“And you feel that the Accused threatened this? Even though it was his own father who put the truest end to that demon-ridden heritage?”
“With respect, I protest,” said Tyrande. “Grom is not the Hellscream that is on trial here. A son is not his father.”
“I agree with the Accuser. Ask the question another way, Chu’shao,” Taran Zhu said.
“Did you feel that Garrosh threatened your vision of the Horde?”
“I did, but I also said that I was not sure I had the right—”
“Just answer the question, please, yes or no.”
A brief flash of anger showed in those blue depths, but Go’el replied, “Yes.”
“You are, as I have said, known for your honor. You are even fair to your enemies, as the jury is about to see.”
The image of a human male appeared. He had prostrated himself on the floor, and the earth seemed to be trembling beneath him. His hair was black and he was clad in fine clothing. He seemed terrified.
Kairoz froze the scene. Baine turned to Go’el. “Do you recognize this man?”
Go’el’s face was hard. “I do. And . . . I am grateful you did not show what happened before this.”
Baine knew what Go’el referred to. Kairoz had insisted it would make the eventual point better if Baine were to show that scene, but the tauren did not have the stomach to do so. “Can you identify him for the court, please?”
“It is—it was—Aedelas Blackmoore.” A surprised murmur rippled through the room as everyone realized that they were witnessing a truly historic moment. “I had come to parlay with him. I offered to spare Durnholde Keep and the lives of everyone in it, if he would only agree to free my people. He . . . refused.”
Hating himself, Baine asked, “Would you please tell the court what form that refusal took?” He did not look at Go’el.
There was a moment of silence. Then Go’el said, “I told him my terms. His answer was . . . to throw the head of a murdered young woman, Taretha Foxton, at my feet.”
“You are an orc, imprisoned by humans. What would such a death mean to you?”
“You know, Baine.” The voice was low and cold.
Now Baine turned, keeping his expression carefully neutral. “I do. The jury does not.”
Go’el took a deep breath, composing himself. His voice was precise and controlled. Only the tight clenching of his fists betrayed his emotion. He looked up where the celestials sat, and there was kindness and empathy on their wise faces.
“Taretha Foxton was my friend. She thought of me as a brother. Had she been my own sister, I could not have loved her more. She was kind to me, and had already risked her life once to help me escape. She gambled with it a second time to send me a warning—and that time, she lost. Blackmoore—” He paused, clenching his teeth, then continued. “Blackmoore killed her, cut off her head, and threw it down at me, hoping to break me. He did not.”
Baine gestured to Kairoz. A younger version of Thrall now appeared in the scene. He looked every inch the hero that he was—bigger and more powerful than most orcs, clad in the black armor of Orgrim Doomhammer, and wearing the massive weapon that was the late orc’s namesake strapped to his back. In each hand, Thrall held a sword, one of which he tossed at Blackmoore. The man screamed and scuttled back, staring up at him. It was plain to see now that Blackmoore’s linen shirt was stained with vomit.
“Thrall, I can explain . . .”
“No,” said Thrall, in the same unnaturally calm voice he had just used with Baine. “You can’t explain. There is no explanation. There is only a battle, long in the coming. A duel to the death. Take the sword.”
Blackmoore shrank back. “I . . . I . . .”
“Take the sword, or I shall run you through where you sit like a frightened child.”
Blackmoore’s hand shook, but he grasped the hilt of the sword and clumsily got to his feet.
“Come for me.”
And, surprisingly, Blackmoore did. It was obvious to anyone watching that the human had been drinking, but even so, he was swift and Thrall had to act quickly to parry the blow.
Blackmoore’s expression changed. His brows drew together and his lips thinned, and as he feinted to the left and then attacked fiercely on the right, his moves were steadier and had power behind them.
In his day, Baine recalled, Blackmoore had been thought a superior warrior. Indeed, Kairoz had informed Baine that in an alternate timeline, Blackmoore had himself won the kingdom of Lordaeron and had ruled as a tyrant. Thrall was much stronger, but Blackmoore was more agile—and he was fighting for his life.
When Thrall noticed that the human was looking about for a shield to protect his left side, the orc furiously tore the door off its hinges and threw it at Blackmoore.
“Hide behind the coward’s door.”
Blackmoore twisted out of the way, pushed the door aside, and called, “It’s still not too late, Thrall. You can join with me and we can work together. Of course I’ll free the other orcs, if you’ll promise that they’ll fight for me under my banner, just as you will!”
Incredulity showed on the orc’s green face; then anger darkened it. In that instant, Blackmoore lunged. Thrall was so taken aback by Blackmoore’s ludicrous words that he failed to parry in time. The human’s sword clanged off the black armor.
“You are still drunk, Blackmoore, if you believe for an instant I can forget the sight of—”
Baine had seen this before. He knew what to expect. And even he found himself starting as Thrall exploded into action. Thrall had held back—but he was doing so no longer. He bore down on Blackmoore with speed, power, and lethal grace.
Blackmoore didn’t stand a chance, but he refused to yield. The blows on the sword he raised to defend himself must have jarred his bones to the marrow. His strength began to give out; his movements slowed; and one final strike sent his blade hurtling from his grasp. Even then, he did not yield. His hand went down to his boot and he came up with a dagger, springing upward with a shout, teeth bared, ready to bury it in Thrall’s eye.
Thrall’s bellow reverberated now as it must have done then, and his sword came slicing down.
Baine spared the onlookers the precise moment of Blackmoore’s passing. “Stop.” The scene disappeared before the fatal blow could fall.
“A fair fight,” Baine then said. “More than fair, some would say. Aedelas Blackmoore was a man guilty of many things. The son of a traitor, he had planned all along to turn traitor himself—to make weapons of the orcs, and use them to defeat the Alliance, with himself as the king of all the human realms. Additionally, he was cruel. He beat Thrall, badly, simply for losing a fight in the ring. He seduced young Taretha Foxton for his own amusement, then executed her for attempting to help Thrall. A monster, many, even humans, would say.
“Go’el had every reason to hate Blackmoore. And yet, he gave his enemy a fighting chance. He even brought him a weapon, so Blackmoore could die with honor.”
He turned and regarded Go’el. “What I cannot understand, then, is why an orc who so prized honor—even to the point of arming an enemy who had murdered someone he loved mere moments before—was ready to kill Garrosh Hellscream in cold blood. Is that in keeping with the Horde you envisioned, Go’el?”
Many things happened at once. Tyrande had risen, shouting, “I protest! The witness is not on trial here!” Go’el, too, was on his feet, but said nothing—he didn’t have to.
Taran Zhu struck the gong repeatedly. “Order!” he shouted. “Chu’shao Whisperwind! Go’el! Resume your seats immediately, or I shall reprimand you both! Chu’shao Bloodhoof, you will cease this line of questioning. I agree with the Accuser!”
Baine bowed to Taran Zhu, and faced Go’el. The orc was no longer standing, but he regarded Baine with a look the tauren had never seen directed at him before—one he had hoped never to see.
“I will get to the heart of the matter,” Baine said.
“A wise choice,” Taran Zhu said archly.
“Your decisions—both to stay away from Orgrimmar as long as you did, and your appointment of Garrosh Hellscream in the first place—have been criticized by some,” said Baine.
“I am aware of that criticism.” Go’el deliberately sat back and folded his arms across his chest.
“You have said here in this courtroom that there were reasons why you made these choices.”
“I did, and I listed those reasons.”
“Do you wish you had done things differently? Do you perhaps feel responsible for what Garrosh Hellscream has done?”
“No. To both questions.”
“You are certain of this?”
Go’el’s eyes narrowed, but before he could speak, Tyrande was on her feet. “With respect, I protest! The Defender is harassing the witness!” she shouted.
“Chu’shao Bloodhoof,” Taran Zhu said, his voice mild as usual, “if you have a point to make, please do so.”
“I do, Fa’shua, as you will see. Go’el was once taken by the Druids of the Flame,” Baine told the rapt audience. “They used one of his greatest strengths—his affinity with the elements—to torture him. Scattering a part of his essence to each elemental plane. During this time, he was forced to face his fears. I respectfully submit that those fears have a bearing on what happened on the battlefield—and in this courtroom.”
He nodded to Kairoz, who fairly leaped to his feet. The bronze dragon had been waiting for Go’el to testify after being forced to, as he had said, “take a backseat while Chromie showcases all the really exciting moments.”
Baine had replied, “I think a life hanging in the balance should be excitement enough.”
Kairoz had answered, “Then by all means, let us tilt that balance in our favor.” And he had found Baine several moments in time that he believed would do precisely that.
The scene that now came to life was a dramatic one—a temple in the sky, with columns as white as the clouds that surrounded it. Blue lightning crackled and jagged throughout the temple, followed by the angry answer of thunder. Revenants, their glowing blue-white, energetic forms encased by armor, whirled about. And in the center, caught in the raging tempest, was what looked to be the shadow form of a gigantic Go’el.
Aggra’s image stood, crying out to her mate, attempting to reach him. The words the gray shadow figure uttered were filled with grief and pain.
“Failed. I have failed this world. The elements . . . will not speak to me. The Earthen Ring . . . has lost faith in my leadership. My weakness . . . has delivered Azeroth . . . into oblivion.”
Her clothing and hair were whipped by the angry winds, and Aggra’s voice was all but swallowed up. “Go’el, it’s me—Aggra! Don’t you know me?”
“Oblivion . . . nothing . . . but oblivion,” moaned the despairing shadow. “I have . . . failed the Horde . . . as warchief. Garrosh . . . will lead it to ruin. My people . . . to ruin. Cairne, my brother . . . why did I not listen?”
The image faded, like a ghost with the first light of a new day. Baine quoted, his voice soft but carrying clearly, “ ‘Why did I not listen?’ ”
And another scene took shape.
20
No, not this moment . . .
Go’el’s heart ached deep within his chest, stopping his breath for a few seconds. He looked over at Baine, shocked that the son would so use the image of the father. Baine stared down at his hands. He was unable to watch. So, it pains him as well. But he still chooses to show this. Go’el gritted his teeth and called on every tool he knew for calmness.
“You are making a grave mistake,” came a deep, rumbling voice. As Go’el knew it would.
Cairne Bloodhoof.
The elderly bull awaited Thrall beneath the dead tree that at that time bore the skull and armor of Mannoroth. Cairne stood with his arms folded, his muscles and erect posture belying his years. A soft murmur rippled through the crowd. Horde and Alliance had both respected and admired this tauren.
They said you were winning the fight, my brother . . .
“Cairne!” the image of Go’el—no, he was Thrall then—said. “It is good to see you. I had hoped to hear from you prior to my departure.”
“I do not think you will be glad, for I do not believe you are going to like what I have to say,” the tauren replied.
“I have ever listened to what you have to say, which is why I requested you advise Garrosh in my absence. Speak.”
Except it wasn’t true, was it? He hadn’t listened.
“When the courier arrived with your letter,” Cairne said, “I thought I had indeed, at long last, finally become senile and was dreaming fever dreams as poor Drek’Thar does. To see, in your own writing, that you wished to appoint Garrosh Hellscream as leader of the Horde!”
Cairne’s voice rose as he spoke. Thrall looked about, frowning slightly. “Let us discuss this in private,” Thrall began. “My quarters and ears are open to you at all—”
“No.” Cairne stamped his hoof, a rare show of anger. “I am here, in the shadow of what was once your greatest enemy, for a reason. I remember Grom Hellscream. I remember his passion, and his violence, and his waywardness. I remember the harm he once did. He may have died a hero’s death by slaying Mannoroth; I am the first to acknowledge that. But by all accounts, even your own, he took many lives, and gloried in the doing. He had a thirst for blood, for violence, and he quenched that thirst with the blood of innocents. You were right to tell Garrosh of his father’s heroism. It is true. But also true were the less savory things Grom Hellscream did, and his son needs to know these things as well. I stand here to ask you to remember these things, too, the dark and the bright, and to acknowledge that Garrosh is his father’s son.”
“Garrosh never had the taint of demonic blood that Grom had. He is headstrong, yes, but the people love him. He—”
“They love him because they only see the glory! They do not see the foolishness. I too saw the glory,” Cairne admitted. “I saw tactics and wisdom, and perhaps with nurturing and guidance those are the seeds that will take root in Garrosh’s soul. But he finds it far too easy to act without thinking, to ignore that inner wisdom. There are things about him I respect and admire, Thrall. Mistake me not. But he is not fit to lead the Horde, any more than Grom was. Not without you to check him when he overreaches, and especially not now, when things are yet so tenuous with the Alliance. Do you know that many secretly whisper that now would be a fine time to strike at Ironforge, with Magni turned to diamond and no leader yet visible?”
“Of course I know this.” Thrall sighed. “Cairne—it won’t be for very long.”
“That does not matter! The child does not have the temperament to be the leader you are. Or should I say, you were? For the Thrall I knew, who befriended the tauren and helped them so greatly, would not have blithely handed over the Horde he restored to a young pup still wet behind the ears!”
“You are one of my oldest friends in this land, Cairne Bloodhoof,” Thrall said, his voice dangerously quiet. “You know I respect you. But the decision is made. If you are concerned about Garrosh’s immaturity, then guide him, as I have asked you. Give him the benefit of your vast wisdom and common sense. I need you with me on this, Cairne. I need your support, not your disapproval. Your cool head to keep Garrosh calm, not your censure to incite him.”
“You ask me for wisdom and common sense. I have but one answer for you. Do not give Garrosh this power. Do not turn your back on your people and give them only this arrogant blusterer to guide them. That is my wisdom, Thrall. Wisdom of many years, bought with blood and suffering and battle.”
Thrall stiffened. This was the absolute last thing he had wanted. But it had happened, and when he spoke, his voice was cold.
“Then we have nothing more to say to one another. My decision is final. Garrosh will lead the Horde in my absence. But it is up to you as to whether you will advise him in that role, or let the Horde pay the price for your stubbornness.”
Go’el watched, his heart h
eavy with sorrow, as then-Thrall turned his back on his brother and walked into the night. He knew what he had done then—mounted his wyvern and flown to the Dark Portal, to begin his training in Draenor.
He would never see Cairne again.
The image of Cairne stood, his eyes following the departing figure. Then he sighed deeply and lowered his head. After a moment, he looked up at the skull of the demon.
“Grom, if your spirit lingers, help us guide your son. You sacrificed yourself for the Horde. I know you would not wish to see your son destroy it.”
“Stop.” The image of the old bull faded. Baine faced Go’el and drew himself up. “I ask you now, Go’el, the same question you asked yourself: Why did you not listen?”
Go’el expected Tyrande to protest, but she remained seated, calm, a slight smile playing around her lips. She was giving him the chance to respond, and he took it.
“Because I am not a bronze dragon. I do not flit backward and forward in time, knowing all the possible repercussions of every choice I make at every turn. I am mortal, and can only work with what I have in front of me, just as you do. I made the best decision when there was no good decision. Yes, I appointed Garrosh to lead the Horde in my absence. And when the Cataclysm struck, you, Baine Bloodhoof, were there with me, and you understood why I left Garrosh in charge. Do I wish I had chosen otherwise? Wishes do not a world make. We do the best we can where we are, every minute, every breath. We make mistakes, and we have to live with them. We try to learn from them. And that is all we can do.”
“Garrosh Hellscream made mistakes too,” replied Baine. “And his mistakes will be even harder to live with.”
“If he lives,” Go’el said.
“You tried to kill him, did you not?”
“You know that I did.”
“If you could go back to that moment—with Garrosh before you in defeat—would you again attempt to kill him?”
Go’el looked deep into his heart. Would he?
The answer surprised him.
“No,” he said quietly. “Over these last few days, I have come to believe that this trial is a good idea. Voices needed to be heard, and they would otherwise not have been. I have every faith in the August Celestials to make the right decision.”
World of Warcraft: War Crimes Page 18