World of Warcraft: War Crimes Read online

  Thank you for downloading this Gallery Books eBook.

  * * *

  Join our mailing list and get updates on new releases, deals, bonus content and other great books from Gallery Books and Simon & Schuster.

  CLICK HERE TO SIGN UP

  or visit us online to sign up at

  eBookNews.SimonandSchuster.com

  To Sean Copeland, Historian Extraordinaire, for his unfailing good cheer, swift and helpful responses, and total enthusiasm and support for my work.

  Thanks, buddy!

  PROLOGUE

  Draenor.

  It was the birthplace of the orcs, and for so long, the only home Garrosh Hellscream had known. He had been born there, in Nagrand, the most beautiful, most verdant part of that world. There, he had suffered through the red pox, and bowed his head in shame at the deeds of his father, the legendary Grommash Hellscream. When Draenor had become tainted with demonic magic, Garrosh had blamed that legend. He had been ashamed to carry Hellscream blood until Thrall, warchief of the Horde, had come to show Garrosh that although the elder Hellscream might have been the first to accept the curse, Grom had given his life to end it.

  Draenor. Garrosh had not returned since he left, full of the heated fire of pride and a fierce love for the Azeroth Horde, to defend his new home against the horrors of the Lich King.

  And now, it would seem, he was back.

  But this world was not as he remembered it last, pulsing with fel energies, the wild creatures fewer and sickly. No, this was the world of his childhood, and it was beautiful.

  For a moment Garrosh stood, his powerful body, adorned with the same tattoos that had decorated his father’s skin, stretching as he turned his face to the sun, his lungs inhaling the clean, sweet air. It was impossible—but it was so.

  And in this place that was impossible, another unthinkable thing happened. Before his very eyes, his father’s image shimmered into shape out of nothingness. Grom Hellscream was smiling—and his skin was brown.

  Garrosh gasped—for a moment no warchief, no hero of the Horde, no valiant warrior, but a youth beholding a long-dead parent he had never thought to see again.

  “Father!” he cried, and fell to his knees, overwhelmed at this vision. “I have come home. To this, our birthplace. Forgive me for ever doubting your true nature!”

  A hand dropped onto his shoulder. Garrosh looked up into Grom’s face, the words still tumbling from him. “I have done so much, in your name, and my own name has become beloved of the Horde and feared by the Alliance. Do . . . do you know, somehow? Can you tell me, Father—are you proud of me?”

  Grom Hellscream opened his mouth to speak. A metallic, clanging noise came from somewhere, and Grom vanished.

  Garrosh Hellscream awoke alert, as he always did.

  “Good morning, Garrosh,” came the pleasant voice. “Your breakfast is prepared for you. Please—step back.”

  If his jailers had waited but a moment longer, Garrosh would have known the answer to the question that had haunted and driven him all his life. If only he could throttle the infuriatingly composed pandaren for such an intrusion.

  Garrosh, clad in a robe and hood, contented himself with presenting an imperturbable expression as he rose from the sleeping furs, stepped back as far as possible from the metal frame and glowing violet octagonal windows of the cell, and waited. The mage, wearing a long robe decorated with floral designs, stepped forward and began an incantation. The glow faded from the windows. She moved back and the other two pandaren—identical twins—approached. One brother watched Garrosh closely while the second slid a meal of tea and assorted buns through an opening level with the floor. As the guard rose, he motioned that Garrosh was free to take the tray.

  The orc did not do so. “When will my execution be?” Garrosh asked flatly.

  “Your fate is still being decided,” one of the twins said.

  Garrosh wanted to hurl the food at the bars, or preferably, lunge faster and farther than anticipated and crush his smirking tormentor’s windpipe with a single massive hand before the little female could intervene. He did neither, moving with calmness and control to the furs and sitting down.

  The mage reactivated the imprisoning violet field, and the three pandaren then left, ascending the ramp. The door clanged shut behind them.

  Your fate is still being decided.

  What in the name of the ancestors did that mean?

  1

  “It looks too peaceful and beautiful to be the prison of someone so horrible,” Lady Jaina Proudmoore mused as she approached the Temple of the White Tiger. She, the blue dragon Kalecgos, Ranger-General Vereesa Windrunner, and King Varian Wrynn rode in a cart drawn by a steady-footed yak, whose fluffy fur indicated the beast had been freshly bathed. In acknowledgment of the honored status of the passengers, the cart had been upholstered with silk cushions in vibrant shades, though the travelers did bounce a bit when a wheel hit a rut.

  “Better than he deserves,” said Vereesa. She fixed her gaze on Varian. “You should not have stopped Go’el from killing him, Your Majesty. There is no other justice for that monster than death, and even that is more merciful than what he has done.”

  The ranger-general’s voice was sharp, and Jaina couldn’t blame her. Especially as she completely shared Vereesa’s sentiments. Garrosh Hellscream had been responsible for the destruction—no, that was too kind, too clinical a word for what he’d done—the obliteration of the city-state of Theramore. The deaths of hundreds, all occurring in the space of a heartbeat, could be laid at his feet. The then-warchief of the Horde had contrived to trick several of the Alliance’s finest generals and admirals into assembling at Theramore, where they planned for the sort of warfare that involved an honest fight. Instead, Garrosh had dropped a mana bomb, its power magnified by an artifact stolen from the blue dragonflight, into the heart of the city. Everyone, every thing in the bomb’s blast radius had died. Jaina shook her head to clear the awful memory of precisely how some of them, people she loved, had been killed. Jaina Proudmoore would never again be the lady of Theramore.

  A gentle touch on her arm brought her back to the present. Jaina looked up at the blue dragon Kalecgos, who had been the one good thing to come out of the disaster. He and Jaina might never have found one another if he had not come to Theramore asking for her aid in recovering the Focusing Iris. If the tides of war had brought Jaina a loving companion, they had borne away that of Vereesa Windrunner. Rhonin, the archmage who had held Jaina’s present title of leader of the Kirin Tor, had stood at the heart of the city, pulling the mana bomb to himself in order to magically contain the blast as best he could. In the process, he had forcibly pushed Jaina through a portal to safety. Jaina, Vereesa, the night elf Shandris Feathermoon, and a few of her Sentinels had been the only survivors.

  The leader of the Silver Covenant had never—likely would never—truly recovered from the loss. Vereesa had always been strong and outspoken, but now her words were barbed, and a hatred cold and bitter as the ice of Northrend dwelt in her heart. Thank the Light, the ice thawed when she spoke to her twin sons, Giramar and Galadin.

  Not so long ago, Varian might have risen to the bait and grown angry with Vereesa for her open condemnation of his choice. Now he merely said, “You may yet get your wish, Vereesa. Remember what Taran Zhu promised.”

  After Varian had prevented Go’el—formerly hailed as Thrall, once warchief of the Horde and now leader of the shamanic order known as Earthen Ring—from dealing Garrosh the death blow with the mighty Doomhammer, Garrosh had been delivered into the paws of the pandaren, a people whom both Horde and Alliance trusted, and who had endured their share of harm at Garrosh’s hands. Taran Zhu, lord of the Sh
ado-pan, had assured them that Garrosh would be tried, and justice would be meted out to all. The orc was presently imprisoned in the cellars beneath the Temple of the White Tiger, under heavy guard, and two days ago word had come from the celestial Xuen’s own emissary: We request your presence at my temple. Garrosh Hellscream’s fate shall be decided.

  Nothing more.

  Every Alliance leader had received the same letter, and Jaina saw some of them at the foot of the hill, getting into similarly refurbished carts for the trek up to the temple. Queen-Regent Moira Thaurissan, one of the three joint leaders of the dwarves, appeared to be arguing with an unruffled pandaren, pointing with annoyance at the cart. No doubt she did not find it “suitable” for her royal self.

  “I remember,” said Vereesa, “and it seems to be important to the celestials. And if it is so cursed important, why were we not allowed to just fly to the temple? Why waste time with this cart?”

  “We are here by their invitation,” Kalec said. “If they are willing to wait until we arrive by this method, we should be, too. It is not that long a ride.”

  “Spoken with the patience of a dragon,” Vereesa said.

  “I am what I am,” he replied, seemingly unperturbed by her comment. Yes, thought Jaina, he was indeed what he was, who he was, and she was glad of it, though much yet remained for them to sort through in their relationship.

  She tried to settle back into the embroidered cushions and enjoy the slow ride up the curving path. Pandaria exuded remarkable peace and offered beauty wherever one’s eye fell. Cherry trees exploded with pink blossoms, a few fluttering about as the wind swayed the branches. Statues of white tigers guarded the first graceful gateway, and the path began to grow steeper. As the cart made its steady way forward and the cold pressed in, Jaina was grateful for the heat of the various braziers they passed, and wrapped a cloak more tightly about her slender frame. The earth bore first a scant dusting of snow, then drifts as the altitude increased. Jaina became aware of a profound sense of lightness, and all at once she understood. She well knew the import of casting a spell with focus and purposefulness, and it was suddenly clear to her that in their own way, the celestials were giving their guests a chance to do precisely that. By taking a leisurely cart ride up the mountain, skirting the outlying exterior structures, and being exposed to beauty and peacefulness the entire way, Jaina and her companions had the opportunity to set aside the duties of their everyday world and arrive mentally fresh. She permitted the air, scented with the subtle fragrance of the cherry blossoms, to cleanse her mind.

  She and Kalec were seated so they faced backward, so Jaina didn’t see what twisted Vereesa’s beautiful visage into a scowl and thinned Varian’s lips as the cart halted before the first of the swaying rope bridges. The high elf’s hand automatically went to her side, and then curled into a fist as she remembered they had been asked to bring no weapons to the temple.

  “What are they doing here?” Vereesa snapped, then answered her own question. “Well, Garrosh is their former leader. I suppose they would be present when his fate is announced.”

  Jaina turned in her seat, looking up at the courtyard of the temple proper, and her eyes widened slightly. Her gut clenched as she was reminded of Garrosh’s tactic at Theramore—assembling the greatest Alliance military tacticians in one place—as it seemed that the invitation the Alliance leaders had received was extended to the Horde as well. The blue-skinned troll Vol’jin, of course, was here. Varian’s counterpart as the new warchief. Would he be better than an orc? Worse? Did it matter? Not even the former warchief Thrall, who now went by his birth-name of Go’el, could curb the Horde’s hunger for violence, and he had tried.

  Even as she thought about him, her gaze found the orc shaman. At Go’el’s side was his mate, Aggra, who carried a small bundle.

  Go’el’s son.

  Jaina had heard Go’el had become a father, and there was word that Aggra was again with child. Once, Jaina would have been invited to hold this little one, but that time had passed. Go’el was surveying the crowd, and his eyes, as blue as Jaina’s own, met hers.

  Anger and unhappiness surged through her, and she looked away.

  Seeking distraction, Jaina turned her attention to the tallest of the leaders, Baine Bloodhoof. Save for Go’el, Baine was the only Horde leader Jaina had ever been able to think of as a friend. Garrosh had first slain the tauren’s father, Cairne, and then stood by while the Grimtotem tauren attacked Thunder Bluff. Unable to get aid from the Horde, Baine had turned to Jaina for help against Magatha, which Jaina had been glad to give. Baine had returned the favor by warning her of the impending attack on Theramore. Of course, Baine had assumed it would be an ordinary battle. He had not known of the stolen Focusing Iris, or the deadly purpose Garrosh had planned for it. In Jaina’s opinion, any debts between them had been paid.

  She spotted a few others too: Lor’themar Theron of the blood elves, with whom she had recently, albeit under duress, negotiated; and the obnoxious goblin Trade Prince Jastor Gallywix, sporting his ridiculous top hat.

  A pandaren clad in the robes of a monk bowed in greeting as they exited the cart. “Honored guests,” he said. “You are welcome. Here there will be only peace, as you attend the first ever gathering of all the leaders of Azeroth. Do you promise to abide by this rule?”

  “I thought we were here to see justice done,” Vereesa began, but Jaina laid a hand on her arm. Vereesa bit her lip, and said nothing more. Since the murder of her husband, Vereesa had gravitated to Jaina, and the leader of the Kirin Tor was the only one who seemed able to pour oil on the churning waters of Vereesa’s loathing of the Horde.

  “You understand that there is not peace in our hearts,” Jaina said to the monk. “There is pain, and anger, and a desire for justice, as Vereesa has said. For my part, however, I will offer no violence.”

  The other three answered in kind, although Vereesa uttered the words with difficulty, and the pandaren invited them to follow him up the swaying rope bridge and the massive central staircase, and into the coliseum.

  Aysa Cloudsinger, among the first of the pandaren who had joined the Alliance, stood at the entrance to the temple, and the newcomers bowed to her. Her eyes sparkled with pleasure at seeing them. Aysa had settled in Stormwind City, and Jaina had not seen her since the monk’s arrival some time ago.

  “I knew you would come,” Aysa said, bowing to each of them in turn. “Thank you.”

  “Aysa,” Varian said. “Can you tell us what is going on?”

  “All I know is that those who lead the factions of Alliance and Horde were requested to come here peacefully, and that the August Celestials have made some sort of decision,” she said. “Please—enter the temple in silence, and stand with your fellows in the center area, on the left. The celestials will arrive soon.” Her normally modulated voice was higher than usual, betraying the strain and concern she felt. That was not a good sign, but they all nodded agreement.

  Quietly, Jaina asked, “Is Ji here?” Aysa’s stride faltered. Ji Firepaw was the first pandaren to ally with the Horde, as Aysa had chosen the Alliance. It had divided them until Garrosh had turned on Ji, who had come perilously close to execution. That the two cared deeply for one another was obvious, but what would happen between them now was not so clear.

  “He is here,” Aysa said. “For now, we are together, and this time is precious to us both.” She offered no more, and Jaina did not press her. The archmage hoped that perhaps this trial would make Ji realize that the Horde was the wrong side for him to have chosen.

  The Temple of the White Tiger was vast. Here, in the cavernous arena that was at the center of the temple, pandaren monks trained, the disciplined practice under Xuen’s watchful eyes turning them into masters of their martial art. Despite the size, somehow the temple did not feel oppressive. Perhaps it was because despite the copious amount of seats, no one gathered here to witness death—only skill.

  The entrance was in the south, directly opposite a huge
, brazier-flanked throne in the seating area. Banners were on display in the west, north, and east. On the floor was a ring of six large, self-contained decorative bronze circles, with a substantial, slightly recessed seventh in the center. The illumination came from blazing lanterns that hung from the ceiling, and the daylight streaming through the open doors of the entryway.

  Others were there before them. Varian’s son, Prince Anduin, strode up to them and embraced his father. Jaina was happy to see the ease and affection with which the two interacted, as opposed to the strain of their relationship not so long ago. Anduin, who had been in this land longer than any of them, put a finger to his lips, and they nodded their understanding.

  In silence, as requested, they moved to join High Priestess Tyrande Whisperwind, representing the night elves, and the general of the Sentinels, Shandris Feathermoon. Velen, the ancient leader of the alien draenei, inclined his head in greeting, and Anduin went to stand with his teacher and friend as others filed in. Genn Greymane, king of Gilneas, entered along with High Tinker Gelbin Mekkatorque. They were followed by Moira, Muradin Bronze beard, and Falstad Wildhammer, the triumvirate that spoke for the dwarven kingdoms.

  Greymane had opted for his worgen form. The choice spoke volumes. It both acknowledged to the Horde present that at least some of the Alliance understood what it was like to taste the more primal side of nature, and told his fellow Alliance members that he was not ashamed of it.

  On the right-hand side of the room, the Horde representatives had gathered, and Jaina’s lips thinned as she regarded them. Go’el was now accompanied by his old friend and advisor Eitrigg and another elderly orc—one whom Jaina remembered. Varok Saurfang. His son Dranosh had fallen at the Wrath Gate. Dranosh had been reanimated by the Lich King, only to finally fall again—a true death this time. Varok looked to be a hard-bitten warrior, but he was also a father who mourned a worthy son.