Christie Golden: War Crimes

“Life is not about reward and punishment,” said Xuen. “It is about understanding, accepting who oneself is right now, in order to know what to change, and how.”

“We feel that justice has been done,” said the Black Ox, stamping a hoof and shaking his shaggy, gleaming head.

“Then why have a trial at all?” demanded Tyrande. “If you knew at the outset what his sentence would be at the end of it? Were you simply toying with us?”

Yu’lon said, very gently, “Never, passionate Accuser. Your efforts were vital to the outcome of the trial. You see . . . It was not merely Garrosh Hellscream who was on trial.” For a moment, Go’el did not understand. Then comprehension dawned.

“We were too,” he said. He was surprised that he was not furious at having been manipulated, but a deeper part of him, a wiser part—the part that blended with the Spirit of Life—completely accepted it. He saw in the faces of the others—tauren, human, troll, elf, even dragon—that they did as well.

Chi-Ji bobbed his head. “The young prince and the tauren Defender grasped it earliest. But now, all of you understand. You have been judged and sentenced both. With all of our blessings, and the knowledge you have obtained of your own hearts and minds and those of others, your task is to go back into the world and do what you must.”

They looked at each other. Varian, fit and strong, with one hand on his son’s shoulder. Kalecgos and Jaina, their fingers entwined. Tyrande and Baine, Accuser and Defender, standing side by side. Vol’jin, nodding and looking thoughtful. Chromie, and Lor’themar, and so very many others.

Go’el was no longer in a position of leadership among them. Even so, he found that all of these faces eventually turned toward him. Humbly, Go’el, son of Durotan and Draka, spoke for them all.

“We will find Garrosh.”

Garrosh stepped out of the timeways portal, Kairoz at his side. “What do you think?” asked the bronze dragon. He looked extremely pleased with himself, as well he might be.

Garrosh didn’t answer at once. He stood, feeling the soft wind caress his skin, and gazed at the rolling green hills of Nagrand. He planted his feet in the waving grass, and felt a healthy, strong earth beneath them.

“This is not my home,” he murmured, squinting up at the sun. “This is not my sky.”

“Yes, and no,” said Kairoz. “You are home, Garrosh Hellscream. But no . . . This is not the sky you grew up with.”

A herd of clefthoof thundered past, not too far in the distance, strong, glossy-coated beasts. This was where his people were born. He saw the same earth, the same sky, that his father had. This was the gift of the bronze dragon—a world that was no more, but that could become . . . anything.

“Hellscream!” shouted a rough, orcish voice.

Garrosh started at the sound of his name, thinking that somehow his allies must have followed him and Kairoz.

“Who—” he began, but Kairoz, his smirk more mischievous than ever, simply pointed. Utterly confused, Garrosh turned his head.

The call was for another Hellscream.

Standing atop a hill, wind blowing through his black hair and sun gleaming on his muscular brown body, a fierce, tattooed orc whose blood ran in Garrosh’s veins replied to the greeting with an ear-splitting cry, and raised—

—Gorehowl.

I would like to acknowledge, as ever, the truly astounding folks at Blizzard who make my work so joyful and nurture the projects all along the way: Chris Metzen, Micky Neilson, Dave Kosak, Jerry Chu, Sean Copeland, Matt Burns, Cate Gary, and Joshua Horst.