Christie Golden - War Crimes

Restalaan.

He shouted something Go’el didn’t understand, seized Durotan, and hauled the orc off his mount. Surprised, Durotan didn’t react in time and hit the ground. Restalaan brought his sword down just as Durotan grabbed his axe.

Durotan’s black wolf whirled to defend his rider, his massive teeth seizing the draenei’s arm. The glowing sword fell from Restalaan’s hand, and Durotan’s axe sliced down, through armor into flesh. Restalaan dropped to his knees, and the wolf bit harder while blue blood poured from the axe wound. Durotan struck a second time, ending what must have been agonizing pain. And so Restalaan, who had befriended Durotan and showed him his city’s secrets, was slain.

Go’el thought this surely had to be the end of the gory display, that Tyrande had more than made her point. He glanced over at her to see that she stood with her arms tightly folded, her eyes fixed on the horrifying images that had manifested in this court on her command. She gave no sign that she was done, and the carnage continued.

Orcs rampaged through the city in the Vision. Go’el realized with a sickening feeling that the death of Restalaan, gut-wrenching as that had been to witness, was only the prelude to what Tyrande had in store.

The corpses were so numerous that orcs sometimes stumbled over them as they raced toward a fresh kill. The fighting was at close quarters, and Durotan, as bloodied as any of his comrades, slashed and stabbed and struck with both speed and accuracy. So present, so real was the violence that when Go’el saw what was about to happen, he shouted out a warning. He was not alone.

Someone charged Durotan as he fought. Go’el watched in impotent horror.

The girl was still mostly a child, with only a hint of womanly curves that would never have the chance to fully flower.

It was his father’s training, Go’el realized, that prevented Durotan from cutting the girl in half. Go’el knew the effort and skill it must have taken, could feel his own muscles tighten in empathy as Durotan twisted the axe’s arc. The girl had no such qualms, and threw herself at the massively armed and armored orc, beating at his leg with her clenched fists and nothing else. Her defiance as she flung herself into a path she had to know was fatal was perhaps one of the most courageous things Go’el had ever seen.

But Durotan did not strike down the draenei child. Go’el knew that he never would. But another did, and Go’el felt the sting of tears of shocked outrage as the girl stopped, her glowing eyes going wide, her open mouth gushing blood. She had been run through from behind. Her killer shoved the spear to the side, and the body was forced to the earth. He put a foot on the girl’s still-twitching corpse and tugged his spear free, grinning up at the sickened Durotan.

“You owe me one, Frostwolf,” the Shattered Hand orc said.

The scene froze, lingering on the sight of the murdered girl, and then faded.

In his mind’s eye, Go’el saw another scene play out—one he had himself experienced. He had only recently escaped from beneath the boot of his “master,” Aedelas Blackmoore, and was being tested by the Warsong clan. A human boy had been brought before him—one even younger than the tragic draenei girl.

“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?”