World of Warcraft: War Crimes Page 8

  “You know what this is,” Iskar had said. “They are our natural enemies . . . Kill this child, before he grows to be of an age to kill you.”

  “He is a child!” A terrified little boy, nothing more, and Go’el’s heart raced at the memory.

  “If you do not . . . you may rest assured that you will not leave this cave alive.”

  “I would rather die than commit such a dishonorable atrocity.”

  And Hellscream—Grom Hellscream, the wildest, most vicious of the orcs, the father of Garrosh—had stood by that decision.

  “I have killed the children of the humans ere now,” Grom had said to Iskar. “But we gave all we had fighting in that manner, and where has it brought us? Low and defeated, our kind slouch in camps and lift no hand to free themselves, let alone fight for others. That way of fighting, of making war, has brought us to this.”

  Tyrande was doing exactly what Aggra and Go’el had feared—taking the truth and twisting it. This cold-blooded murder of a little girl was not what—not who—the orcs were.

  But there was no reprieve from the horror. Almost immediately, another scene appeared. It was clear that this was sometime later that same day. The orcs were covered in gore. The once-beautiful rooms in which they now stood had been savaged, littered with broken chairs and other objects.

  “What of any draenei we find alive?” a voice asked of Durotan.

  “Kill them,” Durotan said in a rough voice. “Kill them all.”

  The scene froze, then slowly faded. The sands in the hourglass ceased to glow.

  “No further questions, Lord Zhu.” And Tyrande, head held high, jaw set in barely concealed anger, took her seat in an amphitheater that was filled only with stunned silence.

  • • •

  Anduin stared, his mouth open in shock. He knew about this part of history, of course. Many did, to some extent, and living with the draenei as long as he had, Anduin had learned more than most. But he now realized how very much the draenei had spared him by choosing not to reveal their personal stories about that dark day. His hands were clammy with sweat, and he found they trembled.

  Velen looked older, sadder, and Anduin understood that even now the compassionate Prophet was grieving for both the fallen draenei and the orcs who had butchered them. Anduin had lived among the draenei long enough to understand that. The victims had died innocent. The orcs had to live with the consequences of their actions.

  “I would spare you war if I could, my son.” Anduin looked up at his father. Varian’s face showed grim sympathy. “It is an ugly thing. And what we have just seen is war at its worst.”

  Anduin’s mouth was too dry for speech, so he could not counter his father. He agreed that war was ugly, but what they’d just witnessed was not war. War was between two sides, matched, armed, prepared. What had happened to Telmor could not be graced by that name. It was nothing more—and nothing less—than a slaughter of innocents. Still somewhat dazed, the prince looked over at the Horde section. None of them, not even the orcs, seemed pleased by what they had seen. It was not necessarily the violence that disturbed them, but that there was no “glory” there. Anyone could butcher an unarmed populace.

  Baine waited for a moment, then rose with deliberation. He inclined his head in a gesture of respect. “I am certain that what you just witnessed was painful to you, Prophet, and I regret that the Accuser deemed such a gratuitous display necessary.”

  “With respect, I protest!” shouted Tyrande.

  “I agree with the Accuser. The Defender will refrain from telling the witness what he is thinking.”

  “Certainly, Fa’shua. It was wrong to assume. I apologize. Can you please tell us what you did think of what we just saw, Prophet?”

  “There is no need for an apology. If you put words in my mouth, Chu’shao Bloodhoof, they were only the words I would have chosen,” said Velen. “It was indeed painful to behold.”

  “Can you tell the court what, exactly, pained you?”

  “The needless deaths of innocent people, children among them, of course.”

  Baine nodded. “Of course. Is that all?”

  “No. I am also pained to remember that one whose nature was noble and true was compelled to act against it by his superiors,” Velen replied.

  “You speak of Durotan?”

  “Yes.”

  “You do not think he enjoyed the slaughter?”

  “With respect, I protest,” said Tyrande. “The witness cannot possibly know what Durotan was thinking.”

  Baine was obviously expecting this, for he seemed unruffled as he turned to Taran Zhu. “May it please the court, I would like to display a portion of what the Accuser has introduced into evidence—a specific moment that Chu’shao Whisperwind opted not to show.”

  “Proceed,” said Taran Zhu.

  Baine nodded to Kairoz. The bronze dragon rose, towering over Chromie, and with deft flicks of his fingers coaxed the sands to stir to life. Once again, the image of Durotan, his wolf, the young draenei, and her killer shimmered into being. The awful moment was frozen, the girl’s mouth spouting blood, the spear thrusting through her body.

  Anduin wanted to avert his eyes, but forced himself not to. Where was Baine going with this?

  Then the figures moved, the girl falling and convulsing as the orc withdrew his weapon. “You owe me one, Frostwolf,” he sneered.

  Tyrande had ended the display at this point, moving forward to Durotan’s damning statement, “Kill them. Kill them all.”

  But in this instant, everyone with eyes could see the expression of horror on Durotan’s face as he stared down at the corpse of a murdered child. And everyone with ears heard his long, broken howl of despair, rage, and remorse. The Frostwolf orc lifted his head, and Baine snapped, “Stop. Right there.”

  Tears gleamed on the brown face, and all knew how seldom orcs wept. Durotan’s tusked mouth was open in a now-silent keening. The arena, too, was silent.

  The image faded. After a long moment, Baine resumed.

  “Can you please tell the court how you feel about orcs today, Prophet?”

  “With respect, I protest,” said Tyrande.

  “I agree with the Defender,” said Taran Zhu. “The witness may answer.”

  Velen was slow to do so, and his voice was ragged with sorrow when he found the words. “I am glad that they were able to overcome the curse of drinking the blood of Mannoroth.”

  “Are you aware who freed the orcs from that curse?”

  “Grom Hellscream, the father of Garrosh,” replied the draenei.

  “So you are saying that you believe people can change,” mused Baine. “Even Grom Hellscream.”

  “I do believe it. With all my heart.”

  “Even Garrosh Hellscream?” pressed Baine.

  “With respect, I protest!” cried Tyrande a fourth time. “Once again, the Defender is steering the witness.”

  Baine turned to Taran Zhu with a mild mien. “Fa’shua, the Accuser introduced this line of thought with her own evidence,” he said.

  “I agree with the Accuser,” said Taran Zhu. “Defender, you will not ask the witness to speculate. You may rephrase.”

  Baine nodded. “In summation, then, in your experience, the orcish people have wrestled with a great challenge and overcome it. Have they changed who they are?”

  “Yes,” said Velen. “I know, more than most, how powerful demonic influence can be.” His voice was ancient and sad.

  “I have no further questions,” said Baine.

  Tyrande, however, did. Her beautiful face was almost cold as she approached the draenei whom she herself had brought in as a witness. “I have only one more question, Prophet. And please answer simply, with no opinion. Had Durotan and the others partaken of Mannoroth’s blood when they descended upon Telmor?”

  “No,” the draenei replied.

  “Their minds were their own? Durotan’s mind was his own, his choices his own?”

  The answer was reluctant. “Yes.” />
  Tyrande could not quite conceal a look of triumph. “Thank you. No more questions.”

  • • •

  Taran Zhu called for an hour’s respite, wisely sensing that the spectators needed to remove themselves from the courtroom and clear their minds of what they had seen, or else more would join the ranks of those “restrained” until the end of the trial.

  Anduin himself made his apologies to Jaina, Kalec, and his father, claiming he needed to stretch his still-healing legs and get a breath of fresh air. What he really wanted to do was escape. The respite was too brief for him to return to his favorite spot in Pandaria, Mason’s Folly. Long-ago stonecrafters had carefully carved a set of steps that led to nothing, save a striking vista. No one knew what the original purpose of the stairs had been. Anduin loved the idea of stairs that led only to beauty, and found the place serene. Now he had to make do with a point on the temple grounds, away from the main area.

  It was a small overlook, an offshoot of the section usually reserved for the monks and Master Lao. For the duration of the trial, they and the grummle blacksmith, Black Arrow, had been asked to stay away from the temple during the day, so Anduin had the solitude he craved.

  The mountain air was bracing and crisp, and Anduin’s feet left bootprints in a light dusting of snow. Massive chains encircled the vista point to protect the unwary from falling. To the west rose the mountains, ancient and snowcapped, their colossal peaks draped with smoky mist and piercing the clouds. To the east Anduin saw two of the smaller pagodas, embraced by cherry trees and guarded by a statue of the mighty Xuen.

  The view directly ahead, to the south, like the painting of a true master, contained both the peace of the temple and the vastness of Pandaria. Not for the first time, Anduin experienced a tug of protectiveness, and wondered why a place so alien to him and all he had known felt so much like home.

  “Do you wish solitude, or may I join you?” The silky, youthful voice behind him was familiar. Anduin smiled as he turned to Wrathion, standing in the archway.

  “Of course, though I doubt I’ll be good company.”

  “High Priestess Whisperwind, or should I say Chu’shao Whisperwind, is certainly starting strongly,” Wrathion said, stepping beside Anduin. Hands clasped behind his back, he peered out at the vista as if he were actually interested in the view. Anduin knew better.

  “That she is,” he replied.

  “And yet, she is telling us nothing new,” Wrathion continued. “Everyone already hates Garrosh. Why bring up an event that happened even before his birth? It is a curious tactic.”

  “Not really,” said Anduin. “She’s showing us that the orcs can’t hide behind the ‘we drank demon blood’ excuse. Garrosh is completely untainted—by that, at least.” Garrosh was not untainted by a desire for power, or a callousness toward the suffering of others so all-consuming Anduin couldn’t even begin to fathom it.

  “And yet he did such terrible things,” mused Wrathion, frowning and stroking his small tuft of beard thoughtfully. “Still . . . painting an entire race with so broad a brush will only backfire if she persists. Nuance is required.”

  “You always think nuance is required.” The irritated comment passed Anduin’s lips before he could stop it. He folded his arms tightly and shivered. The arena had been warmed by braziers and body heat, and he’d forgotten to bring his cloak with him. He realized, too, that the scene with the murdered girl had unsettled him more than he had thought.

  Wrathion only laughed, the cold air turning his breath to mist. “That’s because I’m right. Nothing is set in stone, Prince Anduin. A race with which one allies today may be an enemy tomorrow.” He made an expansive gesture toward the mountains. “Even the earth itself shifts. Fire blazes and then subsides to embers. The air is still and then becomes a whirlwind, and the oceans and rivers never cease their movements. There is no such thing as a hard-and-fast truth.”

  Anduin pressed his lips together. Wrathion wasn’t right. He couldn’t be. Some things were universal, unchangeable. Some things were always wrong. Like the murder of innocents.

  “If nothing is solid, how can anything be built that lasts?” Anduin asked. It was meant as a question, but it came out as a weary plea.

  “There are degrees of solidity,” Wrathion pointed out. “While rock and water both can shift if you try to build a house upon them, you are much less likely to end up swimming if you choose the former as your foundation.”

  Anduin was silent for a moment. Thoughts raced through his head. None of them were pleasant, and all of them ran deep. Finally, he turned to the dragon prince and asked quietly, “Wrathion? Do you think of us as friends?”

  Wrathion actually looked surprised at the question, and that amused Anduin a little. He tilted his turbaned head to one side and pursed his lips, pondering the query.

  “Yes,” he said at last. “As much as I can have a friend, at any rate.”

  Anduin smiled ruefully at the amendment. “Then . . . can we just . . . stay here in comfortable silence for a while? As friends?”

  “Why yes, of course,” Wrathion said.

  And so they did.

  9

  “Please tell us your name and your trade,” said Tyrande.

  The second witness she had called was an orc. He was of middling years, stout, with skin that was an unusually pale green. He sported a bushy black beard, perhaps to compensate for a completely bald pate. “I am Kor’jus, and I grow and sell mushrooms in Orgrimmar.”

  “What is the name of your shop, and where is it located?”

  “It’s called Dark Earth, in the Cleft of Shadow.”

  Tyrande began to walk, or rather glide, so elegant were her steps. Her arms were folded and a furrow of concentration marred her high forehead.

  “Dark Earth,” she repeated in an overly dramatic intonation. “Cleft of Shadow. Sounds rather ominous. Or maybe . . . forbidden. Something that might attract unwanted attention from the warchief, perhaps?” Her voice was almost, but not quite, confrontational, and Kor’jus bridled.

  “My mushrooms have graced the tables of two warchiefs,” he snapped. “That is the only attention I have had from them until recently.”

  “May it please the court, I would like to show the jury this event that Kor’jus speaks of.”

  Once again, Chromie activated the Vision of Time, and an image of Kor’jus, kneeling and harvesting mushrooms, appeared. He was facing away from the door, intent on his work, and did not see the visitors lifting the curtain. Even so, perhaps sensing them, Kor’jus frowned, and turned.

  “Stop here, please,” said Tyrande, and Chromie halted the scene. “Kor’jus, can you please tell us who these orcs are?”

  “I only knew one by name, but they all were members of the Kor’kron. The Blackrock orc—the one with three fingers on one hand and that scar all across his face—that is Malkorok. Or was, at least.”

  The identification was necessary only as a formality; most of those assembled recognized the late leader of the Kor’kron. Gray-skinned and covered with red war paint, Malkorok, for many, had come to epitomize the worst of what the Blackrock orcs were known for. Oh yes, he was recognized, and despised.

  “Thank you. Chromie, please continue.”

  “Read the sign,” said the image of Kor’jus. “The shop doesn’t open until tomorrow.” His hand tightened on the small knife he had been using.

  “We’re not here for mushrooms,” Malkorok said, his voice soft. He and four other orcs moved into the shop. One of them drew the curtain. “We’re here for you.”

  Only now did Kor’jus look uncertain. “What have I done?” he asked. “I am a fair merchant. There can be no complaints against me. Warchief Garrosh himself eats my crop!”

  “It is because of the warchief that we are here,” Malkorok said, advancing one step, then another. Kor’jus stood his ground. “You speak against him so—perhaps one day your mushrooms are not so carefully harvested, eh?”

  Understanding dawned, and K
or’jus scowled. “The Horde is not made up of slaves. Each member is of value! I can speak against my warchief’s decisions without conspiring against him!”

  Malkorok exaggeratedly tilted his head and tapped his chin, as if actually considering this. “No,” he said, “I don’t think you can.”

  He seized the mushroom grower’s wrist in his three-fingered hand. Even maimed, Malkorok obviously had a powerful grip, for Kor’jus dropped the knife and gasped. Casually, clearly relishing his task, Malkorok wrenched his victim’s arm backward. It broke with an audible snap. The other four rushed in, perhaps fearful of losing their own chance for sport, laughing cheerily as if they were indulging in a drinking game rather than pummeling an outnumbered opponent into a pulpy mass.

  They used only their fists, and went for what would hurt rather than what would kill: the face, legs, and arms. One of the Kor’kron landed a solid punch and Kor’jus’s nose crunched, spraying blood and mucus. His head snapped back and teeth flew at a second punch, and when the overzealous orc went for a third, Malkorok stopped him.

  “If we kill him, he can’t show people how afraid he is,” the leader of the elite guards reprimanded.

  Kor’jus lifted his chin and watched the Vision display his own beating with a steady gaze. As well he might—though the fight was five highly trained Kor’kron against one shopkeeper, Kor’jus held his own for several minutes before, inevitably, he dropped to his knees. His face was hardly recognizable, and he breathed in sharp, pained gasps. One final kick sent him curling up tightly, but even then he resisted crying out.

  The Kor’kron were barely winded, and clapped one another on the back as they left. When they were gone, Kor’jus lifted his head, spat blood and more teeth, and fell unconscious.

  The scene faded. Kor’jus was now breathing quickly, angrily. Tyrande resumed her questions. “Kor’jus, to the best of your knowledge, was this attack on you by the Kor’kron the only one of its kind?”