World of Warcraft: War Crimes

by Christie Golden

  “Lady Proudmoore?” Tyrande asked.

  “I-I’m sorry. Could you repeat the question?”

  “I said, the attack from the Horde did come, did it not?”

  “Yes.”

  “And were you prepared?”

  “Yes. We won, eventually, but it was hard earned, and we had a significant number of casualties. In the midst of everything that was going on, we uncovered a traitor. Thalen Songweaver. A member of the Kirin Tor—one of the Sunreavers.” Jaina tried to speak dispassionately, but she snarled the last word. Her fists clenched. Why hadn’t she realized then they were not to be trusted?

  “Did you lose anyone close to you?”

  “Captain Wymor. He was a friend of many years’ standing.”

  “Anyone else whose loss you felt especially deeply?”

  Jaina shook her head. “No. Not . . . not then.”

  “Did you have any inkling that the Horde was doing anything other than its level best to destroy Theramore through conventional means?”

  “No. They fought fiercely and took many casualties. We had every reason to believe that they were giving their all, as we were.”

  “So you thought it a genuine victory.”

  Jaina nodded. “Yes.”

  “What did you do after the Horde retreated?”

  “What must always be done,” Jaina said. “We tended the wounded. Buried the dead. Comforted those who had lost loved ones. Held those who had survived.”

  Kinndy . . .

  She swallowed. “We discovered that during the battle some of the Horde had liberated Thalen Songweaver. Vereesa and Shandris Feathermoon set off to see if they could find the trail before it went cold. So they weren’t—” Her throat closed up.

  “So they were not there when the mana bomb fell,” said Tyrande, with deep sympathy.

  Jaina was glad that she had thought to tuck a handkerchief in her sleeve. She pulled it out and dabbed at her eyes. “No,” she said, “thank the Light, they survived.”

  “Chu’shao,” said Taran Zhu, “would you like to call a respite?” Tyrande looked at Jaina. The archmage shook her head. It took everything she had to be here, in this moment, saying these things, and she was not sure she could do so again if she stopped now.

  “No, we will continue,” Tyrande said. “So you thought the battle was over and the Alliance was victorious. You began to take care of your people. When did you realize that something was wrong?”

  “Kalecgos had come to Theramore before any of this happened.” The “if onlys” would not be ignored. They galloped through her mind like a herd of talbuk, never one at a time, but many. If only they had tried harder to find the Focusing Iris. If only it had not been stolen. If only . . . “A precious artifact known as the Focusing Iris had been stolen from the blue dragonflight, and Kalec had sought my aid in locating it. Shortly after the battle, he informed me that he was able to sense the Focusing Iris—and that it was rapidly approaching Theramore.”

  “The Focusing Iris,” Tyrande mused. “Can you tell us more about this?”

  “It had lain dormant for millennia, until Malygos began to use it to direct surge needles. These needles pulled arcane magic from Azeroth’s ley lines and channeled it into the Nexus,” Jaina explained. “After Malygos died, the Focusing Iris was utilized to animate Chromatus, the only chromatic dragon experiment that was successful. It took all four of the Aspects, along with the assistance of Go’el holding the power of the element of earth, to defeat him.” Once again, Jaina was forced to recall what the former warchief had contributed to the world. Angrily, she pushed the thought away.

  “A powerful artifact indeed, and obviously devastating in the wrong hands,” Tyrande said. “What happened next?”

  “Kalec went to find it,” Jaina said. “And Rhonin—” Her voice cracked. She poured a glass of water with a hand that trembled and took a sip. Her heart was beating as fast as a rabbit’s.

  Tyrande made a movement, as if she wanted to put a hand comfortingly on Jaina’s, but did not complete the gesture. Instead, she turned to Chromie and said in an almost reverent voice, “May it please the court—with great respect, I present a Vision of that event.”

  Chromie looked more solemn than Jaina had ever seen her. The little gnome gently placed her hands on the Vision of Time, and then began to weave the spell that would awaken the slumbering metal dragon.

  Jaina bit her lip, hard. An image began to form, and she recognized herself and Rhonin, who had given everything. Her eyes stinging with tears, she looked up in the stands to see Vereesa. The high elf’s hands were clenched into tight fists, and she did not appear to be breathing. Jaina did not know whether to be sorrowful or joyous that Vereesa was to witness this moment. It would be devastating, but she would see, really see, the true heroism of the man she had loved. And so would everyone else.

  The scene took place in her tower—her beloved tower, filled with books and scrolls and little seating areas where one could read, with potions brewing away and bottles of elixirs of this and that scattered about with cheerful haphazardness. A window was open, letting in light and air—and showing the sky galleon of the goblins, as of yet only a small dot. This was the place where she and Pained and Tervosh had spent countless hours. And now, where Rhonin, so very vibrantly alive, awaited the Jaina of the past as she hastened up the stairs, followed by some volunteers who had been helping her and, she realized belatedly, whose names she did not know.

  “Is it the Focusing Iris?” asked the image of Jaina.

  “Yes,” said Rhonin. “It’s powering the biggest mana bomb that’s ever been made. And putting out a dampening field so that no one can get away. I can divert it. But first, help me—I can hold back the dampening field long enough to get these people to safety.”

  “Of course!” The image of Jaina began to cast a portal. Stormwind, Jaina remembered; she’d been planning to send her companions there. But she saw, and now everyone else did as well, that the portal was going to open on a small, rocky island in the Great Sea.

  “Why are you redirecting my portal?”

  “Takes . . . less energy,” grunted Rhonin. His efforts to hold back the dampening field were clearly draining him. Jaina started to protest, but he cut her off. “Don’t argue. Just—go through, all of you!”

  Jaina’s companions obeyed, but she didn’t. She watched herself turn a shocked expression to Rhonin. “You can’t defuse it! You’re planning on dying here!”

  “Shut. Up. Just go through! I have to pull it here, right here, to save Vereesa and Shandris and as . . . as many as I can. The walls of this tower are steeped in magic. I should be able to localize the detonation. Don’t be a foolish little girl, Jaina. Go!”

  “No! I can’t let you do this! You have a family. You’re the leader of the Kirin Tor!”

  “And you’re the future of it!” Rhonin snapped. He looked as if he was about to collapse, as if he stayed on his feet only by an act of sheer will.

  “No! I’m not!” the image of Jaina insisted. “Theramore is my city. I need to stay and defend it!”

  “Jaina, if you don’t go soon, we will both die, and my efforts to drag the cursed bomb here instead of letting it strike the heart of the city will be for nothing. Is that what you want? Is it?”

  The sound of the approaching sky galleon increased. “I won’t abandon you!” Jaina shouted. “Maybe together we can divert it!” Jaina watched herself turn to look at the nearing ship—to see Kalecgos fall, to see the bomb being dropped. The Vision adjusted, and suddenly it was as if everyone present was seeing what Jaina had seen. There was a collective gasp in the courtroom.

  What had followed had been a blur in Jaina’s mind, but now she saw it all. Rhonin paused in his spellcasting long enough to physically grab Jaina and shove her into the portal. She struggled, but was caught within the portal spell’s grasp.

  Jaina was looking right at Rhonin when it happened.

  The leader of the Kirin Tor stared toward the window
, his arms outstretched, on his goateed face an expression of complete and total defiance.

  And then—

  Her world went white. Rhonin’s entire body turned violet—the hue of utterly pure arcane magic. Then it exploded in a sickening cloud of lavender ash.

  Before she even realized what she was doing, Jaina’s throat was suddenly raw from her scream. She was not alone—not here in the courtroom, and not in the past, where those who watched the mana bomb descend were crying out in hopeless horror.

  Dimly, she heard the reverberating tone of Taran Zhu’s gong and his call for respite. Jaina was grateful that Vereesa’s torment was over, although her own was just beginning.

  • • •

  Anduin hadn’t spoken directly to Jaina about what she had personally witnessed. He had heard about it, and had thought he understood the nightmare of what she had undergone. He realized now he had only the barest comprehension. He didn’t know what else Tyrande was planning on showing, but after what she had done yesterday, he expected the worst. She’d already shown the jury and the spectators the horrific sight of Rhonin’s sacrifice. She was not, Anduin guessed, about to hold back.

  He had to admit, the night elf’s brutal, take-no-prisoners, spare-no-feelings attitude was working. Anduin stared angrily at Garrosh as the orc sat, crippled, sha-scarred, and chained within an inch of his life, next to a Baine who had his head in his hands. Anduin knew that it was not the threat of prison that kept the angry mobs from taking over in the temple. It was that of not being allowed to see the next Vision, hear the next witness, or vicariously experience the next atrocity.

  The respite was only for twenty minutes. Vereesa had gotten up and left without a word. Anduin didn’t think she would return, and couldn’t blame her. Jaina too had left almost immediately with Tyrande, although by their body language, Anduin could see the relationship was strained. He’d expected Kalecgos to accompany the two, but instead, the blue dragon remained in his seat.

  “Aren’t you going to Jaina?” Anduin asked. “It’s a brief respite, but I’m sure she’d be glad to see you.”

  Kalec gave Anduin a halfhearted shake of his head. “I’m not sure she would,” he said.

  Anduin shifted awkwardly in his seat. Varian was paying no attention. The king leaned back in his chair, his arms folded against his chest, and stared fixedly at Garrosh.

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” Anduin said quietly. “She’s been through so much . . . You two seemed really right for each other.”

  “So I had hoped,” the dragon said. Then, as if he had said too much, he clapped Anduin on the shoulder with too-boisterous good humor. “Going to go stretch my wings.”

  “Might do the same,” Anduin said.

  “What, stretch your wings?” It was a poor joke, but it made Anduin smile despite himself.

  “Ha, I wish. I just have legs. See you in a bit, Kalec.”

  Three lotus buns and a cup of yak milk tea later, Anduin found himself questioning just why he was trying to help Garrosh Hellscream at all. And if Tyrande showed what he thought she would, Anduin didn’t think he would continue.

  • • •

  Jaina was pale, but more composed than she had been earlier. She and Tyrande seemed easier around one another as they entered and each resumed her seat. Taran Zhu announced that court had resumed session, and instructed Tyrande to continue.

  “As we saw in the Vision of Time, Rhonin did succeed in portaling you to safety, and in drawing the mana bomb directly to the tower,” said Tyrande. “What happened then?”

  Jaina sat straight, hands folded in her lap. Her eyes were red, but when she spoke, her voice was calm. “I regained consciousness on the island. Kalecgos found me, and I told him that I was going to return to Theramore, to see if there was anyone left I could help. He offered to come with me, but I insisted on going alone.”

  Out of the corner of his eye, Anduin glanced at Kalecgos. The dragon’s lips were pressed together in a thin line and he wasn’t looking at Jaina. Anduin guessed that the conversation the two had actually had was nowhere as civil as she was describing.

  “And did you?”

  “Yes.”

  “I would like to show the court what Jaina Proudmoore saw upon her return to the city she had founded, had loved, and was willing to die for.” She nodded to Chromie.

  A collective murmur of horror rose from the spectators, and Anduin saw that even the August Celestials, usually so impassive, looked distressed. The mana bomb had left a huge crater, yawning in front of the rubble that was all that remained of the great tower. The sky had been rent and wounded, with the insane colors that Anduin had heard one could see in Northrend.

  And the bodies—

  Anduin swallowed hard, tasting bile. There were so many. Some of them looked normal—well, as normal as a corpse could look, he supposed—while others floated in midair, bleeding upward. Still others were a uniform shade of violet. There seemed to be no rhyme or reason as to which form death took.

  He watched the image of Jaina, her face drained of color and blank with shock, walk about the ruins. Her hair—white, now—almost seemed to be floating about her, and he could hear the hum and crackle of still-viable arcane energy.

  The detritus of ordinary life stood in sharp contrast to the overwhelming scale of the destruction. Anduin glimpsed things like goblets, hairbrushes, leaves from a book that crumbled to purple dust when Jaina picked them up.

  The enormous temple was quiet as everyone watched Jaina sort through the ruinations, looking for life, for any sign of hope. The only thing that broke the silence was the soft sounds of grief as Jaina came across bodies that someone recognized and mourned. Pained, who had survived so many battles, still clutched her sword as Jaina bent to stroke her long hair. The strands shattered beneath the mage’s touch.

  Anduin recognized others—Admiral Aubrey, Marcus Jonathan, for so long a fixture at Stormwind’s main gate. He found himself wishing selfishly that the then-Jaina would just leave, so that he wouldn’t have to see the horror anymore, even secondhand.

  There was a small shape on the ground, about the size of a child. He turned to look at Jaina, and saw that she had buried her face in her handkerchief. She couldn’t bear seeing this again, and he didn’t blame her, not one bit.

  The image of Jaina stared at the small corpse, lying face down in a scarlet puddle. The blood had matted her pink ponytails. Tenderly, Jaina reached out to the body of Kinndy Sparkshine, the gnome who had been her apprentice.

  It crumbled into violet sand, and the Jaina of the past screamed in agony.

  Anduin tried to look away, but he was transfixed, unable to tear his gaze away from the sight of Lady Jaina Proudmoore, one of the finest magi of this age, shrieking and weeping, picking up handfuls of the arcane dust as if she could piece the girl back together.

  Beside him, Kalecgos took a sharp intake of breath. Anduin wanted to leap to his feet and yell at Tyrande, Stop this, please, stop! As if somehow Tyrande had heard that silent cry, she nodded to Chromie. The scene, mercifully, disappeared. Anduin exhaled a breath he hadn’t realized he had been holding.

  Tyrande turned, her eyes blazing triumph bought at a dear price. Her voice strong and bell-like, she said, “Your witness, Chu’shao Bloodhoof.”

  29

  Baine Bloodhoof did not rise at once. He was too stunned at what he had seen. He could not imagine inundating Jaina with a series of questions after this, let alone attempting to say anything positive about Garrosh Hellscream. He couldn’t even bring himself to look at the orc. He said a quick, silent prayer to the Earth Mother for guidance, rose, and approached the one-time lady of Theramore.

  “Lady Jaina,” he said quietly, “I would be happy to ask for a respite, if you so desire.”

  She looked at him with a mixture of unreadable emotions, and her voice was flat. “No. I’d like to get this over with.”

  “I am sure no one in this room can blame you.” He did not offer sympathy. She did not
want it—not from him. “And while we in this room struggle with our own reactions to what we have just seen, we can only guess at how you felt after this cowardly attack.” He did not shrink from the word. Baine was a tauren who called things what they were. No one who had just witnessed the Destruction of Theramore could possibly call it anything else. “Could you please tell us, in your own words, how you felt?”

  She stared at him, then started to laugh. It was harsh, bitter. He flattened his ears, taken aback. Jaina struggled to get herself under control. “I don’t think the words exist for how I felt.”

  “Please try, Lady Jaina.”

  “Angry. So very angry. There was so much . . . rage. I couldn’t breathe; I couldn’t eat; I could barely move, I was so angry. What you saw here? Yes. It was horrible. I see many of you weeping. But you still weren’t there. You didn’t see your friends . . .”

  She pressed her lips together and grew silent. Baine gave her a moment, then prodded gently, “You were angry. What did you want to do?”

  “I wanted to kill him.”

  “Garrosh Hellscream?”

  “Yes. Garrosh, and every single orc I could get my hands on. I wanted to kill every goblin, every troll, every Forsaken, every blood elf, and every tauren, including you, Baine Bloodhoof. I wanted to wipe out the Horde the way Garrosh Hellscream had wiped out my home. Had wiped out my life.”

  Baine was not angry. His voice and mien continued to be gentle as he spoke. “What did you do?”

  “I went to King Varian, and told him what Garrosh had done. That he had been right, about his distrust and hatred of the Horde, and I had been wrong. I told him we needed to make war on the Horde—and we should start by destroying Orgrimmar.”

  “How did King Varian react?”

  “He agreed that we needed to go to war. But he didn’t want to strike right away, as I did. He said we needed to have a strategy, to rebuild Northwatch Hold. I promised him the Focusing Iris, and said I knew how to use it to destroy Orgrimmar as Garrosh had destroyed my home.”