World of Warcraft: War Crimes

by Christie Golden

  “After the Accused has spoken, the jury will deliberate. We will all reassemble when the jury returns with its verdict. Chu’shao Whisperwind, we are ready to hear your closing statement.”

  • • •

  Jaina watched closely as Tyrande rose, taking a moment to look over her notes before rolling them up neatly and placing them aside. The night elf knew that this was what many of those who had come here had been waiting for. She had everyone’s full attention, and she took her time. Tyrande placed a runecloth bag, a simple thing, on the desk, reached inside, and withdrew a stone about the size of a hen’s egg.

  “In my opening statement,” she began, her lyrical voice carrying clearly, “I told you that I had received the easier task. My job as Accuser was to produce evidence that Garrosh Hellscream did not deserve a ‘second chance,’ did not deserve to ‘make amends,’ or any other phrase the Defender might have trotted out to play upon your sympathies. Even before I spoke, Garrosh admitted to committing the crimes he has been charged with, and . . .” She smiled a little and shrugged. “I have no doubt you recall his attitude.”

  Her pacing brought her back to her desk again. Tyrande carefully placed down the stone, reached into the bag, picked up a second rock, and continued speaking.

  “The Defender asks, can people change? Of course they can. It is the nature of things to change. But sometimes, things do not change for the better. A tree grows, certainly. But so does a malignancy.” Once again, she put down the stone, and this time picked up two.

  “I made you promises in my opening statement,” she said. “I told you you would watch Garrosh Hellscream plot, you would listen to him lie, and you would witness him betray.”

  She paused and looked directly at Jaina. “I regret the terrible necessity that compelled me to show many of these scenarios. But I would be deeply remiss in my duty if I did not do everything in my power to make my case as fully and convincingly as possible.” And she bowed, bringing the stones in her hands to her heart.

  Jaina understood. She swallowed hard and nodded. Tyrande did not overtly react, but Jaina thought she looked relieved. Yet again, the high priestess placed down the stones and drew two more. Four of them formed a small line along the edge of her desk now, and more than one person was eyeing them curiously.

  “There were ten charges, all in all,” Tyrande said. “Multiple counts of many—most—of those charges.” She reached for more stones as she spoke, placing them down next to the others, all in that same tidy row.

  “Genocide. Murder. Forcible transfer of population. Enforced disappearance of individuals. Enslavement. The abduction of children. Torture. The killing of prisoners. Forced pregnancy. The wanton destruction of cities, towns, and villages not justified by military or civilian necessity.”

  Tyrande paused. She perused the stones, made a show of counting them all. “Nine stones here.” She gazed up into the stands, her radiant eyes searching the faces. “Perhaps you are wondering why there are only nine, when I have just said that there were ten charges against Garrosh. That is because these stones do not represent the charges.”

  She turned back to her desk and picked up the first rock, examining it. “These stones,” Tyrande said slowly, “are more than representations. They are pieces of the very land that will forever bear the memory of Garrosh Hellscream. For instance . . . this was taken from the Stonetalon Mountains. Overlord Krom’gar murdered an entire village of innocents, following what he believed to be Garrosh’s philosophy for the new Horde. How did he do so? By dropping a bomb on them. Garrosh killed him for his . . . dishonor.”

  She slammed the stone down, hard, and Jaina jumped, startled. A small gasp of surprise rippled through the arena. Tyrande looked up with her fierce, beautiful eyes and picked up the next stone.

  “There are dark red patches on this one . . . it has seen much bloodshed. It was taken from the arena in Orgrimmar.” Tyrande fingered it thoughtfully. “The place where the mak’gora is fought. The place where Baine Bloodhoof’s father died by treachery.” This one, she placed down gently, and she moved to the third.

  “This mossy stone is from Gilneas. Where Garrosh Hellscream attacked . . . and so many fell. And another—from Azshara, beautiful, autumnal Azshara. It is not so beautiful now, is it? Not when Garrosh Hellscream gave the land to the goblins, who carved it with machines into a giant symbol of the Horde. Who rendered the water unfit to drink in the capital city itself!” She slammed this one down as she had the first, and Jaina saw true pain in her face.

  That pain deepened when she gently picked up the next stone, which had striations of blue and green. “Ashenvale,” Tyrande said. “Rich with forests and streams and life. Ashenvale. Ravaged by the orcs on Garrosh’s command, the site of a battle fueled by the abduction of children and the deaths of their parents.”

  Jaina, enraptured, braced herself for the slamming down of the rock. But instead, the night elf softly placed it down, stroking it sadly before turning to the next. This one looked different from the others—like a piece of lava from a volcano—and suddenly Jaina realized where it had come from.

  “Not content with plundering Azshara and Ashenvale, not given pause by having the deaths of innocents on his hands, Garrosh wanted more. Much more. He believed not only that the Horde had a right to survive and thrive, but that he had a right to do anything he wished to achieve that goal, regardless of what harm he might do.” She held up the piece of rock for all to see. “This is a piece of a molten giant! A powerful elemental being forced into brutal submission, used by dark shaman who cared not if the earth cried out in pain and anger at being so abused. And this . . . was after the Cataclysm!”

  Three more left. Jaina looked at the one next in line. It was gray, and—smooth, the way a rock that had been worn down by centuries of water was smooth. Tyrande picked it up, with the care with which one might handle a delicate egg, and gazed directly at Jaina.

  The archmage’s breath caught. She felt Kalec’s hand close, so lightly, on her own, so willing to withdraw if she did not wish comfort. Jaina didn’t look at him. She couldn’t tear her eyes away from that simple piece of rock. Instead, she opened her hand and entwined her fingers tightly with his.

  “Theramore,” Tyrande said, her voice deep with emotion. She did not need to say anything further.

  She pressed the stone to her heart before placing it back down onto the desk. “Darnassus,” she said softly, touching the next to last stone. “The night elf home, violated when the Sunreavers betrayed Dalaran and used their magic not to help this world, but to steal the Divine Bell.”

  And the last . . . “The Vale of Eternal Blossoms,” she said, and her voice broke. Jaina knew this was no act. “An ancient place, hidden away for so long. Only recently have we been able to behold it. And now, it is so gravely damaged it may take another eternity for it to again reach full flower. All for Garrosh Hellscream’s unspeakable, unstoppable lust for power for one faction of the Horde!”

  She whirled, her anger and passion etched in every taut line of her strong, lithe form. “What would such a one as he do with a second chance, other than use it to wreak more damage? To gather more power, to betray more allies? August Celestials! You are wise beyond our ability to truly comprehend. I urge . . . I implore you. Sentence Garrosh Hellscream to death for what he has done—to his enemies, to his allies, to the very land. He will not change. He cannot change. All there is of him is pride and hunger. As long as his heart beats, he will plot. As long as he breathes, he will butcher.”

  She took a deep breath and rose to her full, elegant height.

  “End it. End him. Now.”

  32

  The courtroom was silent when Tyrande returned to her seat. Jaina could almost feel the intensity with which everyone regarded Garrosh Hellscream. So many lives. So much pain. So much destruction—all by one orc. One! Was it possible for an individual to do more damage than his entire race?

  One—who was sitting right here. One clean sword strike
, one perfectly aimed fireball, and it would be over. Garrosh Hellscream would never harm anyone ever again.

  Her fingers itched to perform the motions of such a spell.

  After a moment, Baine Bloodhoof rose. The sound of his hooves was very loud in the still chamber. Jaina felt a rush of pity for the tauren and his impossible task.

  He stood, gathering his thoughts as he addressed the solemn, attentive celestials. “I know that you are expecting a passionate plea for mercy, an appeal to your wisdom and compassion. I may still make such a plea; I have not decided yet. What I wish to share with you now is not about Garrosh Hellscream. It is about me.”

  He clasped his hands behind his back and began a slow walk of the circumference of the arena floor. “When I was asked to defend Garrosh, I very definitely had no desire to do so. I envied Chu’shao Whisperwind, for not only was she more likely to win, but I wanted the chance to do what she has done.” He stopped in front of Tyrande’s desk. She looked at him, curious but wary. Baine picked up the second stone—the one from the mak’gora arena. It had, Jaina was certain now, spatters of blood on it, which was probably the precise reason Tyrande had selected it. It could very likely be Cairne’s blood.

  Tyrande narrowed her eyes, but did not stop him. Baine continued his ambling.

  “What a satisfying thing it must have been, to collect these stones. To permit herself to think about what had happened in these places, and how tragic and needless those events were.” His hand closed tenderly around the small rock. “To sit with Chromie, and peer through time itself to find evidence of each count, and say to the jury and the spectators, ‘Here, see this! See it; feel it! This—this is what Garrosh Hellscream has done!’ ”

  What is he doing? Jaina wondered. Is he just giving up? Admitting that defending Garrosh was a hopeless task from the beginning?

  “So I went to Thunder Bluff. To the home my father and Warchief Thrall had founded for my people. I went to breathe its air, and sit on its red stone, and ask my father, what do I do?” Baine gestured to Kador Cloudsong, seated in the stands. “I asked for a vision. And it came.”

  Now, Baine’s voice trembled slightly, and his hand tightened around the stone that possibly bore spatters of his father’s lifeblood.

  “My father knew I could not indulge in my hatred, and my pain, and still hold my head high. He knew that I needed to say yes, to truly defend Garrosh to the best of my ability, no matter what the outcome, or there would be no peace. He knew this because he knew me—and also, because my father, who died at Garrosh’s hand, would have done the same had he yet lived.

  “And so I agreed to represent Garrosh. I spent many hours with Kairoz, researching events, as Tyrande has done. And I found that there is no way to truly defend Garrosh Hellscream. There simply isn’t. The only ‘defense’ is to go beyond the events and into what truly matters.”

  Baine looked again at the rock nestled in his large palm. “Tyrande has gone to great lengths to find these stones for her closing argument. I do not belittle that, or the pain I am certain she felt as she gathered them and thought about what they signified. But I must tell you, poignant as her presentation was, it was exactly that. A presentation. A show, just like the Visions of Time were, and in a way, just like the Darkmoon Faire—to which this trial has been unfavorably compared—most certainly is.”

  Looking right at the jury, he crushed the small rock with his powerful fingers.

  “It means nothing.”

  Jaina felt a rush of anger, of offense—how could he do this? Destroy so callously what should have been a precious memory of his father? Other ripples of displeasure surged through the room. Taran Zhu picked up his mallet, and the murmurs quieted.

  Baine, unperturbed by the reaction, opened his hand and let the dust trickle to the floor. “In the end, this is what all becomes. We are all dust. Rocks, trees, creatures of field and forest, tauren, night elf, orc—this is what we become. And it does not matter. It does not matter that we die. What matters is that we lived.”

  He looked about the arena, slightly challenging now. “It is only when there is life that things can change. Only while we live can we comfort a friend, or raise little ones, or build a city. My father lived, and did so fully and well. He taught me many lessons.”

  Now Baine looked straight at Jaina and Anduin. “He once said destruction is easy. But creating something that lasts—that, my father said, was a challenge.”

  He reached for another stone—the one from Theramore, where he, Jaina, and Anduin had talked about so many things. “I could smash Garrosh Hellscream’s skull with this rock. Or . . . I could use it to build a city. I could grind corn upon it, or heat it for cooking. I could cover it with bright paint, and use it in a ceremony to honor the Earth Mother. Whatever we do or do not do with this stone, it will become dust one day. All that matters is what we do with it while we live. And I believe that if we truly look into our hearts, past the fear and wounds that guard them, we know this to be true.

  “We have all done things we are ashamed of. We have all done things we wish we could take back. We all carry within us the potential to become our own versions of Garrosh Hellscream. As I watched the Vision of Time display events in this trial, I began to see this. I saw it in Durotan, who attacked Telmor, but who later was exiled by his own people for his beliefs. In Gakkorg, who left an envied position as a member of the Kor’kron because he was so sickened by what he was ordered to do to innocent younglings. King Varian”—and here Baine pointed—“you once held a sword to the throat of a woman clad only in a nightgown, who had no defenses. And now, the two of you are friends and allies. Alexstrasza, so terribly abused—she forgives as deeply as she suffered, because she knows, as all of us should know, it is the only way.”

  He looked at Jaina again, and his eyes were full of compassion. “The lady of Theramore, which is no more, has suffered loss and betrayal. She is no Aspect, imbued with extraordinary patience and purpose to sustain her, and we have seen and heard her grief and her fury. But even she understands. She does not wish to be like Garrosh.”

  Baine turned back to the celestials, who watched him intently. “Tyrande speaks of true justice. I believe that you know what it is. And I believe that we here today will see it done. Thank you.”

  • • •

  Baine had perhaps not won everyone over, but he had said many things that struck home, for Jaina, at least. So much was going through her head and heart as she left for the two-hour respite. Kalec had asked if she wanted to have a meal together, but she gently declined. “I . . . I need to think about things,” she said, and he nodded, his eyes sad even as he smiled.

  Jaina bought a bowl of noodles and found an out-of-the way area outside to eat, perched beneath a cherry blossom tree. She was fond of noodles and the view was splendid, but she ignored both as she mechanically placed food in her mouth and chewed.

  She did not envy the celestials their task. She thought about what she had heard, and seen, and been forced to say. She thought about Kinndy, her perkiness sharply at odds with the seriousness with which she took things and her steadfast, vital will. She thought about Kalec, and the choice that he was wrestling with. That he loved her, she had no doubt. But his heart—better, stronger, kinder than hers, she understood with a flash of bitterness—could not bear the virulence of her rancor. It wounded him, she realized. He could stay and remain wounded, or leave and be whole.

  Some choice, she thought. But Baine was right about one thing. She didn’t want to be like Garrosh. And if their roles were reversed—what would Garrosh choose to do to her?

  “Lady Jaina?” It was Jia Ji, one of the court couriers. He bowed low. “Forgive my intrusion on your solitude. I have a message for you.”

  He extended a scroll. Frowning, Jaina took it, and paled when she saw the seal. In the red wax was the unmistakable mark of the Horde.

  A thousand thoughts tumbled through her head, all horrible, as she broke the wax with shaking fingers, unrolled the
scroll, and read:

  It took some time for me to learn what happened in Dalaran. You used to be a woman of peace; you be that no more. Garrosh scorches earth, and the dead ain’t the only victims. You got no blame or hate from me, no matter what you feel toward Garrosh—or the Horde.

  We all got our ghosts.

  —V

  She reread it several times, and then slowly smiled. “Do you wish me to convey a response, Lady Jaina?” asked Jia.

  “Yes,” she said. “Please tell the warchief that I thank him for his understanding.”

  “Of course, my lady.” Jia bowed low and turned to bear her message. Jaina watched him go, the smile still on her face, warming her. From her vantage point, she looked at the milling throng below. Only one among them had blue-black hair. He was talking with Varian and Anduin, and as she watched, he shook hands with both of them and started to walk away, looking downcast.

  He’s leaving.

  Clutching the missive from Vol’jin, Jaina began to run.

  “Kalec!” she shouted, heedless of the heads turning in her direction. “Kalec!”

  Her feet flew over the path, and she jumped nimbly over a root here, a missing step there. The crowd parted at her approach. She didn’t notice or care. Her gaze was fixed on Kalecgos, and she said a quick prayer to the Light that he wouldn’t get swallowed up by the crowd.

  “Kalec!”

  His steps slowed, then stopped. He cocked his head as if listening, then turned, his gaze scanning the sea of people. Their eyes met, and his face lit up like the sun. Her heart surged with gladness. She closed the space between them and flung herself into his outstretched arms.

  Right there, in front of all eyes, they kissed, joyfully and longingly, and Jaina was fiercely grateful.

  Garrosh Hellscream had taken enough.

  He would not take this; he would not take her.

  33

  “Vereesa!” Mu-Lam Shao greeted her friend warmly. “I did not know if I would see you today, since it is the last day of the trial.”