Christie Golden - War Crimes

The orc was looking right at him.

His expression was unreadable. Anduin felt his palms grow moist and his chest tighten under that cold scrutiny, and his mind flashed back to the moment when he had confronted Garrosh.

Striking the bell, transforming chaos into harmony. Turning to Garrosh, telling the orc what the mallet had done. Garrosh’s fury.

Die, whelp!

And then—

A hand came down on Anduin’s shoulder and he started, coloring when he realized it was only his father.

“Are you all right?” Varian asked, then followed his son’s gaze. He made a low noise of displeasure. “Come on. Let’s get something to eat. You don’t have to look at him if you don’t want to.”

Despite the reactionary fear that had spurted through his body at the eye contact, Anduin found he actually didn’t mind looking at Garrosh. Baine’s words were still ringing in his ears and heart, and Garrosh was not gloating. Indeed, the orc now inclined his head in a gesture of respect before rising to follow his guards as he was led away for his own meal.

“I’m all right, Father,” Anduin said, and added, “Don’t worry. You did the right thing.”

Varian knew what he meant. The king looked after Garrosh, his lips thinning.

“I’m not so sure, now. I’m not sure at all.”

They assumed her dead, and Zaela, warlord of the Dragonmaw, preferred to keep it that way.

At first, she had been far too close to that state to have had any choice in the matter. She had been shot off her proto-dragon, Galakras, during the Siege of Orgrimmar, plunging seemingly to certain death. Astonishingly, she survived the fall. Her injuries were grave, but her will was strong. Determined to spit in the face of death, Zaela had flung a smoke bomb to distract her enemies and half-stumbled, half-ran to safety before collapsing. She had pushed her recovery, fueled now by a certainty that she had been spared for a purpose. And that purpose was to save Garrosh Hellscream, who was presently on trial for his very life.

She and many of the Dragonmaw had retreated to the now-abandoned Grim Batol, where they had once enacted the greatest moments of their history—thus far. There, Zaela and others had recovered in secrecy. Zaela operated out of the very room where the great Life-Binder, Alexstrasza, had been tortured to breed new red dragon mounts for the Dragonmaw. Even now, Zaela was heartened daily by regarding the deep furrows an agonized Alexstrasza had clawed in the very stone of the mountain, by standing next to an enormous chain that had once forced the dragon matriarch to bow her red head.

Word had reached her that Vol’jin’s “Horde” had searched the Twilight Highlands, looking for her, and that there was a price on her head. They had never thought to look for her here. Such an oversight was, Zaela was certain, entirely due to the fact that Vol’jin was a troll. An orc warchief would have known to search Grim Batol. Regardless, it was not to be their permanent home. They needed to be on the move, and soon.

Now she looked out at what remained of her clan, and her heart was full. “My Dragonmaw,” she said, her rough voice brimming with emotion, “you followed me against the fel orc Mor’ghor who once led us, knowing that the proud orcish race should never be sullied by such corruption. You followed Garrosh Hellscream, whose only goal was to keep the Horde strong, pure, and powerful. For that dream of a true Horde, he now languishes in prison, defended by a tauren , his fate to be decided by Pandaria’s celestials. My spies there report that we still have a few days left to save our glorious warchief.”

Her eyes went from one to the other, knowing they would feel as she would, yet regretting what was likely inevitable. “You are trained. You are ready. But still, we are small in number. You are aware, as am I, that we may fail, and that none of us might survive. But I would rather die in battle for a noble cause than continue to hide, even here. Shout if you are with me!”

A roar went up. Every one of them shook their weapons, opened their throats, stamped their feet. She laughed fiercely and joined in their war cry. “By the ancestors! Perhaps by will and heart alone we will triumph!”

As she spoke, she saw movement in the entryway. One of her scouts hastened to her, and she saw he clutched a scroll. He dropped at her feet, panting. “My warlord—I have run all the way—an intruder—he bids me bring you this!” He thrust out the scroll, slightly crushed from being held too tightly.

Growling in irritation, and to disguise her worry, Zaela cracked the seal and read:

Greetings to the Warlord Maiden!

Heads have been bowed low, but not yet severed from their bodies. While the warchief lives, there is still hope in the fierce hearts of all those who believe in the true Horde, as it once was and yet will be again.

If you share that hope, if your heart beats for the glory of the orcish people pray grant me admittance, and we will speak. I can be of great help.

“A friend,” she repeated, staring down at the courier. “An orc, I assume?”

His eyes wide, the courier shook his head vigorously. “No, my warlord. It . . . he’s a dragon !”

Go’el used the respite to clear his head. He had brought the wolf Snowsong with him to Pandaria, and was glad of some time to simply ride and think. The friend who had bonded with him ages ago was older now than she had once been, and so he no longer rode her into battle. But she was still strong and healthy, and in rare moments they both enjoyed a spirited run. They headed out of the temple grounds and along the curving road that twined through a spare landscape that reminded him a great deal of Durotar.

Strapped securely to his breast was his infant son, Durak. The comfort of his father’s warmth and beating heart soothed the boy. He dreamed deeply as Go’el coaxed the wolf into an all-out run toward One Keg, a small village that lay at the base of the Howlingwind Trail. The orc’s spirit was calmed by the feel of this little life nestled against him, and the sweet-scented wind caressing his face.

Tyrande had spoken the truth. She could win the trial simply by showing up each morning and letting the facts speak for themselves. But this new element of being able to display scenes from the past troubled him. If words could be twisted, then surely images could be.

His thoughts went to the angry initial cries of some in the Alliance who wanted to put the entire Horde on trial. Go’el was certain that chief among those tried would be he, for the crime of giving Hellscream so much power. It could have all turned out so differently. Go’el had wanted Garrosh to admire his father, and so Garrosh had—but he had admired the wrong things. And now, all of Azeroth was paying for Go’el’s gamble on Garrosh’s strength of character. He himself wondered how much of the blame could be laid at his own feet. Garrosh had done so much damage—not just to those whose lives he had ended or broken, but to the Horde he claimed to champion. Go’el sent out a prayer to the elements for swift, true justice. Garrosh had done enough harm. As long as he lived, Go’el believed, he would continue to do so.

He lifted one hand and pressed Durak more tightly against him. The past could not, should not be changed. The future could. And Go’el knew that so much—perhaps everything—hinged on what happened in the courtroom.

He made a silent vow to himself, dipping his chin to brush the top of his son’s head. He would do whatever he must to safeguard that future. No matter the cost.

“Chu’shao, you may summon your first witness.”

Tyrande nodded. “May it please the court, I call Velen, Prophet and leader of the draenei people, to speak as witness.”