World of Warcraft: War Crimes

by Christie Golden

  Baine, too, was watching Velen carefully, and Go’el knew the tauren well enough to see that his muscles were gathered in anticipation of movement.

  Go’el himself had once written down the history of his forebearers. It had been a piecemeal documentation of the events, as so few remaining orcs remembered them clearly. Demonic blood had flowed through their veins, fueling their hatred while making clear thought difficult. When Velen had reemerged in Azeroth, his people—unsurprisingly, Go’el thought with a stab of sorrow and bitterness—had chosen to bond with the Alliance. Until the day that true peace and trust came to Azeroth, Go’el would never have the chance to sit down and ask Velen questions, as his father had done. And he knew that while the Alliance and Horde had banded together to take down Garrosh, that orc had likely rendered any such a future impossible.

  “Prophet Velen,” began Tyrande formally. “Truth only in this place, truth ever in this place. This is the charge of the Pandaren ancestors, whose law we follow, seeking balance.”

  “Whose law we honor,” prompted Taran Zhu, gently.

  Tyrande colored slightly and corrected herself. “Apologies, Fa’shua Taran Zhu. Whose law we honor, seeking balance. Do you give your word?”

  “I do give my word,” Velen answered immediately. His voice was resonant, but warm and kind even in those few words. He folded his hands in his lap and looked at Tyrande expectantly.

  “Prophet, I am sure everyone in this court today recognizes you as one who has been witness to atrocities ere now,” Tyrande began.

  And there it is, thought Go’el. She will now proceed to paint us all black—or red, with the stains of blood spilled in years gone by.

  Baine sprang to his hooves. “With respect, I protest,” he called out. “Fa’shua, we are here to judge the actions of one orc, not all of them.”

  “With respect, Lord Zhu,” replied Tyrande, “the Defender spoke earlier of Garrosh’s great love of his people. It is my desire to acquaint the jury with the history of these people. The celestials know much, but they do not know of Draenor, and their understanding of the orcish mind and history will be vital to any decision we can expect them to render.”

  “I agree with the Accuser,” Taran Zhu replied, and Baine, his ears flattening slightly, inclined his head in acceptance of the ruling and took his seat.

  “Thank you,” said Tyrande, and continued. “Prophet, will you briefly identify yourself?”

  “I am Velen, and I have led my people to the best of my ability for millennia. We fled from our homeworld of Argus to escape the demonic Burning Legion. We arrived in Draenor centuries ago, and made it our new home. From there, as I am certain you all know, we came here, to Azeroth.”

  “Were you made welcome in Draenor?” Tyrande asked.

  “We were not unwelcome,” Velen said. “The orcs and the draenei coexisted peacefully for a long time.”

  “Would it be accurate to say that you and the orcs lived alongside one another in Draenor for centuries with only a little interaction, trading peaceably, each race respecting the other?”

  “Yes, that would be accurate.”

  The high priestess looked over at Chromie, who nodded and slipped from her chair. Kairoz remained seated, watching alertly. “May it please the court, I wish to present the first Vision of Velen.”

  Chromie hopped up onto the table, the limitations of her chosen height making it impossible for her to reach the Vision of Time otherwise. No one, however, dared laugh at a dragon, even if that dragon looked pleasant and cheerful. Chromie moved her small hands with the deftness of the gnomish race she liked to emulate.

  The eyes of the carved dragon coiled about the top bulb snapped open.

  A soft, startled murmur rippled through the chamber. The dragon lifted its head, shook itself as if awakening from slumber, and moved its foreclaws to grasp the bulb below it. The sands within the top bulb began to emit a golden illumination that matched the dragon’s eyes. Sand trickled down into the waiting bulb below, its guardian still immobile, still made of lifeless bronze.

  With Chromie’s own eyes glowing as she used the magic unique to her flight, she splayed a small hand. A misty tendril the hue of the sand emanated from it, twisting its way to the center of the great amphitheater and twining in on itself like a snake, shaping and reshaping until forms could clearly be distinguished. Color began to bleed across the forms, the radiant bronze tones shifting to paint the larger-than-life figures in realistic hues.

  Two young orcs stood, their brown skins covered with sweat and dust. Their mouths were slightly open and their eyes wide as they stared up at a draenei warrior clad in gleaming metal plate armor. He looked concerned, and the boys wore expressions of shock, but not fear.

  Go’el knew who these youths had to be.

  Memories crowded on him: the wonder and pride when he first learned of his true heritage from Drek’Thar. The joy of “meeting” his parents in one of the alternate histories of a malfunctioning timeway, and the heart-cracking anguish of being forced to watch them die. Now, as a parent himself, his gaze roved hungrily upon the boyish features of his father. And as he turned to reach out to hold his own son close, he saw that Aggra was already moving to place Durak in his arms. Their eyes met and locked in a moment of wordless love and understanding; then Go’el, cradling Durak, looked back at the tableau.

  “Prophet,” said Tyrande, “can you tell the court what we are seeing here?”

  Velen sighed, and his shoulders stooped slightly. “I can,” he said in a melancholy tone. “Though I did not witness this moment myself, I recognize all three.”

  “And who are they?”

  “The draenei was a dear friend—Restalaan, the captain of the Telmor guards. The young orcs are Orgrim, later known as Doomhammer, and Durotan, son of Garad.”

  “Were such interactions common?”

  Velen shook his head, his tendrils moving with the gesture. “No. This was a first. We traded with the orcs, but had never met their young ones.”

  “And what happened to lead up to this?”

  “The boys were fleeing from an ogre, and a group of draenei came to their aid. My captain of the guards, Restalaan, was impressed that they were from different clans, yet were friends. We knew enough of their ways to know this was unusual. It was too late for them to travel home safely, so Restalaan sent runners to notify their clans and invited them to stay as our guests until morning. He thought I might be interested in meeting these two. I was. I had dinner with the young orcs, and found them to be intelligent and of good character.”

  Go’el remembered Drek’Thar telling him of this meeting. The old orc had not witnessed it personally, but he had been told of it. He was glad Drek’Thar was not here to relive this moment from the past, before so much darkness had come.

  “The city you speak of, Telmor—was it easy to find?”

  “No,” Velen replied. “It was hidden by both magic and technology. The boys would never have found it had we not made them welcome.”

  “May it please the court, I would like to present the second Vision of Velen.” Tyrande nodded to Chromie. Chromie, her hands looking as if they wore gloves of honey-colored light, gestured. The scene before them dissolved, and another one appeared. The Sands of Time in the hourglass again began to fall, grain by glowing grain, and before Go’el’s eyes, a second tableau came to life.

  “Here we are,” the image of Restalaan said. He dismounted from a cobalt-coated talbuk and knelt on the earth, moving aside some leaves and pine needles as if looking for something. His questing touch uncovered a beautiful green crystal, and he placed his palm gently upon it.

  “Kehla men samir, solay lamaa kahl.”

  The forest around them began to shimmer. For an instant, Go’el wondered if the Vision of Time might be malfunctioning, then realized the figures themselves remained steady. The young Durotan gasped. The shimmering increased, and then suddenly, where there had once been dense woodlands, there was now only a large, paved road t
hat led up the side of the mountains.

  “We are in the heart of ogre country, though it was not so when the city was built so long ago,” Restalaan said, rising. “If the ogres cannot see us, they cannot attack us.”

  “But . . . how?” asked Durotan.

  “A simple illusion, nothing more. A trick of . . . the light. The eye cannot always be trusted. We think what we see is always real, that the light always reveals what is there the same way at all times. But light and shadow can be manipulated, directed, by those that understand it. In the speaking of these words and the touching of the crystal, I have altered how the light falls on the rocks, the trees, the landscape. And so your eye perceives something entirely different from what you thought was there.”

  Restalaan chuckled warmly. “Come, my new friends. Come where none of your people have ever been before. Walk down the roads of my home.”

  The scene froze, then disappeared. The grains in the top half of the hourglass ceased to fall. The bronze dragon resumed its original pose and, closing its glowing eyes, returned to the state of a simple ornament. The one curled about the bottom bulb, however, awakened and stretched, then placed its own claws protectively around the bulb it was designed to guard.

  “Restalaan revealed to Durotan and Orgrim the secret of how the draenei protected their city. Did the two boys keep that secret?” Tyrande quietly asked.

  Go’el knew the answer.

  “No,” Velen responded, pained.

  “What happened?”

  Velen sighed deeply. He looked over to the Horde side of the arena, searching out Go’el. When the Prophet spoke, it was as if he were speaking only to the son of the little boy he had once made welcome, not to a raptly attentive audience.

  “Years later, the orcs were deceived by Ner’zhul, and then betrayed by Gul’dan. I truly believe that Durotan felt great remorse over—”

  Tyrande smiled gently, even as she cut him off. “Your compassion does you credit, Prophet, but please, simply state the facts as you know them.”

  Aggra looked stricken—and angry. “She will not even let him speak what is in his heart! Why does Baine not protest?”

  Baine stayed silent, though his ears were flat, betraying to Go’el his dislike of the proceedings. “Because Tyrande is correct in asking what she does. Baine will have his say, beloved. Do not worry.” But Go’el could not deny that he shared his mate’s anger.

  Velen nodded. “Very well. The simple facts are that Durotan led a force of orcs against Telmor years later.”

  “Thank you,” Tyrande said. She turned to look at those assembled, her gaze sweeping the stands and coming to rest upon the four celestials. “I must warn the court that what you will see will be violent and disturbing. But such is the nature of betrayal and slaughter.”

  Again, Baine did not protest. Go’el realized bitterly it was because once again, Tyrande was correct.

  To her credit, though, the Accuser looked unhappy at what she was about to do. Nonetheless, she said, “I present a third Vision of Velen—the taking of Telmor by the orcs.”

  The grains of the Vision of Time began to fall once again, and another scene appeared. Go’el looked upon a Durotan he could now recognize, grown to adulthood. The leader of the Frostwolf clan wore what his son instantly knew to be the battle harness handed down through ten generations of clan leaders, even though he had never seen the armor before. Crafted of heavy plate mail connected by chains, it bore the images of two white wolves facing one another on its front. It should have been mine, Go’el thought. It should have, one day, been Durak’s, if fate had so willed it.

  But fate had not, he reminded himself. The harness had been lost to time; Orgrim had thought it scavenged or destroyed by the elements. And he himself had reached adulthood as a human’s prisoner. The Horde, especially under Garrosh, had much to answer for, but so did the Alliance.

  Durotan and several other battle-ready orcs stood in the same “forest” as seen in the previous Vision. Orgrim, looking much like Go’el remembered him, stepped beside his friend, watching as Durotan searched for something on the ground. Go’el knew—he was certain everyone knew—what it was.

  Durotan rose, holding an exquisite emerald-hued gem in his palm.

  “You found it,” said Orgrim. Durotan nodded, lifting his gaze from the stone to the faces of his colleagues.

  “Get into position,” Orgrim said to the other orcs. “We have been fortunate that there has been no advance warning.”

  Durotan hesitated for a moment, then spoke the deadly words.

  “Kehla men samir, solay lamaa kahl.”

  The illusion that had protected Telmor slowly disappeared, revealing the wide, paved road that stretched ahead as if in obscene invitation.

  All at once, it was as if the entire arena had transformed into a battlefield. The scale was massive, almost overwhelming, as the orcs, mounted on armored wolves, weapons at the ready, screamed their battle cries and charged. The Vision focused on them, following them as the great beasts they rode added their own howls to the cacophony, and the dusty, thundering group was in sharp and brutal contrast to the tranquility of the city. Then individual images replaced the panoramic sweep of the Vision. Here, a handful of draenei simply stopped in their tracks, clearly too astonished to even attempt to flee or defend themselves. There, swords and axes severed horned heads from bodies so swiftly that confused looks still lingered on the blue faces. Indigo blood spattered everywhere, decorating armor and brown skin. It clotted in the wolves’ fur, and the beasts made tracks as they ran.

  Screams of terror and pleas in the lilting draenei tongue joined the chorus of killing. Durotan’s people thundered on, the tide of warriors followed closely by the then-new warlocks, who peppered gathered clusters of terrified, unarmed draenei with fire, shadows, and curses.

  Some of the orcs turned into the buildings, pursuing those who had foolishly entered seeking shelter. A mere few heartbeats later, the warriors emerged covered with blood, racing down the steps in search of their next targets.

  But now the citizens of Telmor had defenders. The draenei guards fought back with magics far beyond the comprehension of their enemies. Silvery white, azure, and lavender light countered the sickly greenish yellow of the warlock magic. It obscured the hand-to-hand fighting, but Go’el’s attention was firmly fixed on his father. As if following Go’el’s gaze, the Vision focused on Durotan and the one who had just attacked him with a sword that glowed with blue energy.

  Restalaan.

  He shouted something Go’el didn’t understand, seized Durotan, and hauled the orc off his mount. Surprised, Durotan didn’t react in time and hit the ground. Restalaan brought his sword down just as Durotan grabbed his axe.

  Durotan’s black wolf whirled to defend his rider, his massive teeth seizing the draenei’s arm. The glowing sword fell from Restalaan’s hand, and Durotan’s axe sliced down, through armor into flesh. Restalaan dropped to his knees, and the wolf bit harder while blue blood poured from the axe wound. Durotan struck a second time, ending what must have been agonizing pain. And so Restalaan, who had befriended Durotan and showed him his city’s secrets, was slain.

  Go’el thought this surely had to be the end of the gory display, that Tyrande had more than made her point. He glanced over at her to see that she stood with her arms tightly folded, her eyes fixed on the horrifying images that had manifested in this court on her command. She gave no sign that she was done, and the carnage continued.

  Orcs rampaged through the city in the Vision. Go’el realized with a sickening feeling that the death of Restalaan, gut-wrenching as that had been to witness, was only the prelude to what Tyrande had in store.

  8

  The corpses were so numerous that orcs sometimes stumbled over them as they raced toward a fresh kill. The fighting was at close quarters, and Durotan, as bloodied as any of his comrades, slashed and stabbed and struck with both speed and accuracy. So present, so real was the violence that when Go’el saw wh
at was about to happen, he shouted out a warning. He was not alone.

  Someone charged Durotan as he fought. Go’el watched in impotent horror.

  The girl was still mostly a child, with only a hint of womanly curves that would never have the chance to fully flower.

  It was his father’s training, Go’el realized, that prevented Durotan from cutting the girl in half. Go’el knew the effort and skill it must have taken, could feel his own muscles tighten in empathy as Durotan twisted the axe’s arc. The girl had no such qualms, and threw herself at the massively armed and armored orc, beating at his leg with her clenched fists and nothing else. Her defiance as she flung herself into a path she had to know was fatal was perhaps one of the most courageous things Go’el had ever seen.

  But Durotan did not strike down the draenei child. Go’el knew that he never would. But another did, and Go’el felt the sting of tears of shocked outrage as the girl stopped, her glowing eyes going wide, her open mouth gushing blood. She had been run through from behind. Her killer shoved the spear to the side, and the body was forced to the earth. He put a foot on the girl’s still-twitching corpse and tugged his spear free, grinning up at the sickened Durotan.

  “You owe me one, Frostwolf,” the Shattered Hand orc said.

  The scene froze, lingering on the sight of the murdered girl, and then faded.

  In his mind’s eye, Go’el saw another scene play out—one he had himself experienced. He had only recently escaped from beneath the boot of his “master,” Aedelas Blackmoore, and was being tested by the Warsong clan. A human boy had been brought before him—one even younger than the tragic draenei girl.