Word of Traitors_ Legacy of Dhakaan - Don Bassingthwaite [23]
“We’ve been keeping them for a while instead of enacting punishment. Bringing them in from across the city.” He strode up to one of the cells. The prisoners inside backed away as the keeper ran through a catalogue of crimes. “The usual thieves and murderers stupid enough to get caught. Cheats. Profiteers who tried to get rich when the Gan’duur raids starved the city. Rioters. Taat caught violating the terms of mourning—”
“Mercy!” came a shout from one of the cells. There was a commotion and a human face pressed up against the bars of the window. The man looked like he had been beaten. He spoke better Goblin than Geth. “I needed light! It was only a lamp!”
A guard’s club hit the bars and the human jumped back. “The terms of mourning applied to everyone!” roared the keeper. “You disrespected Haruuc. Now you have another chance to honor him!” He looked to Geth, who clenched his teeth and gave a nod to Munta.
The old warlord stepped forward as if what he were about to do came as naturally as rallying troops. “Condemned! Be glad! In the tradition of the People and in memory of Haruuc Shaarat’kor, you are given the chance to win your freedom. The games wait for you.” He paused, letting his words settle into the prisoners. “Win in the arena and your crimes are forgiven!”
The dungeon filled with a new cacophony that almost made Geth cringe back. Many of the voices raised in the cells proclaimed an eagerness to see the arena. Only a few, mostly non-goblins it seemed to Geth, begged for an alternative. Munta came back to him. “Just as I told you,” he said with confidence. “Offer a dar the chance to die before a crowd and he’ll take it.”
Geth nodded numbly. At last count, over five hundred combatants had signed up of their own free will to fight in the games, but the arena was hungry. Letting prisoners fight for their freedom was an ancient tradition. He’d tried telling himself that most of them would have died for their crimes anyway—Darguun’s few laws carried harsh punishments—but there was still something that seemed deeply wrong about forcing them to fight for the amusement of the crowds. And yet, as Munta said, many of the prisoners were eager to take the chance.
“Who first?” asked the keeper.
There were six big cells, as if the builders of Khaar Mbar’ost had foreseen the need of the games. Geth pointed at the cell whose occupants seemed most enthusiastic for the fight.
The keeper and the guards descended on the cell like vultures on carrion. A few prisoners tried to rush the door when it was opened, but the guards’ clubs beat them down and they were first to be locked into a long chain of shackles. Guards began pulling other prisoners out one by one, adding them to the line, while those in the other cells whooped and yelled.
As the gang was assembled, Tariic stood ready, giving each prisoner a swift inspection. He had a goblin with him as an assistant, and the little creature crept forward to swipe green paint onto the leg of those Tariic indicated. The first prisoner, a mangy bugbear still dazed from the guards’ clubs, tried to kick him away. The goblin squealed and jumped back. Tariic planted himself in front of the bugbear, hand on sword, and glared up at him.
“Take the mark and you get a weapon in the arena. No mark, no weapon. Understand?”
The bugbear’s lips curled back from his teeth.
Tariic shrugged. “No weapon.” He pointed at the next prisoner in line, a hobgoblin. “You get his weapon. All you have to do is dedicate the fight to me—Tariic of Rhukaan Taash—if you win.”
The hobgoblin stuck out his leg eagerly. Other prisoners did the same, though Tariic had the goblin mark only the strongest-looking of them. The bugbear at the front of the chain began to look like he regretted his decision.
“Clever,” murmured Munta. “The audience in the arena will remember this, and any of these scum who survive will tell the story. The other potential heirs are going to copy this.”
“They