World of Warcraft: War Crimes Page 9

  “No,” the orc replied. “There were others. Beaten as badly as I, or worse.”

  “You were extremely badly beaten,” said Tyrande. “It is a wonder you did not die.”

  “With respect—” Baine began.

  “I withdraw the last comment, Lord Zhu,” Tyrande said, interrupting the Defender with a look of weary patience. “Please tell the jury what you mean by ‘or worse.’ ”

  “I refer to the explosion at Razor Hill Inn awhile ago,” Kor’jus replied.

  “Razor Hill is not exactly known for its decorum,” Tyrande said, and chuckles ran the length of the auditorium. “Surely violence there—even an explosion—could be explained away by disgruntled customers, not the Kor’kron.”

  Despite the amusement displayed by the audience, Kor’jus’s expression stayed somber. “I was there. I was at the inn in order to avoid Orgrimmar as much as possible, so that I would not run into Malkorok.” He laughed shortly. “Ironic, isn’t it? He came in and started to threaten a Forsaken and a blood elf.” Kor’jus looked uncomfortable. “I left once they arrived, unnoticed. I was lucky.”

  “Really? He threatened them? Physically or verbally?”

  “He tried to intimidate them, at least at the beginning. I don’t know what was said later.”

  Tyrande nodded. “Chromie, if you please? Let us see for ourselves exactly what happened.”

  Anduin had never been to the inn at Razor Hill, and saw nothing in the scene before him to make him want to have visited before it had been destroyed and rebuilt. It was dark, raucous, filthy, and likely foul-smelling. He noticed the bronze dragon Kairoz hiding a smile at some of the reactions that this particular tableau engendered.

  Nonetheless, it seemed to be a boisterous place of good cheer, until the Kor’kron entered. They paused at the door, their hulking presences blocking out most of whatever light penetrated into the tavern’s main room. Two patrons, a Forsaken and a sin’dorei, were drinking together, but looked up at the newcomers.

  “Pause,” Tyrande said. “These two Horde members are Captain Frandis Farley and Kelantir Bloodblade. Captain Farley was sent by the lady Sylvanas to command the Forsaken units that would serve under their warchief. The Blood Knight, Bloodblade, had previously served under Ranger-General Halduron Brightwing. Both, by all accounts, fought well in the battle against Northwatch Hold.”

  Anduin glanced over at the Horde area. Both Sylvanas and Halduron were leaning forward. Anduin had not heard of either Farley or Bloodblade, but judging by how their leaders reacted to their images, the two were held in high regard.

  Bloodblade had hair the color of the sun and skin so pale as to look untouched by it. Even off-duty, she kept pieces of her armor on. Farley had been well on his way to decay before he had been reborn as a Forsaken, and Anduin wondered how he managed to indulge in liquid refreshment with a jaw that didn’t seem likely to close.

  Tyrande nodded to Chromie, and the scene resumed.

  “Trouble,” Kelantir said to her companion.

  “Not necessarily.” Frandis lifted a bony arm and waved. “Friend Malkorok! Are you slumming? The contents of a chamber pot are probably better than the swill this rascal Grosk serves, but it’s cheap and I hear it does the job. Come, let us buy you a round.”

  Malkorok smiled. Anduin didn’t like the look of it, and if her expression was any indication, neither did Kelantir.

  “Grosk, drinks all around.” The Blackrock orc clapped Frandis on the back so hard the Forsaken nearly fell forward on the table. “I might expect to find tauren or Forsaken here. But I must say, you look sorely out of place.” He looked right at Kelantir as he spoke.

  “Not at all. I have been in worse places than this,” the paladin said, narrowing her eyes at Malkorok while the innkeeper, presumably the rascal Grosk, served them.

  “Perhaps, perhaps,” Malkorok said. “But why are you not in Orgrimmar?”

  “Iron allergy,” Kelantir said.

  Despite the tension, Anduin grinned. He liked this Kelantir. She was brave. It was the sort of thing his friend Aerin, a gutsy dwarf, lost to the upheaval of the Cataclysm, might have said.

  Malkorok seemed taken aback at first, then laughed.

  “It does seem that you and several others prefer more rustic environments. Where is that young bull Baine, and his toady, Vol’jin? I had hoped to speak to them.”

  All eyes went to the new warchief and the Defender. They, of course, were seeing this for the first time, like most of those present, and looked slightly startled at the blatancy of the insult.

  “I have not seen them in a while,” said Kelantir. She plopped her boots up on the table, keeping her gaze steady. “I do not much involve myself with the tauren.”

  “Really?” replied Malkorok. “Yet we have witnesses that put both you and Frandis right in this very inn just last night, in close conversation with both the tauren and the troll, among others. They reported that you were saying things like, ‘Garrosh is a fool,’ and ‘Thrall should return and kick him all the way to the Undercity,’ and ‘It was cowardly to use the mana bomb on Theramore.’ ”

  “And the elements,” another Kor’kron added.

  “Yes, the elements—something about how it was too bad Cairne hadn’t killed him when he had the chance, because Thrall would never utilize the elements in such a cruel and insulting fashion,” Malkorok continued.

  Kelantir’s beautiful face was frozen. Frandis Farley dripped ichor on the table, holding his mug.

  “But, if you say you haven’t seen Baine or Vol’jin recently, then I suppose those witnesses must be mistaken,” said Malkorok.

  “Clearly,” said Frandis, recovering. “You need better informants.” He turned back to his drink.

  “We must,” Malkorok said agreeably, “for it’s obvious to me that neither of you would ever say such things against Garrosh and his leadership.”

  “I’m glad you understand that,” said Frandis. “Thanks for the drinks. Can I buy the next round?”

  “No, we had best be on our way,” replied Malkorok. “See if we can find Vol’jin and Baine, since, unfortunately for us, they are not here.”

  Fortunately for them, Anduin thought. Their loa and Earth Mother must have been keeping them safe.

  Malkorok rose and nodded. “Enjoy your drinks,” he said, then exited the inn with the other Kor’kron.

  “That was far too close for comfort,” Kelantir said, exhaling in relief.

  “Indeed,” said Frandis. “For half a moment, I expected to be arrested, if not outright attacked.”

  Kelantir looked around. “That is odd. Grosk is gone.”

  Frandis brought his jaw back into position for a frown. “What? With such a crowded inn? He should be hiring more help, not skipping out with several thirsty customers waiting on him.”

  And as the two locked gazes, Anduin knew. The hair at the back of his neck rose, and he wanted to shout out a warning. But this was not the present; it was the past, and it was too late, had already been too late by the time Farley and Bloodblade had realized what was going on.

  The ill-fated pair leaped to their feet and raced toward the door. Ice crackled up to stop them in their tracks, and the scene went white. The sound of an explosion echoed through the hall, and then the Vision disappeared.

  Tyrande stood in the center of the arena, looking up at where the celestials sat. It was hard to read them from this distance, but Anduin, who knew at least Chi-Ji well, knew that they had to be as distressed as anyone present. The night elf opened her mouth, as if to say something to the jury, then seemed to think better of it, shaking her head. She did not have to explain what exactly they had just seen. They all understood.

  “No further questions, Fa’shua Zhu.”

  And she walked back to her chair in a huge coliseum filled with total silence.

  10

  Baine sat for a long moment. He hoped he exuded calmness; in reality, his anger was threatening his ability to question Kor’jus, so furi
ous was he at what he had just seen.

  He had, like nearly everyone else, suspected that the explosion at Razor Hill Inn had not been an accident, but of course there were no witnesses left to prove anything. As he understood it, Grosk had maintained that he knew nothing, and insisted that his departure had been a fortuitous coincidence.

  No matter. He was not the one who had thrown first a frost and then a frag grenade into a packed tavern.

  Baine silently prayed for control as he rose and went to Kor’jus.

  “You had a narrow escape, it would seem,” said Baine. “Malkorok and the Kor’kron had clearly decided that the time for simple beatings in order to discourage talk against Garrosh was over.”

  Kor’jus nodded. “You speak truth. I thank the ancestors that I live.”

  “No doubt Malkorok was doing what he had done in Blackrock Mountain,” Baine continued. “Sniffing out those he perceived as traitors and summarily eliminating them as threats. You said earlier, I believe, that others were also targeted by this new, obsessive Kor’kron.”

  “Yes, I was far from the only one menaced.”

  “And did any of them ever hear Malkorok say that he had been directly ordered by Garrosh to . . . menace . . . anyone?”

  Kor’jus scowled, his gaze flitting to the orc in question. Garrosh sat as if he had been carved in stone, his eyes flat and disinterested. “No. But I think it’s clear—”

  Baine held up a hand. “Just answer the question, please.”

  The scowl deepened, but Kor’jus said sullenly, “No.”

  “So you cannot tell this court that the Accused ever gave instructions to murder his own people for speaking out?”

  “No,” repeated Kor’jus, clearly struggling not to elaborate.

  “Then it’s entirely possible that Malkorok and the Kor’kron did this on their own, and that Garrosh did not even know about this incident? Or indeed, any such incidents? And that had he known, he might have disapproved and taken action against Malkorok?”

  “With respect, I protest,” said Tyrande.

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

  Through gritted teeth, Kor’jus growled, “Y-yes. It’s possible.”

  “I have no further questions.” Baine nodded to Tyrande, who rose but did not move toward the witness.

  “Fa’shua,” said Tyrande. “I request that a segment of the opening statements be read back to this court. The portion where you addressed the Accused before leveling the charges.”

  “Granted,” said Taran Zhu, nodding to Zazzarik Fryll, the goblin whose penmanship and neutrality had both been bought with a not-too-exorbitant fee. The goblin adjusted his spectacles on his beaklike nose and, small chest swelling with importance, rolled the scroll open.

  “ ‘Garrosh Hellscream,’ ” he began in a raspy voice. “ ‘You have been charged with war crimes, and crimes against the very essence of sentient beings of Azeroth, as well as crimes against Azeroth itself. You are also charged for all acts committed in your name, or by those with whom you have allied.’ ”

  “Thank you,” said Tyrande, and Zazzarik returned to where he had left off, his quill poised to continue.

  “ ‘For all acts committed in your name, or by those with whom you have allied,’ ” the night elf repeated, then gave a shrug. She looked to the celestials and said to them, “There are moments when I think things are so obvious, my presence here is not even necessary.”

  That got to Baine, and he leaped to his hooves in true anger. “The Accuser’s comment is completely inappropriate!” he snapped, forgetting to use the formal phrase.

  Tyrande smiled and held up a placating hand. “I withdraw the statement, Fa’shua, and I apologize to my esteemed colleague. I have no further questions.”

  “The witness may return to his seat,” said Taran Zhu. Kor’jus rose and hurried back to the stands, relief radiating from him. Taran Zhu leveled his steady gaze upon Tyrande. “Chu’shao, I must urge caution in these proceedings. I would dislike being forced to reprimand you.”

  “Understood,” said Tyrande.

  Baine turned and looked back at Garrosh with narrowed eyes, then at Tyrande. “I request a ten-minute respite to confer with the Accused and my time advisor before the next witness, Fa’shua.”

  “So granted,” said Taran Zhu, and struck the gong.

  Kairoz approached Baine with a quizzical look. Still standing at her table, Tyrande gave the dragon a nod of acknowledgment. He grasped the chair she had vacated, giving her a wink and a smile.

  “You’ll have this back in no time,” he promised the astonished high priestess, then pulled the chair alongside the chained Garrosh.

  Baine said irritably but quietly, “Tyrande won’t forget that.”

  “I don’t intend her to,” said Kairoz, keeping his voice equally soft. “By my reckoning, and I am always right about such things, we now have only seven minutes and eighteen seconds. Please speak, Chu’shao.”

  The tauren needed no further urging. He turned his attention full upon Garrosh, his nostrils flaring. “What in the name of the Earth Mother are you doing, Garrosh?”

  “Me?” Garrosh chuckled. “Why, nothing at all.”

  “That is precisely what I mean. You are showing no remorse, no reactions—not even vague interest in these proceedings!”

  Garrosh shrugged, and his chains jingled with an incongruously bright sound. “That is because I have no interest in the proceedings . . . Chu’shao.”

  Baine swore softly. “Do you truly desire execution, then?”

  “Execution? No. Death? If I were to die in glorious battle against the likes of this priestess charged with damning me . . . yes. I would most assuredly wish that.”

  “Your odds of being released and permitted to fight again decrease with each passing moment that you sit stoically in this chair doing nothing to help your cause!” Baine warned.

  “I am no youngling to be told bedtime tales, Bloodhoof,” Garrosh said. “I will never be permitted another battle, were I as long lived as this bronze wyrm.”

  “Life is full of surprises,” Kairoz said unexpectedly. “But I will say, you certainly won’t see battle if your head is on a pike like a skewered peanut chicken, being happily passed around from the gates of Stormwind to Orgrimmar and back again.”

  With the minutes ticking away, Baine sat for a moment, wrestling with his conscience. If Garrosh himself did not care what happened to him, why should he? Surely honor is being satisfied, Baine thought. No one can say that I did not try to defend him well. And what if he is reprieved? What then?

  “Chu’shao Bloodhoof,” said Kairoz in a warning voice. Baine lifted a hand to silence the dragon.

  He knew he was defending well—better, likely, than the orc deserved. But could he meet his father in the afterlife and say, I have come home, Father, and I have done the best I could?

  He knew the answer. Baine took a deep, resigned breath, and turned again to Garrosh. “Give me something to counter her with, Garrosh. I’ve had to create my entire case without any help from you.”

  “And you can see how well that’s going,” said Kairoz.

  Baine gave Kairoz a withering glance. “Your confidence,” he said, “is inspiring.” He turned back to Garrosh. “If you will not talk to me, help me to defend you . . . Is there anyone you would speak to? Some warrior, some shaman who holds your respect?”

  A strange smile curved around Garrosh’s tusks. “Well, Chu’shao . . . there is . . . one,” he said.

  • • •

  Still reeling from Garrosh’s completely unexpected request of a confidant, Baine settled in beside the orc a few moments later. Garrosh’s earlier smile had faded, and he once again wore the inscrutable mask he had donned for the proceedings thus far. Tyrande was running rampant over anything and everything Baine put forward. There was no one left alive that Baine could use to share the blame for what Garrosh had done, and there were few who would or even
could speak well of him.

  Tyrande’s next witness was making his vow to uphold the honor of the court. Baine mused darkly that Kairoz’s comments were on target. She had called another orc—one whom many present knew and respected. One whom Baine was not looking forward to questioning.

  Varok Saurfang.

  He sat in the chair, his mere presence charismatic and calm. Age spotted his green face, and time and sorrow both had etched deep wrinkles in his forehead and around yellowed tusks. Long white braids draped his still-massive shoulders, and his eyes were alert. Baine knew where this would be going, and his ears were pricked forward, hoping to find something, anything, he could use that could remotely help Garrosh.

  “Please state your name,” said Tyrande kindly.

  “I am Varok Saurfang,” he said in a deep voice. “Brother to Broxigar, father to Dranosh. I serve the Horde.”

  “Broxigar being one of the great heroes not just of the Horde, but of Azeroth, correct?”

  Saurfang’s eyes narrowed, as if he was suspecting a trick. “I and many others deem him so, yes,” he replied.

  “You yourself are regarded highly in the eyes of your people, and by the Alliance as well,” Tyrande continued. Baine could hear genuine respect in the night elf’s voice. “Many here know of the great tragedy that befell your son.”

  Varok’s face grew carefully impassive. “Others suffered as well because of the Lich King’s darkness. I have never asked for special treatment.” The words were true—the brave Dranosh Saurfang had been slain at what had become known as the Battle of Angrathar the Wrath Gate, only to be drafted to rise again as an undead to challenge his father and other heroes of the Horde. But such horrors were tragically not uncommon. Many, like Varok, had been forced to oppose someone they loved whom they had already mourned once. The dark legacy of the Lich King lived on in the wounded hearts of the survivors, and in the Knights of the Ebon Blade, now an uneasy part of both Horde and Alliance society.

  “I would like others to fully understand just what you endured, may it please the court.”

  Baine abruptly realized with a sickening jolt precisely which scene Tyrande was planning on displaying.