Christie Golden - War Crimes

Other than the guards, the only ones who seemed unruffled by the outburst were Taran Zhu, the four celestials, and Garrosh Hellscream himself. The orc’s brown, tattooed face might as well have been carved from stone for all the emotion it revealed.

Taran Zhu’s voice carried a stern warning: “You have now all witnessed what happens should you disrupt this court. Those who have done so will be held under guard for the remainder of the trial, at which time they will be released. Anyone who further disturbs this most solemn event will join them.”

He nodded, and the guards around Garrosh returned to their flanking formation. Garrosh was led before Taran Zhu’s dais, where he halted. The two massive pandaren took up sentry positions behind him. Jaina knew that the only movement they would display—barring another outburst of violence—would be the slow blinking of their eyes. The remaining four guards bowed to Taran Zhu and filed out. Taran Zhu looked down at the orc for a moment. “Garrosh Hellscream. 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.”

Garrosh merely stood there, silent and still.

Taran Zhu continued. “The charges are as follows: Genocide. Murder. Forcible transfer of population. Enforced disappearance of individuals.”

The list of the heinous crimes alone was powerful enough to make Jaina tense. She glanced over at where Vol’jin and the other Horde leaders sat. She had heard of the treatment of trolls under Garrosh—and what the orc had tried to do to Vol’jin himself.

“Enslavement. The abduction of children. Torture. The killing of prisoners. Forced pregnancy.”

Anduin winced, and Jaina could not blame him. She thought of Alexstrasza and the horrors that had been perpetrated upon the Life-Binder personally and the red dragonflight in general. Kalec was very still beside Jaina. She looked up at him, meaning to offer him comfort, and instead found him looking down at her. He knew what was coming, and slipped an arm around her.

She braced herself.

“The wanton destruction of cities, towns, and villages not justified by military or civilian necessity.”

The Vale of Eternal Blossoms.

Theramore.

“What say you to these charges, Garrosh Hellscream?”

Garrosh did not reply, and for a wild second, Jaina wondered if maybe, just maybe, hearing the charges so bluntly laid out before him would move the former warchief. She had heard of his anger at an underling who had slain innocents in his name, knew that the one thing even Garrosh’s enemies must give him credit for was a passionate devotion to his race. And, at one time, he had also been given credit for honor.

She stared at Garrosh, hardly daring to blink or even breathe, not knowing if she wanted him to break down and ask forgiveness for his atrocities or to stand firm—so that they could kill him with impunity.

And then Garrosh smiled, beginning to slowly applaud, although the chains about his wrists hampered the gesture.

“The show has barely commenced,” he responded, sneering, “and already I give it a standing ovation. This promises to be more entertaining than the Darkmoon Faire!” His contemptuous laughter rang through the hall. “I will not say that I am guilty, for that denotes shame. Nor will I protest innocence, for I claim no such. Let the comedy begin!”

For a second time, audience members leapt to their feet, seemingly willing to climb over one another in order to wrap their bare hands around Garrosh Hellscream’s throat. Jaina had no memory of placing her own hands on the arms of her chair and lifting herself halfway out of her seat until she became aware of Kalec and Varian, one on each side, almost forcibly holding her down.

“Do not rise, beloved,” Kalec whispered urgently, and she realized she was about to add her own shouts of outrage to the cacophony. Sweat broke out on her forehead as she commanded herself to sit, fists clenching.

Meanwhile, Taran Zhu had lost his patience. He struck the gong several times, and barked orders in Pandaren. More members of both Horde and Alliance were hauled away to spend the rest of the trial confined to muse upon their unruliness.

Once relative calmness was reestablished, a composed Taran Zhu regarded Garrosh. “Since your words do not change the original intent of this trial, we will proceed as planned.” He nodded to Garrosh’s guards, who escorted him to the empty chair beside Baine, where he would sit for the duration of the trial. Despite his chains, Garrosh appeared to lounge, defiant and smug, and Jaina hated him with an intensity so bright and burning it made the mana bomb he had dropped on Theramore look like a candle’s flame.

While Garrosh’s venomous words and arrogant attitude were not unexpected, Anduin found that he was disappointed nonetheless. Most would be surprised at his sentiments; Anduin personally had been attacked by Garrosh, and had barely survived.

Toward the end of his time as warchief of the Horde, Garrosh had become increasingly obsessed with accumulating spiritual and magical means to overcome the Alliance—no matter the cost. Anduin could scarcely credit some of the things that Garrosh was rumored to have done, but he had seen other actions with his own eyes. Garrosh, unlike Varian, had chosen to use the dark abilities of the sha—deadly and terrifying physical manifestations of negative emotions—to empower his troops.

Garrosh had stolen a mogu relic known as the Divine Bell to accomplish this task. When rung, the bell emitted pure and unremitting chaos. There was, as with all things in Pandaria, a way to balance the bell—the Harmonic Mallet. Anduin had reassembled the broken artifact and, in a confrontation with Garrosh, had used it to strike the bell, turning the sound of discord into true harmony.

He had thwarted Garrosh, and the enraged orc had swung at the bell with his axe, Gorehowl, shattering the mogu relic.

And Anduin’s bones.

The ache rose again, in each part of his body that had been crushed by the bell’s broken shards crashing down upon him. The pain came briefly when he shifted position, and manifested in a different, deeper way when he recalled the incident. Velen had told him that the pain probably would never disappear entirely, and there was a good chance it would increase with age.

“The body does not completely forget the harm done to it, and each of your bones has its own memory,” he had said. Then the ancient draenei had smiled, adding, “And thank the Light, you, dear young prince, will live to listen to those memories.”

That was enough for Anduin. And, he reflected, as the mallet had wrought harmony out of discord, so too could sentient beings. Anduin believed this in the very depths of his soul. It was something that the draenei and even the naaru believed, and they were wiser than he. The Earthen Ring, which had done so much to help the world recover after the wounds Deathwing had inflicted upon it, was composed of shaman of all races. They had united with the Cenarion Circle to restore the World Tree Nordrassil. Cooperation was possible; he’d seen it. Every individual was unique—and could grow.

The trial had barely begun. If the list of his crimes had not moved Garrosh—except to boasting—then perhaps the bronze dragons’ ingenious contribution to the proceedings would do so.

The young prince felt bad for Baine Bloodhoof, whom he still considered a friend. He remembered the night he and the tauren had sat in Jaina’s parlor, after Baine had been forced to flee for his life during the Grimtotem uprising. Anduin admired Baine for taking on the responsibility of defending the orc who had slain his father. Anduin glanced up at Varian for a moment, wondering how his father would behave if he were in Baine’s place. He hoped Varian would rise to the occasion with as much dignity.