World of Warcraft: War Crimes

by Christie Golden

  “I want so badly to understand,” Anduin said, his voice barely a whisper. “Because at least some of it, I already do. I understand you want your people to carry their heads high. You want your children to be healthy. You want the orcs to be strong, so you can thrive. You want to do great deeds, so you won’t be forgotten when you crumble to dust. This, I do, I really do, understand. But the rest? Alexstrasza? The inn? The trolls? Theramore?” He shook his golden head slowly. “I can’t.”

  As Anduin spoke, Garrosh, too, had grown quiet. He watched Anduin raptly, almost transfixed by the boy’s words. Now he replied in a voice as calm as Anduin’s.

  “You never will.”

  For a moment, Anduin didn’t reply. Then he said, “You may be right.”

  “Prince Anduin, please step back from the cell,” came Li Chu’s voice. Anduin started at the sound and obliged. Li’s gaze was on Garrosh. “Is everything well, Your Highness?”

  “As well as it can be,” Anduin said. Behind Li stood Lo, carrying a tray. On it was a bowl of steaming green curry, another one of rice, two peaches, a tropical sunfruit sliced into quarters, and a fresh pitcher of water. Garrosh could not, at least, complain of being treated as poorly as he had treated his own prisoners. Yu Fei murmured her incantation, and the glow on the bars faded. Under Li’s watchful gaze, Lo placed the meal on a small table right beside the door.

  Anduin left Garrosh to his supper. At the entrance to the ramp, he paused for a moment, then turned around.

  “Then again,” he said to Garrosh, “you might be wrong.”

  • • •

  This time, it was Sylvanas who was delayed. By the time she reached Windrunner Spire, Vereesa was already there, pacing back and forth on the beach. When Sylvanas alighted from the bat, Vereesa ran to her.

  “We can do it!” she cried. “It is perfect!”

  Sylvanas found herself smiling at Vereesa’s excitement. If true, this was wonderful news. “Speak quickly. I am eager to listen!”

  “One of the rotating meals is green curry,” she said. “It is every third day, usually, but Mu-Lam Shao says that the order depends on what is fresh more than anything. They make it in a large pot in the kitchen, and everyone is served from that pot.”

  They fell into easy, almost perfect step as they walked, both their movements swift and excited. Sylvanas felt as though all her senses were heightened, as though she were awake for the first time in a long while. “Go on.”

  “When Garrosh’s meal is dished up, it is sent down to him on a tray along with rice and some sort of fruit—again, whatever is fresh. They also give him a quartered sunfruit.” Vereesa could barely contain herself. “Sylvanas—the preparation of the dish is finished by the diner. You mix in rice with each bite and put a squeeze of the sunfruit juice atop it. The fruit itself is tart, but the peel is sweet, so you can eat the peel at the end of the meal. We do not have to put the poison in the curry—”

  Sylvanas stopped in her tracks. “We can put it in the sunfruit,” she murmured. “And Garrosh will poison himself!”

  “Yes!” Vereesa’s joy radiated from her like a sun. “All we need to do is swap out the sunfruit right before the dish leaves the kitchen.”

  Both of them reached out their hands at the same time. Vereesa’s gloved fingers squeezed tightly. She is so happy, Sylvanas realized. And . . . so am I.

  “This is brilliant, Little Moon,” Sylvanas told her. “You are brilliant.” Her sister blushed with pleasure. “Will you be able to get into the kitchens to do this?”

  Vereesa nodded. “Yes. I am already a regular. I talk with Mu-Lam while she prepares the food. No one has objected so far; I think Mi Shao has told them of my interest. I watched them prepare the curry today. The sunfruit is cut up right before the curry is ladled into the bowl, then placed on the tray. I can bring one already quartered and poisoned and swap the one for the other in a heartbeat’s time.”

  “And you know he uses the sunfruit?”

  “Yes. Mu-Lam says he finds it delicious.”

  “How lovely,” mused Sylvanas. “Garrosh, possibly one of the most dangerous orcs to ever live, slain by a fondness for a Pandaren fruit.”

  “It feels like a gift,” said Vereesa. “As if this is destiny.”

  Sylvanas looked down at their clasped hands. She felt . . . warmth inside. Not physical, no; she would never again feel that. If she and her sister had not been wearing gloves, Vereesa would recoil from the cold touch of Sylvanas’s skin.

  Or . . . perhaps not.

  “Maybe it is destiny,” Sylvanas murmured. “Maybe you and I were meant to reach out to one another. It could be that Garrosh Hellscream could not be toppled by anything other than the combined forces of the last two Windrunners in Azeroth.”

  She lifted her head, her glowing red eyes boring into Vereesa’s sky blue. “The Horde and the Alliance could barely manage to stop him. But you and I alone, my sister, will make an end of him. And . . . perhaps a beginning of something else.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “We do not have to stop with Garrosh’s death,” Sylvanas said. Her voice trembled slightly. How long had it been since it had done so? Only once, since her murder. Once, years past now, when an adventurer had given her a sapphire-adorned locket.

  “What is there in the Alliance for you now?” she pressed, hoping she read her sister correctly. “Garrosh can be only the beginning. We are powerful, we Windrunner sisters. We have changed the world. And we can keep changing it—together. When Garrosh is slain, come join me.”

  “What?”

  “Come and rule by my side. You hate the Horde—so did I, until I had a place of power there. We can be our own law, Little Moon. We can reshape the Horde in our image. Nothing could stop us. We will grind our enemies into dust and elevate our allies. I feel this; I think you can feel it too.”

  Her hands gripped Vereesa’s, hard. But the high elven ranger did not draw back. She stared, lips slightly parted, her eyes searching Sylvanas’s.

  “I . . .”

  “I want you with me, Sister,” Sylvanas said, and her voice broke. “I have been . . . so very lonely. I did not even realize it until now. I did not think I could—stay with me. Please . . . stay, my Little Moon.”

  24

  Day Six

  “Chu’shao Whisperwind, you may summon your first witness.”

  “Thank you, Fa’shua. I summon Gakkorg, formerly of the Kor’kron.”

  There were not many Kor’kron left. Most of them had sided with Garrosh, even to the point of engaging in battle with Go’el’s forces when he arrived in the Echo Isles. Vol’jin had not yet selected his own special guards, and Baine imagined that there would be more than a few trolls among them. The handful of Kor’kron who had survived were in prisons, save for this one. Gakkorg had defected early on, even before Pandaria had been discovered. There had been a price on his head, but the canny orc had managed to stay underground.

  He was younger than Baine had realized, and, as was usual for the Kor’kron, a fine physical specimen. His skin was a deep, almost emerald shade of green, and he walked with a limp as he went to the witness chair to make his vow.

  “Please tell us your name and position,” Tyrande requested.

  “I am Gakkorg. I was, as you have said, once a member of the Kor’kron. I served under Warchief Thrall and then later under Garrosh Hellscream.”

  “Few survived long if they ‘once’ served,” mused Tyrande.

  “With respect, I protest!” shouted Baine.

  “I agree with the Defender,” said Taran Zhu. “Please ask your questions without commentary, Chu’shao.”

  “When did you leave Garrosh’s service?” Tyrande continued.

  “Shortly after his initial campaign to claim the continent of Kalimdor.”

  “Thank you. Chromie, the Vision, please.”

  The dragon of the Vision of Time awoke under Chromie’s gentle coaxing. The Gakkorg of the past appeared, a bulging, bloodstained sack flu
ng over his back as he approached one of the many ramshackle metal longhouses that were sprinkled over Bilgewater Harbor.

  The floor of the longhouse was covered with straw, and it housed captives.

  They were asleep at first, but awoke when the door opened. There were four of them, and each had a strong chain fastened to his or her right foreleg. They yawned, knuckling the sleep out of wide, brown eyes and murmuring curiously, their faces larger than an adult human’s but still small for their kind. Thick, long hair tumbled in baby’s curls of black and brown and gray down their backs. They wore only the most primitive bits of animal skins for clothing, and as they started to sniff the air and realized what Gakkorg was carrying, they clapped excitedly and made sounds of delight. Their small tails lashed and they stomped their heavy feet up and down.

  They were the offspring of the magnataur.

  “That’s it, little ones,” encouraged Gakkorg. “Make a lot of noise so your parents can hear you.” He removed a hunk of dripping meat from the sack, and the younglings went wild. Laughter burbled from one. The rest cried with desire, tears glistening on round cheeks as they reached out their hands.

  The image of Gakkorg regarded them for a moment; then he shook his head and muttered something to himself. He tossed a hunk of meat to one of them, a scant female, who pranced as best she could with her fettered foreleg, then plopped down to devour the sweetened meat. The others clamored all the louder for their own share, and Gakkorg obliged. Soon all four of them, from the youngest, barely a baby, to the eldest, a male with the smallest indication of tusks coming from either side of his head, were chewing on their food.

  “Stop here, please.” The scene froze. “Who and what are these?” Tyrande inquired.

  Gakkorg’s face was gray with sorrow. “Magnataur younglings,” he said. “Garrosh kidnapped them in order to force the adults to fight for him in Ashenvale.”

  “Were they tortured in any way?”

  “No,” said the orc. “My job was to feed and tend to them. When their parents grew difficult, I would give them special treats so they would make a lot of noise all of a sudden. They liked meat that had been soaked in honey. The parents couldn’t tell what we were doing to them, and worry kept them manageable. I would not torture younglings, night elf.”

  “But you tended kidnapped ones,” Tyrande said, simply stating a fact.

  Gakkorg rubbed his face. “Yes, I did,” he said heavily.

  “Did the adults fight for the Horde in that battle?” asked Tyrande, although Baine knew that the high priestess had seen them herself.

  “They did.”

  “What happened to them?”

  “They were all killed,” Gakkorg replied.

  “So their little ones were orphaned,” Tyrande continued. “The adults died keeping their part of the bargain. What was Garrosh’s part?”

  “He told the magnataur he would kill their offspring if the adults didn’t fight. If they did fight for the Horde, he would release the younglings.”

  “I see. Did he honor his word?”

  Gakkorg didn’t answer at once. He simply sat and stared at the images of the youngsters, frozen in time, the gore of their meal offset by the innocent delight they took in the treat.

  “Answer the question, please,” Tyrande prodded.

  Gakkorg shook himself. “Yes . . . and no. The magnataur—well, they are not the sharpest swords in the armory. And Garrosh was very clever in his wording.” Now he did look away from the scene and narrowed his eyes at Garrosh. His words were almost spat. “He released the younglings, all right. The magnataur assumed that Garrosh meant he would take them home. Instead, he sent orders that they were to be set loose on the beaches of Azshara.”

  Baine closed his eyes. He did not dare look at Garrosh, for fear that he would physically attack the orc for this latest atrocity.

  “But, they could fend for themselves, could they not?”

  “Perhaps they could have, in Northrend, where they understood what was safe and what wasn’t. Where they could have found adults of their kind. But they were released on the Shattered Strand.”

  “And that was not safe?”

  “There are naga on the Shattered Strand.” Gakkorg’s voice was hollow. He said nothing more; he didn’t have to.

  “And what did you do when you learned this?”

  “I took off my tabard and disappeared,” he said. “I was not the only one.”

  “Thank you. And so another count of the abduction—and murder—of children can be laid at Garrosh Hellscream’s feet. Chu’shao Bloodhoof, your witness.”

  Baine couldn’t even speak to decline. He simply waved his hand in a negative gesture. He had nothing to say to Gakkorg, and feared if he did address the orc, it would be only to congratulate him for his desertion.

  As Tyrande walked back to her seat and Gakkorg returned to his place in the stands, a Sentinel emerged and made a beeline for Tyrande. They spoke quickly, and Tyrande’s brows rose. She seemed disbelieving at first, but something the Sentinel said appeared to convince her.

  “Chu’shao Whisperwind,” said Taran Zhu, “would you care to share with the court?”

  “One moment, Fa’shua.” The two night elves continued speaking in sibilant whispers, and Tyrande finally nodded. The Sentinel hastened outside while Tyrande composed herself. She appeared to be stunned, pleased, and overwhelmed all at once. Eventually she rose, her robe rustling softly, and for a long moment simply stood at her desk. She made no move to call a witness, instead searching the crowd, then turned her gaze up to the celestials, as if trying to make a decision. Baine was on alert. Tyrande always presented herself as confident and controlled, but now she looked . . . quietly triumphant.

  “Lord Zhu,” she said, “I submit a formal request to have this trial regarded as irreparably compromised.”

  The arena began to buzz, and Taran Zhu struck the gong. For the first time since the trial began, Garrosh leaned over to speak to Baine. “What does this mean?”

  “Depending on why she wants this, either she thinks you’ll be acquitted—which I do not believe for a moment—or she wants to get a new jury.”

  “Which means I will undoubtedly be executed.”

  His voice was placid, almost bored. Baine looked at him sharply. “There are only a handful of beings capable of returning an impartial verdict. Four of them currently compose your jury.”

  “I stand by my statement.”

  Baine didn’t answer. When the furor had subsided, Taran Zhu said, “Chu’shao Bloodhoof and Chu’shao Whisperwind. Will you and your time advisors please approach the dais?”

  When all of them stood before him, Taran Zhu peered at Tyrande with irritation. Chromie did not look particularly happy, Baine observed. “Accuser, tell me why at this late point you wish me to declare this trial compromised.”

  “It has come to my attention, and I must bring it to yours, that Chu’shao Bloodhoof has a conflict of interest in representing the Accused. I do not believe he can do a fair job, and therefore request that the trial be formally declared compromised and that a new Defender and jury be appointed.”

  “Chu’shao,” Taran Zhu said with a combination of gravity and exasperation, “I am dubious that you are unaware of the virtual impossibility of finding anyone—Horde, Alliance, or otherwise—who is capable of a completely fair representation of the Accused.”

  “Well, you will simply have to do so,” Tyrande said.

  “What is the nature of this evidence?”

  Tyrande now had the grace to look a bit uncomfortable. “I have just been notified that a witness has been located who will give testimony that, to say the least, does not reflect well on Chu’shao Bloodhoof. I would prefer not to sully his reputation unnecessarily. I believe that hearing this information will so influence the jury that they will be unable to render a fair verdict.”

  Taran Zhu folded his paws and scrutinized her at length. “I would not wish to be your enemy, Lady Tyrande.”

&nb
sp; “I am glad you are not, Lord Zhu.”

  “And what is the identity of this surprising witness?”

  “I would prefer—”

  “Right now,” Baine interrupted angrily, “I care not one whit what you prefer, Chu’shao! Who do you have?”

  Taran Zhu held up a paw. “Pray silence, Chu’shao Bloodhoof. Chu’shao Whisperwind—Chu’shao Bloodhoof’s opinion of Garrosh is nothing new. He has even addressed any potential bias in his opening statement. If you had a protest, it should have been raised then.”

  “I did not have this witness at that time, Fa’shua.”

  Taran Zhu was still for a long moment. Finally, he spoke. “Chu’shao Bloodhoof, it is clear what Chu’shao Whisperwind wishes to achieve. I have more faith in the celestials and their ability to render a fair verdict than she does, but I would know your thoughts. It seems as though you would be the one damaged by this.”

  This was the moment, Baine realized. Taran Zhu would do what he felt was best, of course. Such was his right as fa’shua. But he had asked Baine, and the tauren would answer truthfully. He also understood that Tyrande did not have to do this. If the testimony was as damning as she seemed to believe—and he had no reason to doubt her certainty—then she simply could have brought in the witness and let things fall out as they would. She was attempting to show him respect—and, perhaps, do him a kindness.

  “There was a time when I would have welcomed this,” he said. “To have conducted my duty as best I could, and yet be relieved of the necessity to continue. The Earth Mother knows I have struggled with my choice. I did not ask for this burden, and I am certain whatever witness Tyrande has found will make public the degree of my feelings toward the Accused. As poor a champion as I might be, I am nonetheless the best Garrosh Hellscream has. I was called to defend him, and defend him I shall. Whatever the risk to me personally. These are my thoughts, Lord Zhu.”