Christie Golden: War Crimes

Now Cloudsong turned to the west, invoking the spirits of “raindrop, river, and tempest” and asking them to bathe the tauren high chieftain in memories of his father’s love. Baine’s heart thumped painfully for a moment, and he thought, Tears are made of water too .

The spirits of earth were made welcome next—soil and stone and mountain, the very bones of the honored dead. Cloudsong asked that Baine be able to draw comfort from the solid land of his people, to which Cairne had brought them all. Here Cloudsong closed the sacred circle, outlined with the gray ash. Baine felt the energy shift within the space, thrumming with power. It reminded him of the sensation he experienced when a storm was coming, but this also felt unusually calm.

“Welcome, Spirit of Life,” called Cloudsong. “You are in our breath with air, our blood with fire, our bones with earth, our tears with water. We know that death is merely the shadow of life, and that the ending of things is as natural as the birth of them. We ask that you join this, our rite, and invite one who walks in your shadow to be with us this night.”

They stood in silence in the center for a moment, their breathing rhythmic and steady. After a time, Cloudsong nodded and invited Baine to sit at the core of the empty pyres, facing Thunder Bluff. Baine did so, continuing to breathe deeply and stilling his galloping thoughts. Cloudsong handed him a clay goblet, filled with a dark liquid that reflected the starlight.

“This will grant a vision, if the Earth Mother wills it so. Drink.” Baine raised the goblet to his mouth and tasted the not-unpleasant flavors of silverleaf, briarthorn, earthroot, and something else he could not identify. He returned the goblet to the shaman. “Do not drowse, Baine Bloodhoof, but rather look upon this land with soft eyes,” Cloudsong urged. Baine obliged, letting tension leave his body and his eyes unfocus.

He heard the soft, regular thump-thump of a hide-skin drum, emulating the sound of a tauren heart. He did not know how long he sat and listened to Cloudsong, only that he was deeply relaxed, and felt peace within his heart as it beat time to the drum.

Then, gently, he was made aware of a presence. Cairne Bloodhoof smiled down upon his son.

This was a Cairne that Baine had never known—the mighty bull in his prime, his eyes sharp and keen. He held his runespear; it was whole again, as was he. Cairne’s massive chest rippled with muscle as he lifted the spear in salute.

“Father,” breathed Baine.

“My son,” Cairne said, his eyes crinkling in affection. “To walk between your world and mine is difficult, and my time brief, but I knew I had to come when your heart is so troubled.”

All the pain that Baine had buried deep inside, that he could not express, could not even permit himself to feel lest it interfere with his duties to the tauren people he led, came pouring out like a flash flood.

“Father . . . Garrosh killed you! He denied you the right to die with honor! He stood by while the Grimtotem and I fought like—like beasts in a pit, while he awaited the victor! He violated the land, lied to his own people, and Theramore . . .”

Tears ran down Baine’s muzzle, tears of grief and anger, and for a moment he could not speak. The twin emotions choked him.

“And now, you have been asked to defend him,” replied Cairne. “When all you wish is to put your hoof on his throat.”

Baine nodded. “Yes. You spoke out against him before anyone else had the courage. Father . . . should I have done so? Could I have stopped him? Is . . . is all the blood he has spilled upon my hands too?”

He was surprised by the question, but the words came of their own volition. Cairne smiled gently.

“The past is past, my son. Borne away, like blossoms in the wind. Garrosh’s choices are his alone, as is the responsibility for his actions. Always, you follow your heart, and always, you have made me proud.”

And at that moment, Baine knew the answer Cairne was about to give him. “You . . . think I should do this thing,” he whispered. “Defend Garrosh Hellscream.”

“What I think does not matter. You must do what you feel is right. As you have ever done. What was right for me, at that time, was to challenge Garrosh. What was right for you, at other times, was to support him as leader of the Horde.”

“Varian should have let Go’el slay him,” growled Baine.

“But he did not, and so we are here,” said the young-old bull placidly. “Answer this, and you will know what to do. If it grieves you that I was slain by treachery, can you then do anything but strive for perfect truth and integrity, even—perhaps especially—when it does not come easily? Can you not do your utmost to honor this role that has been given you? Dear son of my blood and my heart, I believe you knew the answer before ever you came.”

Baine did. But the knowing pained him.

“I will take up this burden,” he murmured, “and I will defend Garrosh to the best of my ability.”

“You could do no less and still be you. You will be glad of it, when it is all over. No, no,” he said, lifting his hands in protest when Baine tried to speak. “I cannot tell you what the outcome will be. But I promise—your heart will be at peace.”

Cairne’s image began to fade. Baine realized this, stricken that he had wasted this precious opportunity complaining like a mere youngling when his father . . . his father . . . !

“No!” he cried, standing, his voice cracking with emotion. “Father—please, do not go, not yet, please not just yet—!”

There were so many things Baine wanted to say. How terribly much he missed Cairne. How hard he strove to honor his father’s memory. That these few moments meant the world to him. Too late, he reached out imploringly, but his father walked in the shadow of life, not the sun of it, and Baine’s grasping hands closed only on empty air.

Cairne’s eyes grew sad, and he too reached out, only to vanish in the next breath.

Cloudsong caught Baine as he fell.

“Did you find the answers you sought, High Chieftain?” asked Cloudsong as he handed Baine a goblet filled with cool, clear water. Baine sipped, and his head began to resolve.

“The answers I sought? No. But I did get the answers I needed,” he said, smiling sadly at his friend. Cloudsong nodded his understanding. The not-silence of the night, the song of crickets and the sigh of the breeze, was broken by a familiar hum as whirls of bright color took shape.

“Who dares interrupt a ritual?” growled Cloudsong. “The circle has not yet been released!” Baine got to his hooves while the shaman strode over to the opening portal. A slender high elf stepped through. He looked fairly typical of the race, with sharp, elegant features, long, flowing golden hair, and a decoratively trimmed tuft of beard gracing his chin. He beckoned urgently to Baine.

“High Chieftain, my name is Kairozdormu. Taran Zhu has sent me to escort you to the Temple of the White Tiger. Please, you must come with me.”

“You are interrupting a sacred ceremony—” Cloudsong began.

The elf gave him an irritated glance. “I’m terribly sorry to be disrespectful, but we really must hurry!”

Baine’s eyes fell to the tabard the elf wore. Brown with gold trim, it had an insignia in the center of the chest: a golden circle inlaid with the symbol of infinity. It was the tabard worn by Timewalkers, and Baine decided to hazard a guess. “I did not know your flight continued to wear this,” he said. “I thought your power over time—”

Kairozdormu waved a long-fingered, impatient hand. “The story is long, and the time is short.”

“Amusing phrase, coming from you. Is there some dire timeways catastrophe afoot?”