“You hadn’t?” Daavn asked. “Then you’re a true friend to Darguun. A lesser man would have left at the first opportunity. But when your duty as a shava ends, what reason will there be for you to stay?”
“Don’t pressure him, Daavn,” said Tariic. His ears twitched as he smiled again. “As you say, Geth is a hero. He’ll always have a place of honor in Khaar Mbar’ost.” He rose. “But you have other duties to see to, don’t you, Geth?”
He did, but he raised his eyebrows and looked at Tariic. “How did you know-?”
“I asked Razu. These games honor my uncle. I want to know what’s happening. Lead on. I’ll come with you.” He gestured for Geth to go ahead of him.
“You’re not going to stay for the games?” asked Geth. “I thought you’d want to be seen.”
Tariic bent his head. “My presence isn’t strictly necessary. Daavn will be here.”
The gates of the arena opened and two bugbears advanced across the sands in the second bout of the games. “Pesh of Ghaal Cave and Riil of Thunder Gap fight open-handed,” called the announcer. “To the victor of this match, Tariic of Rhukaan Taash promises a chalice of gold from his own table! Hail to Tariic, nephew of Haruuc Shaarat’kor!”
The crowd bellowed its approval as Daavn produced a shining goblet. Tariic turned and waved. The bugbears looked up at him, then at each other-then roared and came together like twin juggernauts.
Khaar Mbar’ost was less than thirty years old. Built by the humans of House Cannith under commission from Haruuc, it was a blend of human and dar styles. It was also the tallest building in Rhukaan Draal. A mighty fist of a structure, it rose against the sky in a demonstration, to both Darguun and other nations, of the strength of the lhesh.
It also still felt almost new when compared to any other fortress Geth had been in. Most were many decades-or even many centuries-old, their stones worn and stained. The stones of Khaar Mbar’ost, however, still had the sharp corners put on them by masons’ chisels. Their surfaces were dry and clean. In places where the odor of living hadn’t permeated the air, Geth sometimes thought he could still smell the dusty, fresh-cut stone.
Even the dungeons sunk into the rock beneath the fortress still had a crisp new feel to them, though they smelled nearly as bad as Geth had expected. It felt strange to step into an almost pristine corridor lit by everbright lanterns while grubby faces peered through the barred windows cut into the cell doors on either side, the interiors of the cells lost in stinking darkness.
The noise that the prisoners made was startling as well, echoing in the closed space until it seemed as loud as the crowd in the arena. Prisoners yelped and cursed as they fought to get a look out at those who had descended to their world: Geth, Munta the Gray, Tariic, and a large number of guards. Geth had left the Rod of Kings in his chamber, locked safely away and with guards posted outside the door. It felt good to be rid of it for a time. He looked back at the prisoners and tried to guess how many were packed into each cell. “It’s crowded,” he said in halting Goblin.
The dungeon keeper, a big hobgoblin with numerous scars and only one ear, looked at him blankly. Geth had to repeat himself twice more, speaking carefully, until he was understood and the scarred hobgoblin grumbled a response that Wrath’s magic translated perfectly and instantly.
“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 won’t be able to,” Geth said. “Tariic paid a heavy bribe to the keeper for the privilege.”
There were fifteen prisoners shackled together now. Most seemed ready for, or at least resigned to, the arena. A few struggled and pleaded with the guards as they were pulled from the cell. The human who had called out for mercy. An elf woman dressed in rags that had once been quite fine. A hobgoblin who cradled one arm to his chest and looked feverish and ill. A dwarf who glared at the guards surrounding him, thick fists opening and closing in barely restrained anger. Tariic made sure he got a stripe of paint.