World of Warcraft: War Crimes

by Christie Golden

  He had thwarted Garrosh, and the enraged orc had swung at the bell with his axe, Gorehowl, shattering the mogu relic.

  And Anduin’s bones.

  The ache rose again, in each part of his body that had been crushed by the bell’s broken shards crashing down upon him. The pain came briefly when he shifted position, and manifested in a different, deeper way when he recalled the incident. Velen had told him that the pain probably would never disappear entirely, and there was a good chance it would increase with age.

  “The body does not completely forget the harm done to it, and each of your bones has its own memory,” he had said. Then the ancient draenei had smiled, adding, “And thank the Light, you, dear young prince, will live to listen to those memories.”

  That was enough for Anduin. And, he reflected, as the mallet had wrought harmony out of discord, so too could sentient beings. Anduin believed this in the very depths of his soul. It was something that the draenei and even the naaru believed, and they were wiser than he. The Earthen Ring, which had done so much to help the world recover after the wounds Deathwing had inflicted upon it, was composed of shaman of all races. They had united with the Cenarion Circle to restore the World Tree Nordrassil. Cooperation was possible; he’d seen it. Every individual was unique—and could grow.

  The trial had barely begun. If the list of his crimes had not moved Garrosh—except to boasting—then perhaps the bronze dragons’ ingenious contribution to the proceedings would do so.

  The young prince felt bad for Baine Bloodhoof, whom he still considered a friend. He remembered the night he and the tauren had sat in Jaina’s parlor, after Baine had been forced to flee for his life during the Grimtotem uprising. Anduin admired Baine for taking on the responsibility of defending the orc who had slain his father. Anduin glanced up at Varian for a moment, wondering how his father would behave if he were in Baine’s place. He hoped Varian would rise to the occasion with as much dignity.

  Tyrande Whisperwind rose from her table and walked to the center of the arena. She was clad in a flowing robe that could be described by the pedestrian adjective “white,” but was so much more than that—subtle hues of lavender and blue and pearl and silver united in a garment that managed to be both simple and elegant at the same time, as was she. Anduin had met her before, and of all the Alliance leaders—and even some of the Horde—she intimidated him more than any other. It was not that she was overbearing or haughty. On the contrary, she had been kind and gracious.

  Anduin saw in Tyrande the very essence of what was beautiful in the radiant moon goddess she worshipped, and in the cool night woodlands her people so loved. And when she had spoken to him the first time, at the service for Magni Bronzebeard, he had trembled at the kind touch of her hand on his cheek in a gesture of comfort as sincere as it had been profound.

  Now, Tyrande looked up at the faces in the gallery for a long moment, not speaking, as if gathering her thoughts, then lifted her glowing gaze up to the four August Celestials.

  “It is my right as Accuser to speak first to the jury, and to those assembled,” she began. Her voice carried, but was melodic rather than strident. “This right is so granted because the Accuser must prove her case. But I am almost tempted to let the Defender speak first, because Chu’shao Baine Bloodhoof has chosen to accept a much more difficult task than I.”

  She began to walk with graceful steps, her long blue hair flowing down her back, her lavender face turned up toward the onlookers. “For Garrosh Hellscream has done me a great service this day. Not only does he admit to the lengthy list of heinous crimes with which he is charged, but he boasts of them, and offers insult to this court. No one in this temple—indeed, I would venture to say no one in Azeroth—has been untouched by the deeds of this single orc.”

  Now she looked at Garrosh, and though her face changed only subtly, Anduin could see the loathing in it. “My task, an honor and a somber joy both, is to offer proof that Garrosh did everything of which he is accused, and more. I intend to show you that he did these deeds with full knowledge of the anguish, suffering, and destruction they would cause.”

  She paused, and turned to the table where Chromie and Kairoz sat. Her hands to her heart, she gave them a deep bow. “I offer gratitude to the bronze dragonflight, for now my tool is no longer the dull repetition of words to which we would eventually become inured—but the actual sight of how these events played out. You will watch Garrosh Hellscream plot. You will listen to him lie. And by the end, you will witness him betray.”

  Garrosh offered no interruption. Tyrande was setting the tone for the Accuser’s strategy, and it would be a brutal one. She would be relentless, and Anduin would have thought that Garrosh would be unable to keep his mouth shut. But he did.

  If Tyrande was disappointed, she did not show it. Her delicate nostrils flared, and she again looked up into the crowd. Her voice was gentler, filled with the same compassion Anduin recalled from their first meeting.

  “I know that some of these sights will be horrific, and that many of you personally suffer from what Hellscream has done. To you, I offer my sincere regrets for the pain I must cause. But I believe that you would suffer more if I failed to do everything in my power to bring this . . . orc . . . to true justice.”

  Now she bowed to the four great beings, who were still as stone but whose presence could be felt throughout the arena. “August Celestials, you are kind as well as wise. I give both qualities my respect. And I urge you to give us this true justice of which I speak. To find Garrosh Hellscream, former warchief of the Horde, guilty, on every single abominable count, of crimes against Azeroth—its individuals, its races, and the world itself—and to press for the fullest possible punishment: death. Shaha lor’ma . . . Thank you.”

  Anduin let out a breath he hadn’t realized he had been holding. Applause was not permitted; if it were, he was certain that the vast majority of onlookers would be clapping and cheering their approval. Garrosh, however, remained visibly unaffected by her poignant and powerful words.

  Once Tyrande had taken her seat, her color high and her pose straight as an elven arrow, Taran Zhu nodded.

  “Thank you, Chu’shao. The Defender may now speak.”

  Baine did not radiate the calm yet barely contained energy of Tyrande. He rose slowly, with dignity, bowed deeply to the August Celestials, then turned to face the spectators.

  “The Accused, Garrosh Hellscream, spoke of this trial being a ‘show.’ As I do not wish it to be perceived as such, or as a comedy, as he referred to it, I will not insult anyone’s intelligence by claiming that Garrosh Hellscream is innocent. Nor will I run the risk of scorn by attempting to convince you that he is simply misguided, or misunderstood. I shall not ask for pity, or for anyone to overlook the crimes of which he stands accused. And I will get one important matter out of the way now.”

  Baine stood tall, his massive chest expanded with a full breath, reminding all present that he was a warrior, a high chieftain, and a son of a high chieftain. “Garrosh Hellscream killed my father. Most of you know this. Yet here I stand, not out of any fondness for Garrosh as an individual, choosing to defend him. Why? Because, Fa’shua Taran Zhu, August Ones, and fellow Azerothians, like the rest of you, I too want the ‘true justice’ of which my esteemed night elf colleague spoke so eloquently. And also because it is the right thing to do.”

  He began to walk, looking up at the audience as if daring them to contradict him. “We will not be as Garrosh was to us. We will not put our wants or needs first. We will not think with heated fury of slaying, of vengeance, of restoring to our races glory perceived to be lost. We are better than that. We are better than him.” He pointed a finger at Garrosh Hellscream, who now sat with an amused smile curving around his tusks.

  “And because we are better, we will listen, and use both our minds and our hearts to reach a verdict that generations to come will agree was indeed true justice.” Baine looked toward the Alliance stands, and he caught and held Anduin’s gaze f
or a moment before turning to Varian, then Jaina Proudmoore.

  Jaina was frowning, displaying the little crease that marred her brow when she so furrowed it. Anduin usually saw that crease when she was concentrating, but now he realized she was not pleased with what Baine was saying.

  “Our challenge—mine, and that of the August Celestials, and indeed, of all present—is to keep both those minds and hearts open. It is the wise heart, not the broken one, which must be called upon. If you truly do not wish for Garrosh to ‘get away with it,’ as I have heard some voices mutter, if you honestly crave justice, then you must spare his life. While one exists, one can change, and one can begin to do something to mend what he has shattered. Thank you.”

  He bowed and returned to his seat.

  Baine’s opening speech was met with stony silence. Anduin was unsurprised. The tauren’s battle was not only uphill; it was practically a vertical climb.

  “We will take an hour’s respite, then resume later this afternoon with the first witness,” Taran Zhu stated. He struck the gong and rose. Everyone in the amphitheater stood as well, and then the talking began, the buzz of excited conversation, some angry, some gleeful, all of it—all of it—anti-Garrosh.

  Anduin tried to catch Baine’s eye, but the tauren walked over to speak with Kairoz, his movements measured and his face grim. Anduin watched him for a moment, wishing it were possible for him to go to the tauren he considered a friend to offer his support. One day, perhaps. His gaze traveled to Garrosh, and he stiffened.

  The orc was looking right at him.

  His expression was unreadable. Anduin felt his palms grow moist and his chest tighten under that cold scrutiny, and his mind flashed back to the moment when he had confronted Garrosh.

  Striking the bell, transforming chaos into harmony. Turning to Garrosh, telling the orc what the mallet had done. Garrosh’s fury.

  Die, whelp!

  And then—

  A hand came down on Anduin’s shoulder and he started, coloring when he realized it was only his father.

  “Are you all right?” Varian asked, then followed his son’s gaze. He made a low noise of displeasure. “Come on. Let’s get something to eat. You don’t have to look at him if you don’t want to.”

  Despite the reactionary fear that had spurted through his body at the eye contact, Anduin found he actually didn’t mind looking at Garrosh. Baine’s words were still ringing in his ears and heart, and Garrosh was not gloating. Indeed, the orc now inclined his head in a gesture of respect before rising to follow his guards as he was led away for his own meal.

  “I’m all right, Father,” Anduin said, and added, “Don’t worry. You did the right thing.”

  Varian knew what he meant. The king looked after Garrosh, his lips thinning.

  “I’m not so sure, now. I’m not sure at all.”

  • • •

  They assumed her dead, and Zaela, warlord of the Dragonmaw, preferred to keep it that way.

  At first, she had been far too close to that state to have had any choice in the matter. She had been shot off her proto-dragon, Galakras, during the Siege of Orgrimmar, plunging seemingly to certain death. Astonishingly, she survived the fall. Her injuries were grave, but her will was strong. Determined to spit in the face of death, Zaela had flung a smoke bomb to distract her enemies and half-stumbled, half-ran to safety before collapsing. She had pushed her recovery, fueled now by a certainty that she had been spared for a purpose. And that purpose was to save Garrosh Hellscream, who was presently on trial for his very life.

  She and many of the Dragonmaw had retreated to the now-abandoned Grim Batol, where they had once enacted the greatest moments of their history—thus far. There, Zaela and others had recovered in secrecy. Zaela operated out of the very room where the great Life-Binder, Alexstrasza, had been tortured to breed new red dragon mounts for the Dragonmaw. Even now, Zaela was heartened daily by regarding the deep furrows an agonized Alexstrasza had clawed in the very stone of the mountain, by standing next to an enormous chain that had once forced the dragon matriarch to bow her red head.

  Word had reached her that Vol’jin’s “Horde” had searched the Twilight Highlands, looking for her, and that there was a price on her head. They had never thought to look for her here. Such an oversight was, Zaela was certain, entirely due to the fact that Vol’jin was a troll. An orc warchief would have known to search Grim Batol. Regardless, it was not to be their permanent home. They needed to be on the move, and soon.

  Now she looked out at what remained of her clan, and her heart was full. “My Dragonmaw,” she said, her rough voice brimming with emotion, “you followed me against the fel orc Mor’ghor who once led us, knowing that the proud orcish race should never be sullied by such corruption. You followed Garrosh Hellscream, whose only goal was to keep the Horde strong, pure, and powerful. For that dream of a true Horde, he now languishes in prison, defended by a tauren, his fate to be decided by Pandaria’s celestials. My spies there report that we still have a few days left to save our glorious warchief.”

  Her eyes went from one to the other, knowing they would feel as she would, yet regretting what was likely inevitable. “You are trained. You are ready. But still, we are small in number. You are aware, as am I, that we may fail, and that none of us might survive. But I would rather die in battle for a noble cause than continue to hide, even here. Shout if you are with me!”

  A roar went up. Every one of them shook their weapons, opened their throats, stamped their feet. She laughed fiercely and joined in their war cry. “By the ancestors! Perhaps by will and heart alone we will triumph!”

  As she spoke, she saw movement in the entryway. One of her scouts hastened to her, and she saw he clutched a scroll. He dropped at her feet, panting. “My warlord—I have run all the way—an intruder—he bids me bring you this!” He thrust out the scroll, slightly crushed from being held too tightly.

  Growling in irritation, and to disguise her worry, Zaela cracked the seal and read:

  Greetings to the Warlord Maiden!

  Heads have been bowed low, but not yet severed from their bodies. While the warchief lives, there is still hope in the fierce hearts of all those who believe in the true Horde, as it once was and yet will be again.

  If you share that hope, if your heart beats for the glory of the orcish people pray grant me admittance, and we will speak. I can be of great help.

  A Friend

  “A friend,” she repeated, staring down at the courier. “An orc, I assume?”

  His eyes wide, the courier shook his head vigorously. “No, my warlord. It . . . he’s a dragon!”

  7

  Go’el used the respite to clear his head. He had brought the wolf Snowsong with him to Pandaria, and was glad of some time to simply ride and think. The friend who had bonded with him ages ago was older now than she had once been, and so he no longer rode her into battle. But she was still strong and healthy, and in rare moments they both enjoyed a spirited run. They headed out of the temple grounds and along the curving road that twined through a spare landscape that reminded him a great deal of Durotar.

  Strapped securely to his breast was his infant son, Durak. The comfort of his father’s warmth and beating heart soothed the boy. He dreamed deeply as Go’el coaxed the wolf into an all-out run toward One Keg, a small village that lay at the base of the Howlingwind Trail. The orc’s spirit was calmed by the feel of this little life nestled against him, and the sweet-scented wind caressing his face.

  Tyrande had spoken the truth. She could win the trial simply by showing up each morning and letting the facts speak for themselves. But this new element of being able to display scenes from the past troubled him. If words could be twisted, then surely images could be.

  His thoughts went to the angry initial cries of some in the Alliance who wanted to put the entire Horde on trial. Go’el was certain that chief among those tried would be he, for the crime of giving Hellscream so much power. It could have all turned out so diffe
rently. Go’el had wanted Garrosh to admire his father, and so Garrosh had—but he had admired the wrong things. And now, all of Azeroth was paying for Go’el’s gamble on Garrosh’s strength of character. He himself wondered how much of the blame could be laid at his own feet. Garrosh had done so much damage—not just to those whose lives he had ended or broken, but to the Horde he claimed to champion. Go’el sent out a prayer to the elements for swift, true justice. Garrosh had done enough harm. As long as he lived, Go’el believed, he would continue to do so.

  He lifted one hand and pressed Durak more tightly against him. The past could not, should not be changed. The future could. And Go’el knew that so much—perhaps everything—hinged on what happened in the courtroom.

  He made a silent vow to himself, dipping his chin to brush the top of his son’s head. He would do whatever he must to safeguard that future. No matter the cost.

  • • •

  “Chu’shao, you may summon your first witness.”

  Tyrande nodded. “May it please the court, I call Velen, Prophet and leader of the draenei people, to speak as witness.”

  Go’el clenched his jaw. Beside him, cradling Durak, Aggra inhaled swiftly. “From what I knew of her, I would have thought better of this elven priestess,” she said to her mate. Her voice was quiet but angry. “It would appear that if the orcs hate the night elves, the feeling is indeed mutual.”

  “We do not know what she intends.” As he spoke them, he knew the words were as much for himself as for Aggra.

  “I think we can make a good guess,” Aggra replied.

  Go’el didn’t answer. He watched Velen, alien and unspeakably ancient, who had once shown kindness to a youngling named Durotan, stride with grace and dignity to sit in the witness chair. He was bigger even than the tallest draenei Go’el had seen in person, but seemed somewhat slighter than those massively muscular beings. He wore no armor, only a relatively simple garment of soft, swirling, white-and-purple robes that seemed to float of their own accord as he moved. His eyes glowed a soothing shade of blue, framed by deeply etched wrinkles. Short tendrils banded with gold protruded through Velen’s beard. The white length fell almost to Velen’s waist, and reminded Go’el of the crest of a mighty wave.