Christie Golden - War Crimes

The entrance was in the south, directly opposite a huge, brazier-flanked throne in the seating area. Banners were on display in the west, north, and east. On the floor was a ring of six large, self-contained decorative bronze circles, with a substantial, slightly recessed seventh in the center. The illumination came from blazing lanterns that hung from the ceiling, and the daylight streaming through the open doors of the entryway.

Others were there before them. Varian’s son, Prince Anduin, strode up to them and embraced his father. Jaina was happy to see the ease and affection with which the two interacted, as opposed to the strain of their relationship not so long ago. Anduin, who had been in this land longer than any of them, put a finger to his lips, and they nodded their understanding.

In silence, as requested, they moved to join High Priestess Tyrande Whisperwind, representing the night elves, and the general of the Sentinels, Shandris Feathermoon. Velen, the ancient leader of the alien draenei, inclined his head in greeting, and Anduin went to stand with his teacher and friend as others filed in. Genn Greymane, king of Gilneas, entered along with High Tinker Gelbin Mekkatorque. They were followed by Moira, Muradin Bronze beard, and Falstad Wildhammer, the triumvirate that spoke for the dwarven kingdoms.

Greymane had opted for his worgen form. The choice spoke volumes. It both acknowledged to the Horde present that at least some of the Alliance understood what it was like to taste the more primal side of nature, and told his fellow Alliance members that he was not ashamed of it.

On the right-hand side of the room, the Horde representatives had gathered, and Jaina’s lips thinned as she regarded them. Go’el was now accompanied by his old friend and advisor Eitrigg and another elderly orc—one whom Jaina remembered. Varok Saurfang. His son Dranosh had fallen at the Wrath Gate. Dranosh had been reanimated by the Lich King, only to finally fall again—a true death this time. Varok looked to be a hard-bitten warrior, but he was also a father who mourned a worthy son.

Beside her, Jaina heard a swift intake of breath, and she followed Vereesa’s gaze.

A slender, graceful figure had entered the Temple of the White Tiger. She looked at first glance like an elven archer, but there was a sickly blue-gray tint to her skin, and her eyes blazed red, as if they were the only outlets for an unquenchable fire.

Sylvanas Windrunner, Dark Lady of the Forsaken and sister to Vereesa, had arrived.

Baine Bloodhoof normally found Pandaria to be second only to Mulgore in its ability to soothe his heart and mind. As a warrior, he respected the skill and prowess displayed by those who fought in Xuen’s temple. And yet, he was filled with an inner anxiety.

It could be argued that the first great wrong Garrosh did against any member of the Horde had been against the tauren—the death of Baine’s beloved father, the great and deeply missed Cairne Bloodhoof. There was no doubt in Baine’s mind that Cairne would have emerged victorious from the true, fair, one-on-one fight which the mak’gora was supposed to represent. Cairne had not been slain by a superior blow, but by poison, applied to the blade without Garrosh’s knowledge.

But Garrosh had known that Magatha, the shaman who had “blessed” the blade, was against her own people, and he should never have trusted a tauren who did not remember and honor her roots. And thus by treachery, the best of the tauren had been murdered. Perhaps it was inevitable that while Garrosh had been innocent of that particular betrayal, he had become stunted, dark, capable of the atrocities that no one denied he had committed. First Theramore had been annihilated, a memory that still haunted Baine’s dreams, and then the Vale of Eternal Blossoms, which struck personally at Baine’s deep love and reverence for the Earth Mother.

The vale had been created by the titans, an almost impossibly lush, beautiful place of growth and harmony. Sealed off after the ancient mogu race had been defeated, the vale had been tended to by careful guardians. Only recently had the Alliance and the Horde won the right to enter. And, mused Baine bitterly, it had taken an even shorter time for Garrosh Hellscream, in his lust for power, to destroy something that had lasted for untold millennia. The blossoms in the vale had not proven to be “eternal” after all. They were gone, nothing but a memory, although new life—and new hope—had come to the vale once the sha had been truly defeated.

Baine trusted the celestials. He believed in their wisdom and fairness.

So why was he so agitated?

“I once told Garrosh he gonna know exactly who fired the arrow that pierced his black heart. I be knowing what makes you champ your tusks, if you had them.”

Baine started. Vol’jin had moved so quietly the tauren had not even heard the troll step beside him.

“It is true,” Baine said. “It is difficult to reconcile my father’s teachings of honor and justice with what I personally prefer to see happen today.”

Vol’jin nodded. “As they tell us at Brewfest, get in line,” he chuckled. “But if we be wanting a clean start, we gotta do what Varian says. Garrosh done enough damage alive. We don’t want to have a martyr for the remaining orcs to carry on his wicked ways. Whatever the celestials decree, nobody got a leg to stand on to say anything.”

Baine glanced over at Go’el, Eitrigg, and Varok Saurfang. Go’el had taken his son, Durak, from Aggra, holding the child securely and with ease. Baine knew that, having lost his own father to violence, Go’el was determined to be actively involved in the child’s rearing. Cairne had been such a present father, and the sight unexpectedly moved Baine. Fathers and sons . . . Grom and Garrosh, Cairne and Baine, Go’el and Durak, Arthas and Terenas Menethil, Varok and Dranosh Saurfang. Surely this recurring theme was a reminder from the Earth Mother of the connections that ran so deep, and how they could manifest great good or great evil.

“I hope you are right,” Baine said to Vol’jin. “Go’el is the one who put Garrosh in charge, and Saurfang holds deep anger.”

Vol’jin shrugged. “They be orcs, and orcs of honor, all of them. It’s that one who makes me think twice. Ain’t nobody knows more of hate than the Dark Lady. And she like her hate dished out icy cold.”

Baine regarded Sylvanas, who stood proud and alone. Most leaders had brought other prominent members of their races with them; he himself stood with Kador Cloudsong, the shaman who had been such a comfort to him during dark times, and Perith Stormhoof, his most trusted Longwalker. Sylvanas was hardly ever glimpsed without her Val’kyr, those undead beings who once served Arthas and now served—and had saved—her. But it seemed for this event at least, Sylvanas scorned company, as if her own powerful, raging presence was more than enough to see Garrosh dead without anyone else’s assistance or permission.

His eyes flitted across the arena to where the Alliance representatives were gathered. Young Anduin and Lady Jaina, with whom he had once sat and—the memory made him smile sadly—shared a cup of tea. There was one beside her who looked eerily familiar, although she was a living, breathing high elf. This must be Vereesa Windrunner—sister to Sylvanas and the missing Alleria.

Wounds were being ripped open everywhere today, it would seem. But even as Baine wished for the celestials to come and deliver their announcement, the fur along his arms lifted, and his heart felt suddenly, strangely lighter.

Four shapes appeared in the doorway, silhouetted against the light. As they strode into the arena, Baine realized that though his heart and spirit recognized these beings as the August Celestials, to his eyes they had utterly changed. He had always before beheld them in the guise of animals, but it seemed that today, they had chosen to adopt different incarnations.