World of Warcraft: War Crimes

by Christie Golden

  Vereesa shook her head earnestly. “No. They will not. I even have Lady Jaina’s approval.”

  Sylvanas frowned. “Now I know you lie, Sister. Jaina Proudmoore may no longer be the dewy-eyed peace lover she was before, but she cannot possibly advocate an assassination. She might hope for Garrosh’s death, but she would never act upon it.”

  “You are wrong. She wants him to die. Before sentence is pronounced. Save us all the trouble of a trial, she said. There are others too. Sky Admiral Catherine Rogers, for one. She hates the Horde, Garrosh most of all.”

  “I recall she is from Southshore,” Sylvanas said. “I doubt she will want to work with the Banshee Queen of the Forsaken.”

  “She does not have to know. No one has to know. Just us.”

  Sylvanas fell silent, thinking. “We could wait to see if the celestials do the job for us first.”

  “No. If they do decide on mercy”—and Vereesa spat the word—“we will not get another chance. We have to act while the trial is going on. While both of our sides have access to him.”

  At that, Sylvanas laughed aloud. “Access? Have you seen how heavily he is guarded, Sister? Even the most accomplished assassin will not be able to penetrate that cell.”

  Vereesa smiled. It was still the face Sylvanas remembered, still the same lips that had parted in shrieks of laughter when Vereesa was a child. But the expression gave Sylvanas a glimpse into a cruelty she would never have expected her sister to display.

  “No,” Vereesa agreed. “Not an assassin. But even prisoners must eat, must they not?”

  Poison. No wonder Vereesa’s thoughts had turned to her sister.

  “And you wish a poison no one can detect—a poison that has not been created yet.”

  Vereesa nodded.

  “Perfect,” said Sylvanas. “I am ashamed that it had not occurred to me, actually.”

  “We will need to get someone to infiltrate the kitchens, or tamper with the food at its source,” Vereesa continued. “Or else convince someone who is already trusted with preparing his meals. We—”

  “A moment, before you careen off plotting and scheming, entertaining though that might be,” said Sylvanas. “I have not said that I will participate.”

  “What? You just said it was perfect!”

  “Oh, it is. But I have suffered beneath the hand of a tyrant before,” Sylvanas said. “And defied he who made me. Arthas raised me to torment me, but he is gone and I am here. I defied Garrosh as well, and I will see him dead.” She spread her hands, indicating her body, as strong and, in its own way, as beautiful as when she drew breath, but blue-gray and cold to the touch. “And—I am Forsaken. You can understand my reasoning. What is yours, little one?”

  “I cannot believe you are asking me this!”

  “I am, and I pray you, answer.” Her voice was cold. “What did Garrosh do to make you decide upon this course?”

  “What did he not do? He unleashed a horror upon Theramore that cannot ever be excused! And they died . . . terribly. It is sheer luck I was not among their number.”

  Sylvanas shook her head. Her locks had been pale blond in life, but appeared to be silver, and now they looked almost as white as her sister’s. They were the moons, Alleria had teased, calling them Lady Moon and Little Moon, while she and Lirath—the eldest and the youngest—were the suns of the family, with their bright golden tresses. Alleria . . .

  “That is not the reason.”

  “The orcs have ever been our enemies. Garrosh is the worst they have spawned that yet lives. Their history is littered with monsters and demonic barbarism. They took our baby brother from us, Sylvanas! And you know Alleria would have fought anyone for the honor of dispatching Garrosh herself. She would want us to do this.”

  Sylvanas pursed her lips. “While I agree with all you say, that is not the reason either.”

  Vereesa swallowed hard. “You do want to wound me. You want to see me suffer.”

  “I want to judge for myself the depth of your pain. It is not the same thing.”

  Vereesa was Alliance. She had married a human, had borne children with him. That had been her home, and she had a place there. What she said she now wanted went against the laws that the Alliance claimed to uphold—though, certainly, there were rogues and murderers and thieves enough among their number.

  For a moment, Sylvanas thought her sister would refuse. The Windrunners had ever been strong willed. Vereesa’s slender body was as taut as her bowstring, almost quivering with tension. Sylvanas waited with the patience of the dead—another gift Arthas had unwittingly bestowed upon her—for the fury she sensed boiling inside her sister to erupt.

  It did not happen.

  Instead of fire, Sylvanas saw water—tears filling Vereesa’s eyes and spilling down her face. Vereesa did not even bother to wipe them away as she spoke.

  “He took my Rhonin.”

  That was all. That was everything.

  Sylvanas stepped forward and embraced her sister, and Vereesa clung to her like the drowning woman she was.

  15

  Day Three

  “Warchief,” said Tyrande, inclining her head.

  It was still odd, thought Go’el, to hear someone else being addressed so. Not wrong—he had not a moment’s regret in his decision, and ancestors knew that Vol’jin was worthy of the title—but . . . odd. He wondered if he would ever truly grow used to it.

  Vol’jin’s eyes were bright and held a hint of mischief as he replied, “High Priestess.”

  “You have been a leader of your people for many years, and before you, your father led.”

  “That be truth.”

  “Now, after Garrosh Hellscream’s tyrannical reign—”

  “With respect, I protest,” said Baine, although it did not sound as though his heart was in it.

  “After Garrosh Hellscream was defeated,” Tyrande amended smoothly, as if there had been no interruption, “Go’el appointed you warchief. You now lead not just the Darkspear trolls, but all the various races of the Horde—even though you are not an orc.”

  “With respect, I protest!” shouted Baine, and this time he clearly did. “The witness’s ability to lead the Horde is not a subject for debate in this courtroom!”

  “Lord Zhu, I am attempting to prove the witness’s credibility to the jury,” said Tyrande.

  “Find another way, Chu’shao,” said Taran Zhu calmly.

  “As you wish. Warchief Vol’jin, your people suffered greatly under Garrosh. So did you, personally. Can you please tell the court about this?”

  “With pleasure,” Vol’jin said, his voice deepening with banked outrage. “The trolls were the first of Azeroth’s people to join the Horde when the orcs arrived in this world. We been loyal friends to the orcs, to Go’el. Go’el asked me to be an advisor to Garrosh, and I did everything in my power to be that. But Garrosh did not remember what good friends the trolls be to him.”

  “What specifically did he do?”

  “He forbade my people to live where they chose in Orgrimmar. He forced them into a special area. He put the Echo Isles under martial law.”

  “Hardly the actions of a leader whose charge is to represent all the various races that compose the Horde,” mused Tyrande.

  “That be true.”

  “You exchanged words with him over your concerns, did you not?”

  “More than once, yes.”

  “And he admitted to you that he had done this? Put your people in slums?”

  “That he did.”

  “I would like to show the jury the first Vision from this witness,” said Tyrande, and she stepped back to watch the unfolding scene. The troll leader and the warchief were in the throne room in Grommash Hold.

  “Don’t talk back to me, troll,” Garrosh snarled. “You know who was left in charge here. Haven’t you stopped to ask yourself why Thrall chose me instead of you?”

  “Dere be no question why, Garrosh. He gave ya tha title because ya be Grom’s son and because tha
people be wantin’ a war hero.” It was true. Fresh from the aftermath of the defeat of the Lich King, the people were tired of war, but they still revered their war heroes. Go’el had thought the title, bequeathed for a short time, would help Garrosh learn to channel his energy. He had been so very wrong.

  The image of Vol’jin was not yet done. “I tink ya be even more like ya father den ya thought, even witout da demon blood.”

  Garrosh snarled and stepped closer to the troll, quivering with barely restrained rage. “You are lucky that I don’t gut you right here, whelp.”

  “Stop here!” Tyrande said sharply, and the two figures froze as if instantly embedded in ice. “August Celestials—there it is, right there. Garrosh Hellscream, warchief of the Horde, explicitly threatens Vol’jin with death.” She nodded to Chromie, who moved her little fingers and resumed the scene.

  “You are foolish to think that you can speak to your warchief in such ways,” Garrosh said.

  “Ya be no warchief of mine. Ya not earned my respect, and I’ll not be seein’ tha Horde destroyed by ya foolish thirst for war.” Vol’jin was calm, precise, and cool, in contrast to Garrosh’s almost rabid agitation.

  “And what exactly do you think that you are going to do about it? Your threats are hollow. Go slink away with the rest of your kind to the slums. I will endure your filth in my throne room no longer.”

  The scene froze, then faded. Tyrande shook her head. “ ‘Go slink away with the rest of your kind to the slums,’ ” she repeated. “That is an interesting way to treat and to speak of a race that has served the Horde so loyally for so long.”

  “I thought so myself.”

  “So, far from treating you as a respected advisor as Go’el had instructed, Garrosh ushered the trolls into areas he himself described as slums, and banished you from his throne room. He also threatened your life.”

  Go’el tensed. Vol’jin’s almost casual demeanor grew serious. “He did more than threaten.” He tilted his head back and exposed a raised scar, pale blue, where a would-be killer’s knife had slashed across his throat. Go’el looked up at the celestials and saw them shift unhappily at the visible evidence of Garrosh’s hatred.

  Tyrande let the murmurs play out, then said, “I would like to show this despicable attack, and the role that Garrosh Hellscream played in it. Chromie?”

  There was a universal rustling throughout the auditorium as nearly every spectator sat up straighter, leaned forward a little more. The story of what had happened to Vol’jin had spread throughout the Horde and Alliance both. Some were watching from mere prurient interest in the bloody details, but others watched to perhaps shake off lingering traces of disbelief.

  “Warchief, could you please set the stage for us?”

  “Of course. This be after the Horde landed on the shores of Pandaria. The Darkspears were not ordered to go with the rest of the Horde. I be thinking it a mistake to storm this place, but Garrosh was very happy to have a land . . . What did he say? . . . ‘This land is rich in resources: wood, stone, iron, fuel. And people,’ ” he quoted.

  “Wood, stone, iron, fuel, and people,” mused Tyrande. “All listed as ‘resources’ in Garrosh’s mind. So you are telling this court that you believe Garrosh intended to enslave the pandaren?”

  A horrified gasp rippled through the room, and Baine leaped to his hooves. “With respect, I protest!” he shouted. “Any response would be the witness’s opinion, nothing more, and there has never been any evidence that Garrosh desired to enslave an entire race!”

  “No,” Tyrande shot back, “one who treated the trolls so well would never do that!”

  The two faced each other angrily, and Taran Zhu struck the small gong with more force than he usually displayed. “I will have order in this court! I will remind all present that any outbursts will result in confinement for the duration of this trial! Chu’shao Whisperwind, unless you can support this accusation, I suggest you change your approach.”

  “You did rule that a witness’s opinion is admissible in court, Fa’shua.”

  Taran Zhu paused and then sighed. “That I did. Rephrase the question appropriately, then, please.”

  Tyrande turned to Vol’jin. “Warchief, what do you think Garrosh meant by those words?”

  “I don’t think he meant ‘enslave’ as Chu’shao Whisperwind be trying to say. I think he just wanted to have new recruits to fight. His war cry was, ‘Storm the shores, and paint this new continent red!’&”

  “Red with blood, you mean? Exterminate the pandaren, not enslave them?”

  “Chu’shao!” snapped Taran Zhu before Baine could even rise out of his chair. “You will cease putting words in the witness’s mouth, or I will reprimand you.”

  Tyrande bowed and held up a hand. “Understood, Fa’shua. Please continue, Warchief.”

  “I think his intention was to make Pandaria a territory of the Horde. Lots of people to fight for the Horde, and the Horde color be red. That’s what I think he meant.”

  “But you are not certain?”

  “I can only tell you what I heard, and what my own thoughts be.”

  “Of course,” said Tyrande. Not for the first time, Go’el was filled with respect for Vol’jin’s integrity. It was only an opinion, and Vol’jin could have easily lied about it. But he had not done so. Still, Tyrande had raised the issue, and planted doubts, and neither the jury nor the spectators would stop wondering what Garrosh had really meant by those words.

  “So . . . the Horde had arrived on Pandaria,” Tyrande prompted.

  “Without the Darkspears. I went to see Garrosh. He be all angry and speaking bitter words like before; then he seemed to reconsider.”

  “Thank you. Chromie?”

  The little bronze hopped onto the table, activated the Vision of Time, and the scene manifested.

  “This is the difference between me and you, Vol’jin,” the then-Garrosh stated. “I won’t let my people starve to death in the desert. I will stop at nothing—nothing—to ensure a proud and glorious future for the orcs and anyone with the courage to stand with us. Wait here.”

  He walked off a little ways and spoke softly with one of the Kor’kron, Rak’gor Bloodrazor. Go’el frowned, wondering why Tyrande did not let the jury hear that whispered conversation. Garrosh returned a moment later, smirking.

  “There is something you can do, troll, to demonstrate your value to the Horde. A mission in the heart of this continent.”

  “I will go,” Vol’jin said, adding, “but only as a witness for my people. Someone gotta keep you in check, Garrosh.”

  The scene froze, then faded to nothing. Tyrande turned back to Vol’jin. “Can you fill us in on what happened on this quest Garrosh assigned you and Rak’gor Bloodrazor?”

  “We went in search of a saurok rookery,” said Vol’jin. “The scouts had reported there was ancient magic in those caves. Garrosh be wantin’ ’em checked out.”

  “And what did you discover?”

  Vol’jin inhaled deeply, then replied, “They were . . . unnatural. Bloodrazor told me Garrosh had learned there be some kind of connection between the saurok and the mogu. He . . . was right.”

  Another scene appeared in the center of the arena. This time, Vol’jin, Bloodrazor, and a few others whom Go’el did not know were in a dark, damp cavern. The body of a massive saurok bled slowly into the stagnant, ankle-deep water. Eggs were everywhere—Vol’jin had found the rookery. A low growl escaped him, and when he spoke, his voice was deep and shaking—with outrage.

  “Dese mogu . . . dey workin’ wicked, dark magic here. Da saurok, dey not born—dey was created. Flesh shaped an’ bent.” He shook his head in revulsion. “Dis be the blackest of magics, mon!” He turned to Bloodrazor, his weapon raised, clearly expecting orders to destroy all the eggs.

  Instead, the orc gave him a cruel grin. “Yes!” Bloodrazor exclaimed. “The power to shape flesh, to build warriors. This is what the warchief wants!”

  Go’el tore his gaze from the
unfolding scene to look at the reactions of the jury and spectators. As was usually the case, the celestials appeared impassive, but they were the only ones. The rest of those beholding this scathing indictment had expressions ranging from nausea to fury and every shade in between.

  “Garrosh playing god?” shouted the image of Vol’jin, infuriated. “Making monsters? Dis ain’t what da Horde is about!”

  That, Go’el thought, was the phrase. The phrase that, even if unheard by anyone save those few comrades of Vol’jin, had been spoken and released into the world. It had guided Go’el, when he helped retake the Echo Isles for Vol’jin. It had enabled the troll leader to cling to life and claw his way back to recovery to defend the Horde that was his family. It was Varian’s knowledge of that truth that had prevented him from doing what Garrosh wanted to do with the sha, that had caused the human king to refuse to take Orgrimmar and occupy it.

  This is not what the Horde is about.

  And it never would be.

  But it was what Garrosh had wanted it to be, and the scene continued, unsparing.

  Bloodrazor went to Vol’jin, and the troll glared angrily at him. The orc’s nostrils flared and he made a face, as if he had smelled some horrible stench.

  “He knew you were a traitor!” he snarled, and although Go’el knew it was coming, even he was startled by how swiftly the bulky, armored Kor’kron moved. The knife’s arc was the briefest flash, and the blood spurted from Vol’jin’s open throat as the troll collapsed.

  The crowd gasped. The scene vanished.

  “Zazzarik Fryll, would you read charges two, three, four, five, and seven again, please?” Tyrande asked the court secretary.

  The goblin harrumphed, searched through several scrolls, and then proceeded to read aloud: “Murder.”

  Tyrande lifted a hand to interrupt him and he paused, blinking through his spectacles at her.

  “Murder,” she said, and held up her index finger. “Ordering a member of the Kor’kron to slice open Vol’jin’s throat if he did not approve of Garrosh’s barbaric plan. Continue, please.”