Christie Golden - War Crimes

Go’el remembered Drek’Thar telling him of this meeting. The old orc had not witnessed it personally, but he had been told of it. He was glad Drek’Thar was not here to relive this moment from the past, before so much darkness had come.

“The city you speak of, Telmor—was it easy to find?”

“No,” Velen replied. “It was hidden by both magic and technology. The boys would never have found it had we not made them welcome.”

“May it please the court, I would like to present the second Vision of Velen.” Tyrande nodded to Chromie. Chromie, her hands looking as if they wore gloves of honey-colored light, gestured. The scene before them dissolved, and another one appeared. The Sands of Time in the hourglass again began to fall, grain by glowing grain, and before Go’el’s eyes, a second tableau came to life.

“Here we are,” the image of Restalaan said. He dismounted from a cobalt-coated talbuk and knelt on the earth, moving aside some leaves and pine needles as if looking for something. His questing touch uncovered a beautiful green crystal, and he placed his palm gently upon it.

“ Kehla men samir, solay lamaa kahl .”

The forest around them began to shimmer. For an instant, Go’el wondered if the Vision of Time might be malfunctioning, then realized the figures themselves remained steady. The young Durotan gasped. The shimmering increased, and then suddenly, where there had once been dense woodlands, there was now only a large, paved road that led up the side of the mountains.

“We are in the heart of ogre country, though it was not so when the city was built so long ago,” Restalaan said, rising. “If the ogres cannot see us, they cannot attack us.”

“But . . . how?” asked Durotan.

“A simple illusion, nothing more. A trick of . . . the light. The eye cannot always be trusted. We think what we see is always real, that the light always reveals what is there the same way at all times. But light and shadow can be manipulated, directed, by those that understand it. In the speaking of these words and the touching of the crystal, I have altered how the light falls on the rocks, the trees, the landscape. And so your eye perceives something entirely different from what you thought was there.”

Restalaan chuckled warmly. “Come, my new friends. Come where none of your people have ever been before. Walk down the roads of my home.”

The scene froze, then disappeared. The grains in the top half of the hourglass ceased to fall. The bronze dragon resumed its original pose and, closing its glowing eyes, returned to the state of a simple ornament. The one curled about the bottom bulb, however, awakened and stretched, then placed its own claws protectively around the bulb it was designed to guard.

“Restalaan revealed to Durotan and Orgrim the secret of how the draenei protected their city. Did the two boys keep that secret?” Tyrande quietly asked.

Go’el knew the answer.

“No,” Velen responded, pained.

“What happened?”

Velen sighed deeply. He looked over to the Horde side of the arena, searching out Go’el. When the Prophet spoke, it was as if he were speaking only to the son of the little boy he had once made welcome, not to a raptly attentive audience.

“Years later, the orcs were deceived by Ner’zhul, and then betrayed by Gul’dan. I truly believe that Durotan felt great remorse over—”

Tyrande smiled gently, even as she cut him off. “Your compassion does you credit, Prophet, but please, simply state the facts as you know them.”

Aggra looked stricken—and angry. “She will not even let him speak what is in his heart! Why does Baine not protest?”

Baine stayed silent, though his ears were flat, betraying to Go’el his dislike of the proceedings. “Because Tyrande is correct in asking what she does. Baine will have his say, beloved. Do not worry.” But Go’el could not deny that he shared his mate’s anger.

Velen nodded. “Very well. The simple facts are that Durotan led a force of orcs against Telmor years later.”

“Thank you,” Tyrande said. She turned to look at those assembled, her gaze sweeping the stands and coming to rest upon the four celestials. “I must warn the court that what you will see will be violent and disturbing. But such is the nature of betrayal and slaughter.”

Again, Baine did not protest. Go’el realized bitterly it was because once again, Tyrande was correct.

To her credit, though, the Accuser looked unhappy at what she was about to do. Nonetheless, she said, “I present a third Vision of Velen—the taking of Telmor by the orcs.”

The grains of the Vision of Time began to fall once again, and another scene appeared. Go’el looked upon a Durotan he could now recognize, grown to adulthood. The leader of the Frostwolf clan wore what his son instantly knew to be the battle harness handed down through ten generations of clan leaders, even though he had never seen the armor before. Crafted of heavy plate mail connected by chains, it bore the images of two white wolves facing one another on its front. It should have been mine , Go’el thought. It should have, one day, been Durak’s, if fate had so willed it.

But fate had not, he reminded himself. The harness had been lost to time; Orgrim had thought it scavenged or destroyed by the elements. And he himself had reached adulthood as a human’s prisoner. The Horde, especially under Garrosh, had much to answer for, but so did the Alliance.

Durotan and several other battle-ready orcs stood in the same “forest” as seen in the previous Vision. Orgrim, looking much like Go’el remembered him, stepped beside his friend, watching as Durotan searched for something on the ground. Go’el knew—he was certain everyone knew—what it was.

Durotan rose, holding an exquisite emerald-hued gem in his palm.

“You found it,” said Orgrim. Durotan nodded, lifting his gaze from the stone to the faces of his colleagues.

“Get into position,” Orgrim said to the other orcs. “We have been fortunate that there has been no advance warning.”

Durotan hesitated for a moment, then spoke the deadly words.

“ Kehla men samir, solay lamaa kahl .”

The illusion that had protected Telmor slowly disappeared, revealing the wide, paved road that stretched ahead as if in obscene invitation.

All at once, it was as if the entire arena had transformed into a battlefield. The scale was massive, almost overwhelming, as the orcs, mounted on armored wolves, weapons at the ready, screamed their battle cries and charged. The Vision focused on them, following them as the great beasts they rode added their own howls to the cacophony, and the dusty, thundering group was in sharp and brutal contrast to the tranquility of the city. Then individual images replaced the panoramic sweep of the Vision. Here, a handful of draenei simply stopped in their tracks, clearly too astonished to even attempt to flee or defend themselves. There, swords and axes severed horned heads from bodies so swiftly that confused looks still lingered on the blue faces. Indigo blood spattered everywhere, decorating armor and brown skin. It clotted in the wolves’ fur, and the beasts made tracks as they ran.

Screams of terror and pleas in the lilting draenei tongue joined the chorus of killing. Durotan’s people thundered on, the tide of warriors followed closely by the then-new warlocks, who peppered gathered clusters of terrified, unarmed draenei with fire, shadows, and curses.

Some of the orcs turned into the buildings, pursuing those who had foolishly entered seeking shelter. A mere few heartbeats later, the warriors emerged covered with blood, racing down the steps in search of their next targets.

But now the citizens of Telmor had defenders. The draenei guards fought back with magics far beyond the comprehension of their enemies. Silvery white, azure, and lavender light countered the sickly greenish yellow of the warlock magic. It obscured the hand-to-hand fighting, but Go’el’s attention was firmly fixed on his father. As if following Go’el’s gaze, the Vision focused on Durotan and the one who had just attacked him with a sword that glowed with blue energy.