Free Word of Traitors: Legacy of Dhakaan - Book 2 by Don Bassingthwaite

repeating Geth’s words in Goblin. The keeper grunted. “She led a famine march during the Gan’duur raids. Her followers damaged the Bloody Market.”
    “A famine march is a rite of the Dark Six,” Munta said. “Marchers make sacrifices to the Devourer in an attempt to ward off further suffering.”
    “I saw the march, Geth,” said Tariic. “I remember Haruuc’s anger at it. He ordered her thrown into the dungeons.”
    “He didn’t order her to fight in the arena, did he?” He faced Tariic. “How will the audience react to that? An old woman in the arena?”
    Tariic’s ears went back, but after a moment he nodded. Geth glanced at Munta. The old warlord frowned but nodded as well. Geth went over and knelt before the goblin woman. “Old mother,” he said in Goblin, “what is your name?”
    “Pradoor.” Her voice was sharp and shrill. She reached out a gnarled hand and put it on his face, feeling his features. Her big ears twitched and her mouth curled in recognition. “So, shifter—amI going to the arena to honor one who turned his back on the gods of the Six?”
    The confidence in her sharp voice almost took him aback, but he shook his head. “No. You’re going free.” He looked up at the guard who held her. “Give her food and take her out of Khaar Mbar’ost.”
    His words opened a floodgate. Abruptly all of the prisoners who had been struggling to stay out of the arena—as well as those who now saw the possibility of release—were calling out to him.
    “Me, shifter! Release me!”
    “I don’t stand a chance!”
    “Look at me!”
    “Have mercy!”
    Some of the harsher goblin prisoners just laughed. A few of the cries for help ended in sharps gasps of pain and more urgent, realistic cries as those in the cell were dragged down and shown just how little of a chance they stood. The keeper and some of the guards started banging on the cell doors. Geth clenched his jaw and made sure Pradoor and the guard escorting her got out of the dungeon and started the climb up the stairs leading to the fortress above. He didn’t look at Munta, Tariic, or the keeper, and he did his best to ignore the slowly dying pleas for aid.
    Then one shout cut through the din. “Hey—brother! Here!”
    The voice had a distinctive gravelly roughness, the accent of Geth’s own home in the Eldeen Reaches. He turned around in time to see a shifter clinging to the bars of one door, struggling to get his attention while holding off the jeering prisoners who shared his cell. Wide animal eyes met Geth’s own. “Let me go, brother,” the other shifter pleaded. “Or at least make sure I get a sharp weapon for the arena!”
    “Quiet, you!” said the keeper, slamming a fist onto the fingers that gripped the bars.
    The shifter held on, though. Geth charged across the dungeon hall and grabbed the keeper’s arm as he raised it again. “You didn’t say there was a shifter here!” he said.
    “There isn’t.” The keeper tried to shake himself free but Geth hung on. “This
taat
is a changeling.”
    “No! He’s wrong!” protested the prisoner. “I’m a shifter like you, brother!”
    A hand inside the cell stopped trying to pull the shifter away and instead slammed his head forward against the bars. The shifter jerked and sagged. A big hobgoblin pushed him aside and peered out. “I’ve been in this cell for seven days. Until just now, there was no shifter here.” The hobgoblin dragged the shifter upright. “He’s a
gaa’ma.”
    Gaa’ma
—a wax baby, the Goblin term for changeling. Geth let his hand drop from the keeper’s arm and the scarred hobgoblin snorted. “I told you. His name’s Ko. He’s the changeling who tried to kidnap the envoy of House Deneith by murdering one of her guards and taking his place.”
    “Shifter …” the prisoner said feebly, but the accent of the Eldeen had slipped.
    Geth stared at him, surprise quickening the beat of his heart. The changeling who had tried to kidnap Vounn. If