World of Warcraft: War Crimes

by Christie Golden

  Still Garrosh seemed uncharacteristically hesitant. Finally he said, “If you deem me worthy, then know this. I shall do all that I can to bring glory to the Horde!”

  “No need for glory at the moment,” Thrall said. “There will be enough of a challenge for you without any extra effort. The Horde’s honor is already assured. You just need to take care of it. Put its needs before your own, as your father did. The Kor’kron will be instructed to protect you as they would me. I go to Nagrand as a shaman, not as warchief of the Horde. Make good use of them—and of Cairne and Eitrigg. Would you go into battle without a weapon?”

  Garrosh looked confused. “That is a foolish question, Warchief, and you know it.”

  “Oh, I do. I am making sure you understand what powerful weapons you have,” Thrall said. “My advisors are my weapons as I struggle to always do what is best for the Horde. They see things I do not, present options I did not know I had. Only a fool would scorn such things. And I do not think you a fool.”

  “I am not a fool, Warchief. You would not ask me to serve so if you thought me one.”

  “True. So, Garrosh, do you agree to lead the Horde until such time as I return? Taking advice from Eitrigg and Cairne when they offer it?”

  Garrosh took a deep breath. “It is my true longing to lead the Horde to the best of my ability. And so, yes, a thousand times yes, my warchief. I will lead as well as I can, and I will consult with the advisors you suggest. I know what a tremendous honor you do me, and I will strive to be worthy of it.”

  “Then it is done,” Thrall said. “For the Horde!”

  “For the Horde!”

  “Stop here, please.” The scene froze. Tyrande walked up to the still, enormous figures, looking carefully at the younger Garrosh. He looked happy and deeply moved. She then turned and looked at the present Garrosh, silent, chained, his eyes half shut as he stared back at her. She didn’t need to say a word, Go’el realized. The contrast between the two versions of Garrosh Hellscream could not have been starker.

  She shook her head, as if having difficulty believing the evidence of her own eyes, then resumed. “Please tell us what happened after you left—presumably for a brief time.”

  “The Cataclysm struck,” Go’el said. “My shamanic abilities were needed more than I—than anyone—could have anticipated.”

  “So that kept you from returning? Your studies?”

  “Initially. I then went to the Maelstrom, to aid the Earthen Ring in their efforts to calm the elements, as I said earlier. But after Deathwing exploded into our world, my skills with the element of earth, especially, proved to be important.”

  “I would say absolutely vital to his destruction,” Tyrande said. She cast a quick glance in Baine’s direction, no doubt expecting a protest, but there was none. “In the absence of the original, uncorrupted Neltharion, there was no Earth-Warder, is that correct?”

  “Yes.” Go’el shifted uncomfortably.

  “And only you were strong enough to hold the element of the earth against Chromatus, and the Demon Soul against Deathwing, is that true?”

  “Yes,” Go’el said. “Even so, we would have failed without the help of many others from both sides. And I maintain that any other shaman capable would have unhesitatingly taken the risks upon himself or herself.”

  “But there was no one else capable,” Tyrande pressed.

  “No,” Go’el said. He disliked being regarded, even temporarily, as an Aspect’s equal, or given credit for any particular remarkable act of heroism when he knew bone-deep that any member of the Earthen Ring would have done the same if he or she could have.

  “And after Deathwing’s fall, you returned to the Maelstrom, where you continued your work, correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “Even by then, word of what Garrosh was starting to do had reached your ears.”

  He shot her a searching look, then nodded. “Yes.”

  “Many feel you should have returned to lead the Horde once this started.”

  “Those who say so were not with me in the Maelstrom,” Go’el said. “Any one of the Earthen Ring who served there can tell you that no one was dispensable.”

  “So, you were forbidden to leave?”

  “No. No one was ordered to stay. We had to search our own hearts as to what was best. I still heard the call of the elements, and so, I knew I had to remain.”

  “Suppose you had not continued to hear the call. That you had been able to leave the Maelstrom. What would you have done? Would you have perhaps gone to Orgrimmar and told Garrosh to get off your throne?”

  “By then he was the warchief. I had no authority to do such a thing. I was not even a member of the Horde, truly, by that point. I became the leader of the Earthen Ring, and it was there that my loyalties lay. Other leaders were in a position to make change, but I was not. I did not even know for certain if my old vision of the Horde was still what the people wanted.”

  “I am not sure I understand.” Go’el knew she did, but he nonetheless welcomed the chance to speak something that had weighed on him.

  “The world did not wait on my return,” he said with a self-deprecating smile. “It changed. The orcs changed. My Horde changed. What was I to do—kill my fellow orcs until it was once again my Horde? Did I have any right to force the Horde to be what it was under my leadership? Did I even have a voice to protest anymore, if I had chosen another path?”

  “If you had been asked—what would you have done?”

  “I was indeed asked for help by Vol’jin. And the moment I received that request from my brother, I answered it with a full heart.”

  “What did you and those who followed you have to do to help Vol’jin and the trolls?”

  Go’el did not answer at once. “Kill the Kor’kron who were holding the Echo Isles under martial law.”

  “Was that not acting against the will of the warchief?”

  “It was. But regardless of who leads it, the Horde is, and always will be, family. This was not an outward defense or even an incursion against an enemy. This was the Horde attacking its own.”

  “And this is what made you decide to take arms against Garrosh.”

  “Yes. I could not stand idle when asked to aid my brother against one who should value him, not seek to kill him.”

  Tyrande smiled and inclined her head in a gesture of respect. “Thank you, Go’el. I have no more questions. Defender, your witness.”

  Go’el realized that, grueling as Tyrande’s examination had been, it would be nothing compared to what was coming. His friend Baine, son of Cairne Bloodhoof, had risen. Go’el had seen what Baine had done to Vol’jin—Baine’s ally and friend against Garrosh, who had urged the tauren to take the responsibility and defend Hellscream to the best of his ability.

  Baine had done so, and was continuing to do so. And he, no doubt, would attack Go’el as he had the troll.

  How have we come to this place, all of us? Go’el wondered, and steeled himself for the interrogation.

  19

  Harrowmeiser sighed. Another gorgeous evening in the scenic Howling Fjord, in the lovely continent of Northrend. With those spiffy “northern lights” that everyone just went on and on and on about. And the delightful subfreezing temperatures. And an oh-so-appealing lumpy cot and something that sometimes could actually be called “food.”

  The goblin stood regarding the setting sun. A woman flanked him on either side, and not for the first time he wondered what their faces looked like without their helms.

  Yep . . . just another glorious day here at Westguard Keep, a reluctant “guest” of the Alliance.

  He had lost track of how long he had been held captive, his beautiful zeppelin, the Lady Lug, used now by the enemy to protect the keep from being overrun by nearby pirates. Day in, day out. With no real change of seasons, it was hard to estimate. Years, certainly.

  Not even a shirt, he thought sadly as the chill set in. I’m from Ratchet. A tropical clime, thank you very much. And they have
me here, with iron balls strapped to my feet and not even a shirt.

  “You know, Greenie Girl,” Harrowmeiser mused, “once word about this cruel practice gets back to the Horde, this could be some kind of international incident. I mean”—and he stretched, working a flex or two into the movement—“I’m practically naked here.” He showed his sharp yellow teeth in a leer and waggled his eyebrows suggestively at the woman on his left.

  The gritting of her teeth was almost audible. The emerald-eyed dwarf loathed the nickname, which of course only reinforced Harrowmeiser’s usage of it at every possible opportunity.

  “Ach, dinna need to tell me,” Greenie Girl muttered. “Talk about a cruel practice!”

  “Oh?” he asked. “Could it be that the sight of my glistening green skin, stretched taut against my rippling muscles—”

  “—reminds us of plague vats? Why, yes,” chimed in Bluebell. Her name was something much less approachable, like Sergeant Somebody-or-other, but the woman’s eyes were the hue of the sky itself.

  “Come now, ladies, you must have hearts somewhere underneath all that plate armor,” Harrowmeiser said. “I’ve been imprisoned here for a long time now, and I’ve done everything you’ve asked of me. You want defense against those pirates down there?” He stabbed a sharp-nailed digit in the direction of the Shattered Straits, where a good half-dozen pirate galleons were harbored. Now and then they made incursions, but for the most part they lingered beyond reach of anyone on the land.

  But not, Harrowmeiser thought, his small chest swelling with pride, beyond the reach of the brilliance and talents of the goblin people! “You got defense against those pirates down there! I’ve supervised this zeppelin on Alliance orders every single day, ferrying boatloads of adventurers, since you captured my ship, and only once has—”

  “Seven hundred and thirteen.”

  “I beg your pardon, Bluebell?”

  The human’s eyes went a lot less sky-blue and a lot more glacier-blue. “Seven hundred and thirteen times. Your zeppelin has had some sort of malfunction or accident seven hundred and thirteen times. And today’s not yet over.”

  “Madam! You wound me!”

  A snort from Greenie Girl. “Ha! Don’t we wish! Dinna tease, goblin—it’s nae kind.”

  “Me? Tease? Never! You know, they say, once you go goblin . . .” he began, but paused when he realized that neither of them was listening to him.

  Their heads were turned to the right, looking in the direction of the main gate, and Harrowmeiser’s large ears caught what had gotten their full attention. Guttural sounds of indecipherable war cries rent the air, along with Alliance shouts of defiance. There was the too-familiar clash of steel, and the angry singing of arrows, and the shouts turned into screams of anguish.

  “Oh, this is dandy,” he muttered. “I got these things strapped to my feet, and here come the vrykul all out for blood.”

  “Stay here,” said Bluebell, and she took off running.

  “Wow,” said Harrowmeiser, raising an eyebrow in appreciation, “she can move pretty fast in that armor.”

  “So can I,” murmured Greenie Girl. They stood in silence for a moment, and the dwarf twitched. Suddenly she swore a colorful oath. Drawing her sword, she fixed Harrowmeiser with a glare through her visor. “Ye stay right here!” And then she took off to follow her companion, running at a brisk trot toward the commotion.

  Harrowmeiser wasted no time. He went as far as the chains about his legs permitted him and reached a patch of earth next to the docking area. Groping frantically about, his fingers closed on a stone. His brow furrowed in concentration, he started slamming it against the locking mechanism. He glanced up toward the gate, trying to figure out what was going on, and then back at the zeppelin.

  Hell with the lock, he thought. He hefted one of the heavy iron balls with a grunt and dragged the other with him as he inched toward the Lady Lug and sweet, sweet freedom. Ungrateful wenches. They’d miss him when he was gone. He was the only thing that brought a little humor, a little brightness, into their bleak, Alliance-colored world.

  He heard the sound of running feet on the deck and froze. His ears drooping, Harrowmeiser saw what looked to be two human males racing toward him. One wore plate armor from head to toe; the other was probably a mage or a priest. His hand kept his hood low over his face. They weren’t wearing uniforms, and they were coming around the wall rather than directly from the fort, but it didn’t matter. They’d already been part of the fray—the warrior had a bloodied sword drawn.

  The goblin gulped. “I was, uh, just getting the ship ready!” Harrowmeiser exclaimed with a ghastly attempt at a smile. “We could mount an aerial attack—really show those vrykul bastids, huh?” He balled his fists and punched the air, making what he hoped sounded like fierce grunting noises.

  “Get on board,” the mage said in a silky but harried voice. “Hurry. Shokia and the others are buying us time.”

  Harrowmeiser was completely confused, but hey, they were letting him get on the zeppelin. He started slogging toward the ship. The warrior let out an exasperated grunt, and Harrowmeiser realized he was a she, though wearing a male’s armor. To his astonishment and secret delight, she swept him up in her arms—iron balls and all—and carried him on board. She deposited him unceremoniously in front of the wheel, and his hands closed on the handles as if for dear life.

  “Wow, you got some good muscles there! Where to, lady?” he shouted.

  “Down there, and I am no lady!” the woman yelled back. Her voice was deep and husky, inviting no disobedience. She was looking back at the dock, doubtless wondering when the escape would be noticed.

  “Hey, remember, you said it, not me,” Harrowmeiser retorted. Then he said, “Wait, wait . . . you mean you want me to take ’er down toward the pirates?”

  “I did not realize I had liberated an imbecile,” the warrior woman snapped, glaring at him through the slits in her helm. Boy, and did she ever have a glare. Harrowmeiser didn’t even know that human eyes could look like that.

  “There’s pirates down there,” he repeated. “Oh . . . oh no . . . I get it now. You’re pirates too, aren’t you? This is all about the attacks, isn’t it? Listen. I can explain everything! The Alliance made me do it!” For one of the few times in his life, Harrowmeiser was actually telling the truth.

  The woman grunted and removed her helm, revealing gray skin and tufts of mashed-down, spiky black hair.

  “Pirates, pagh,” the orc said, and spat. Right on the deck of his lovely zeppelin. “Drunken rum-swilling vermin. Unfortunately, we need their aid right now, and we will have it.”

  “I’m rescued!” Harrowmeiser crowed. “It’s about time! Who are you guys, anyway?”

  “I am Zaela, the leader of the Dragonmaw,” said the orc, drawing herself up.

  “Holy cow,” gasped Harrowmeiser. Word of her exploits during the siege had reached him even in Northrend. Some Alliance “heroes” liked to rub in news of Horde defeats. “Warlord Zaela? I thought you were—”

  Zaela swore colorfully. “I am alive, well, and burning for revenge, as I imagine are you, goblin.”

  “Harrowmeiser’s the name. Indeed I am, but I am burning more to escape cleanly, and getting recaptured by pirates was not what I had in mind. What do you want with them?”

  “We need people to fight for our cause, and they will do so. If we pay them well enough. My sources tell me you were once well connected, and may yet have access to significant funds. You will help us create an army.”

  Suddenly it all made sense. This, he was comfortable with. “Oh yeah, sure, I got some good business partners and have made a copper or two in my day. But what’s your cause? I might not want to support it.” He folded his arms stubbornly.

  She whirled. “You will support our cause because it will free you. And keep you alive.”

  She had a point. “Your negotiation tactics, while not exactly subtle, are convincing. Okay, I’ll take you down to the pirates.”

 
; “Will they recognize you, goblin?” the tall, slender human said to Harrowmeiser in a silky voice. He flipped back his hood, revealing long white hair and glowing green eyes. A blood elf! “I would be quite vexed if we have gone to all this trouble to save you, and you spoil things by getting your head separated from your shoulders.”

  “They, uh . . . might?” he hedged.

  “Well,” the blood elf drawled, “stay out of the way and let us do the talking. Or wait—perhaps we could get a disguise for you as well.” Seeming to realize something, he snapped his fingers exaggeratedly. “No, that will not work. You are too short for a dwarf.”

  Harrowmeiser glared. The mage reached out and patted the top of his head.

  • • •

  Baine Bloodhoof saw a mixture of resignation and determination in Go’el’s blue eyes. He respected the orc deeply, and considered asking no further questions. But he knew if he did not question his friend, he would be a coward, and would not be discharging his duty to the fullest. Either Go’el and Vol’jin would understand, or they would not. Baine had accepted the task, and he would complete it.

  He inclined his head and held the position for a beat longer than was necessary for courtesy. “Let the record show that the Defender recognizes Go’el, once known as Thrall, as a true hero in a world in which that term is bandied about far too casually. The Defender thanks him for his many years of sacrifice, for the good of the Horde, and indeed for Azeroth. We owe him much.”

  Go’el’s eyes narrowed, but he replied politely, “I did what I was called upon to do.”

  As do I, Baine wished he could say. “When you stepped up to claim the mantle of warchief, you had a vision of your new Horde, did you not?”

  “I did. I wished to have a Horde composed of races and individuals who valued honor, martial prowess, and respect for one another as family. I wanted to leave behind old ghosts of the demon-ridden heritage that so dogged our footsteps.”