Christie Golden - War Crimes

“If nothing is solid, how can anything be built that lasts?” Anduin asked. It was meant as a question, but it came out as a weary plea.

“There are degrees of solidity,” Wrathion pointed out. “While rock and water both can shift if you try to build a house upon them, you are much less likely to end up swimming if you choose the former as your foundation.”

Anduin was silent for a moment. Thoughts raced through his head. None of them were pleasant, and all of them ran deep. Finally, he turned to the dragon prince and asked quietly, “Wrathion? Do you think of us as friends?”

Wrathion actually looked surprised at the question, and that amused Anduin a little. He tilted his turbaned head to one side and pursed his lips, pondering the query.

“Yes,” he said at last. “As much as I can have a friend, at any rate.”

Anduin smiled ruefully at the amendment. “Then . . . can we just . . . stay here in comfortable silence for a while? As friends?”

“Why yes, of course,” Wrathion said.

And so they did.

“Please tell us your name and your trade,” said Tyrande.

The second witness she had called was an orc. He was of middling years, stout, with skin that was an unusually pale green. He sported a bushy black beard, perhaps to compensate for a completely bald pate. “I am Kor’jus, and I grow and sell mushrooms in Orgrimmar.”

“What is the name of your shop, and where is it located?”

“It’s called Dark Earth, in the Cleft of Shadow.”

Tyrande began to walk, or rather glide, so elegant were her steps. Her arms were folded and a furrow of concentration marred her high forehead.

“Dark Earth,” she repeated in an overly dramatic intonation. “Cleft of Shadow. Sounds rather ominous. Or maybe . . . forbidden. Something that might attract unwanted attention from the warchief, perhaps?” Her voice was almost, but not quite, confrontational, and Kor’jus bridled.

“My mushrooms have graced the tables of two warchiefs,” he snapped. “That is the only attention I have had from them until recently.”

“May it please the court, I would like to show the jury this event that Kor’jus speaks of.”

Once again, Chromie activated the Vision of Time, and an image of Kor’jus, kneeling and harvesting mushrooms, appeared. He was facing away from the door, intent on his work, and did not see the visitors lifting the curtain. Even so, perhaps sensing them, Kor’jus frowned, and turned.

“Stop here, please,” said Tyrande, and Chromie halted the scene. “Kor’jus, can you please tell us who these orcs are?”

“I only knew one by name, but they all were members of the Kor’kron. The Blackrock orc—the one with three fingers on one hand and that scar all across his face—that is Malkorok. Or was, at least.”

The identification was necessary only as a formality; most of those assembled recognized the late leader of the Kor’kron. Gray-skinned and covered with red war paint, Malkorok, for many, had come to epitomize the worst of what the Blackrock orcs were known for. Oh yes, he was recognized, and despised.

“Thank you. Chromie, please continue.”

“Read the sign,” said the image of Kor’jus. “The shop doesn’t open until tomorrow.” His hand tightened on the small knife he had been using.

“We’re not here for mushrooms,” Malkorok said, his voice soft. He and four other orcs moved into the shop. One of them drew the curtain. “We’re here for you.”

Only now did Kor’jus look uncertain. “What have I done?” he asked. “I am a fair merchant. There can be no complaints against me. Warchief Garrosh himself eats my crop!”

“It is because of the warchief that we are here,” Malkorok said, advancing one step, then another. Kor’jus stood his ground. “You speak against him so—perhaps one day your mushrooms are not so carefully harvested, eh?”

Understanding dawned, and Kor’jus scowled. “The Horde is not made up of slaves. Each member is of value! I can speak against my warchief’s decisions without conspiring against him!”

Malkorok exaggeratedly tilted his head and tapped his chin, as if actually considering this. “No,” he said, “I don’t think you can.”

He seized the mushroom grower’s wrist in his three-fingered hand. Even maimed, Malkorok obviously had a powerful grip, for Kor’jus dropped the knife and gasped. Casually, clearly relishing his task, Malkorok wrenched his victim’s arm backward. It broke with an audible snap. The other four rushed in, perhaps fearful of losing their own chance for sport, laughing cheerily as if they were indulging in a drinking game rather than pummeling an outnumbered opponent into a pulpy mass.

They used only their fists, and went for what would hurt rather than what would kill: the face, legs, and arms. One of the Kor’kron landed a solid punch and Kor’jus’s nose crunched, spraying blood and mucus. His head snapped back and teeth flew at a second punch, and when the overzealous orc went for a third, Malkorok stopped him.

“If we kill him, he can’t show people how afraid he is,” the leader of the elite guards reprimanded.

Kor’jus lifted his chin and watched the Vision display his own beating with a steady gaze. As well he might—though the fight was five highly trained Kor’kron against one shopkeeper, Kor’jus held his own for several minutes before, inevitably, he dropped to his knees. His face was hardly recognizable, and he breathed in sharp, pained gasps. One final kick sent him curling up tightly, but even then he resisted crying out.

The Kor’kron were barely winded, and clapped one another on the back as they left. When they were gone, Kor’jus lifted his head, spat blood and more teeth, and fell unconscious.

The scene faded. Kor’jus was now breathing quickly, angrily. Tyrande resumed her questions. “Kor’jus, to the best of your knowledge, was this attack on you by the Kor’kron the only one of its kind?”

“No,” the orc replied. “There were others. Beaten as badly as I, or worse.”

“You were extremely badly beaten,” said Tyrande. “It is a wonder you did not die.”

“With respect—” Baine began.

“I withdraw the last comment, Lord Zhu,” Tyrande said, interrupting the Defender with a look of weary patience. “Please tell the jury what you mean by ‘or worse.’ ”

“I refer to the explosion at Razor Hill Inn awhile ago,” Kor’jus replied.

“Razor Hill is not exactly known for its decorum,” Tyrande said, and chuckles ran the length of the auditorium. “Surely violence there—even an explosion—could be explained away by disgruntled customers, not the Kor’kron.”

Despite the amusement displayed by the audience, Kor’jus’s expression stayed somber. “I was there. I was at the inn in order to avoid Orgrimmar as much as possible, so that I would not run into Malkorok.” He laughed shortly. “Ironic, isn’t it? He came in and started to threaten a Forsaken and a blood elf.” Kor’jus looked uncomfortable. “I left once they arrived, unnoticed. I was lucky.”

“Really? He threatened them? Physically or verbally?”

“He tried to intimidate them, at least at the beginning. I don’t know what was said later.”

Tyrande nodded. “Chromie, if you please? Let us see for ourselves exactly what happened.”

Anduin had never been to the inn at Razor Hill, and saw nothing in the scene before him to make him want to have visited before it had been destroyed and rebuilt. It was dark, raucous, filthy, and likely foul-smelling. He noticed the bronze dragon Kairoz hiding a smile at some of the reactions that this particular tableau engendered.

Nonetheless, it seemed to be a boisterous place of good cheer, until the Kor’kron entered. They paused at the door, their hulking presences blocking out most of whatever light penetrated into the tavern’s main room. Two patrons, a Forsaken and a sin’dorei, were drinking together, but looked up at the newcomers.