almost to his lips. He set the mug down. "Yeah, he might know...now that you mention it.

"Then if Gorog won't tell..."

"...maybe his pet will." Jake grinned broadly, baring his lower tusks.

Scarface grinned as well. "If nothing else, depriving Gorog of his pet might piss him off a little bit."

"I could live with that." Jake offered his mug to Scarface in a toast.

After a long guzzle, Scarface waved over the bouncer. Jake had seen the fellow before. A large human--possibly part ogre, it was hard to tell. Large iron-shod cudgel over his shoulder, the bouncer came to the bar at Scarface's heed.

"Jake, I don't think I've introduced you to Sunder before. Sunder, this is Jake Thrash, he provides some of the ales we sell."

The man, probably a hand or two taller than the orc, nodded to Jake.

"Sunder's got a friend that I think you should meet. Someone who might be able to help you, er...extract...Gorog's henchman." Sunder looked quizzically at Scarface.

Scarface looked to Sunder, "go get your friend, the thief. Tell him we've got a challenge for him."

Sunder looked to the orc, and then back to Scarface. "What's in it for him?"

Scarface grinned at him. "You mean other than the notoriety of stealing something from a boss?"

It was the big man's turn to grin. "That should do it."

[Jake]

Jake met Sunder and his companion in a pre-arranged spot. The warehouse, one of many that bordered the docks, did not stand out from the others. The orc entered the darkened building warily. His darksight picked out three bodies, one of them prone.

He approached the largest one, the one he recognized as Sunder. The big man leaned against his cudgel, seemingly relaxed, but clearly attentive. "You got him?" Short, to the point.

The big man nodded, and pointed to the prone figure. Close up, it was clearly a man, and in this case a man that Jake knew well. The henchman of Gorog's was limp and unmoving. "He still alive?" Jake looked at Sunder as he asked.

"He's alive." Sunder confirmed the status and nodded to the second man.

Jake turned his attention to the smaller man. The thief sat on the bundled figure. His attire was all black--typical of the profession. His frame was thin, but he had the look of a gymnast about him. A close inspection in the poor light and Jake counted several daggers and knives about his person. The orc guessed the man might be carrying more knives than even he normally carried, and the orc was fond of knives.

The smaller man snickered. "He's alive, but he ain't real happy with life just now." The figure laced the fingers of his hands together and popped them outward. "He didn't even put up much of a fight."

Sunder chuckled slightly.

"Any trouble getting him out?"

The smaller man seemed to puff up a little, raised a hand up to his mouth, and blew air over his fingertips in short puff as if to dismiss any effort. "They'll never know I was there." The unstated "...because I'm the best there ever was" seemed almost audible to Jake's ear. The little man thought a lot of himself.

Jake looked at the man, "you got a name? Or should I just call you Sunder's friend?"

"Folks call me Filch." There was a note of pride in the name as he said it. The named seemed to fit.

The orc nodded to Filch, and then looked back to Sunder. "Tell Scarface I owe him one."

Sunder grinned widely, "he knows, and says he'll be talking to you about your prices next time you deliver to the tavern."

Jake chuckled for a moment. The orc moved forward and knelt down beside the wretched human. "What say we wake him up and see what he has to tell us?"

Filch grinned and pulled out a long narrow stiletto from a concealed sheath in his sleeve. "Allow me."

~~~

A short while later, a trusted courier delievered a note to the sorcerer Xenograg, detailing the path through Badside by which Shakira's lair might be found, along with a warning to move quickly.

(()) Author's Note: these events take place prior to Xeno's mission to Badside.