Christie Golden - War Crimes

“With respect, I protest,” said Tyrande. “The witness cannot possibly know what Durotan was thinking.”

Baine was obviously expecting this, for he seemed unruffled as he turned to Taran Zhu. “May it please the court, I would like to display a portion of what the Accuser has introduced into evidence—a specific moment that Chu’shao Whisperwind opted not to show.”

“Proceed,” said Taran Zhu.

Baine nodded to Kairoz. The bronze dragon rose, towering over Chromie, and with deft flicks of his fingers coaxed the sands to stir to life. Once again, the image of Durotan, his wolf, the young draenei, and her killer shimmered into being. The awful moment was frozen, the girl’s mouth spouting blood, the spear thrusting through her body.

Anduin wanted to avert his eyes, but forced himself not to. Where was Baine going with this?

Then the figures moved, the girl falling and convulsing as the orc withdrew his weapon. “You owe me one, Frostwolf,” he sneered.

Tyrande had ended the display at this point, moving forward to Durotan’s damning statement, “ Kill them. Kill them all .”

But in this instant, everyone with eyes could see the expression of horror on Durotan’s face as he stared down at the corpse of a murdered child. And everyone with ears heard his long, broken howl of despair, rage, and remorse. The Frostwolf orc lifted his head, and Baine snapped, “Stop. Right there.”

Tears gleamed on the brown face, and all knew how seldom orcs wept. Durotan’s tusked mouth was open in a now-silent keening. The arena, too, was silent.

The image faded. After a long moment, Baine resumed.

“Can you please tell the court how you feel about orcs today, Prophet?”

“With respect, I protest,” said Tyrande.

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

Velen was slow to do so, and his voice was ragged with sorrow when he found the words. “I am glad that they were able to overcome the curse of drinking the blood of Mannoroth.”

“Are you aware who freed the orcs from that curse?”

“Grom Hellscream, the father of Garrosh,” replied the draenei.

“So you are saying that you believe people can change,” mused Baine. “Even Grom Hellscream.”

“I do believe it. With all my heart.”

“Even Garrosh Hellscream?” pressed Baine.

“With respect, I protest!” cried Tyrande a fourth time. “Once again, the Defender is steering the witness.”

Baine turned to Taran Zhu with a mild mien. “Fa’shua, the Accuser introduced this line of thought with her own evidence,” he said.

“I agree with the Accuser,” said Taran Zhu. “Defender, you will not ask the witness to speculate. You may rephrase.”

Baine nodded. “In summation, then, in your experience, the orcish people have wrestled with a great challenge and overcome it. Have they changed who they are?”

“Yes,” said Velen. “I know, more than most, how powerful demonic influence can be.” His voice was ancient and sad.

“I have no further questions,” said Baine.

Tyrande, however, did. Her beautiful face was almost cold as she approached the draenei whom she herself had brought in as a witness. “I have only one more question, Prophet. And please answer simply, with no opinion. Had Durotan and the others partaken of Mannoroth’s blood when they descended upon Telmor?”

“No,” the draenei replied.

“Their minds were their own? Durotan’s mind was his own, his choices his own?”

The answer was reluctant. “Yes.”

Tyrande could not quite conceal a look of triumph. “Thank you. No more questions.”

Taran Zhu called for an hour’s respite, wisely sensing that the spectators needed to remove themselves from the courtroom and clear their minds of what they had seen, or else more would join the ranks of those “restrained” until the end of the trial.

Anduin himself made his apologies to Jaina, Kalec, and his father, claiming he needed to stretch his still-healing legs and get a breath of fresh air. What he really wanted to do was escape. The respite was too brief for him to return to his favorite spot in Pandaria, Mason’s Folly. Long-ago stonecrafters had carefully carved a set of steps that led to nothing, save a striking vista. No one knew what the original purpose of the stairs had been. Anduin loved the idea of stairs that led only to beauty, and found the place serene. Now he had to make do with a point on the temple grounds, away from the main area.

It was a small overlook, an offshoot of the section usually reserved for the monks and Master Lao. For the duration of the trial, they and the grummle blacksmith, Black Arrow, had been asked to stay away from the temple during the day, so Anduin had the solitude he craved.

The mountain air was bracing and crisp, and Anduin’s feet left bootprints in a light dusting of snow. Massive chains encircled the vista point to protect the unwary from falling. To the west rose the mountains, ancient and snowcapped, their colossal peaks draped with smoky mist and piercing the clouds. To the east Anduin saw two of the smaller pagodas, embraced by cherry trees and guarded by a statue of the mighty Xuen.

The view directly ahead, to the south, like the painting of a true master, contained both the peace of the temple and the vastness of Pandaria. Not for the first time, Anduin experienced a tug of protectiveness, and wondered why a place so alien to him and all he had known felt so much like home.

“Do you wish solitude, or may I join you?” The silky, youthful voice behind him was familiar. Anduin smiled as he turned to Wrathion, standing in the archway.

“Of course, though I doubt I’ll be good company.”

“High Priestess Whisperwind, or should I say Chu’shao Whisperwind, is certainly starting strongly,” Wrathion said, stepping beside Anduin. Hands clasped behind his back, he peered out at the vista as if he were actually interested in the view. Anduin knew better.

“That she is,” he replied.

“And yet, she is telling us nothing new,” Wrathion continued. “Everyone already hates Garrosh. Why bring up an event that happened even before his birth? It is a curious tactic.”

“Not really,” said Anduin. “She’s showing us that the orcs can’t hide behind the ‘we drank demon blood’ excuse. Garrosh is completely untainted—by that, at least.” Garrosh was not untainted by a desire for power, or a callousness toward the suffering of others so all-consuming Anduin couldn’t even begin to fathom it.

“And yet he did such terrible things,” mused Wrathion, frowning and stroking his small tuft of beard thoughtfully. “Still . . . painting an entire race with so broad a brush will only backfire if she persists. Nuance is required.”

“You always think nuance is required.” The irritated comment passed Anduin’s lips before he could stop it. He folded his arms tightly and shivered. The arena had been warmed by braziers and body heat, and he’d forgotten to bring his cloak with him. He realized, too, that the scene with the murdered girl had unsettled him more than he had thought.

Wrathion only laughed, the cold air turning his breath to mist. “That’s because I’m right. Nothing is set in stone, Prince Anduin. A race with which one allies today may be an enemy tomorrow.” He made an expansive gesture toward the mountains. “Even the earth itself shifts. Fire blazes and then subsides to embers. The air is still and then becomes a whirlwind, and the oceans and rivers never cease their movements. There is no such thing as a hard-and-fast truth.”

Anduin pressed his lips together. Wrathion wasn’t right. He couldn’t be. Some things were universal, unchangeable. Some things were always wrong. Like the murder of innocents.