War Crimes

9

“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.

“Pause,” Tyrande said. “These two Horde members are Captain Frandis Farley and Kelantir Bloodblade. Captain Farley was sent by the lady Sylvanas to command the Forsaken units that would serve under their warchief. The Blood Knight, Bloodblade, had previously served under Ranger-General Halduron Brightwing. Both, by all accounts, fought well in the battle against Northwatch Hold.”

Anduin glanced over at the Horde area. Both Sylvanas and Halduron were leaning forward. Anduin had not heard of either Farley or Bloodblade, but judging by how their leaders reacted to their images, the two were held in high regard.

Bloodblade had hair the color of the sun and skin so pale as to look untouched by it. Even off-duty, she kept pieces of her armor on. Farley had been well on his way to decay before he had been reborn as a Forsaken, and Anduin wondered how he managed to indulge in liquid refreshment with a jaw that didn’t seem likely to close.

Tyrande nodded to Chromie, and the scene resumed.

“Trouble,” Kelantir said to her companion.

“Not necessarily.” Frandis lifted a bony arm and waved. “Friend Malkorok! Are you slumming? The contents of a chamber pot are probably better than the swill this rascal Grosk serves, but it’s cheap and I hear it does the job. Come, let us buy you a round.”

Malkorok smiled. Anduin didn’t like the look of it, and if her expression was any indication, neither did Kelantir.

“Grosk, drinks all around.” The Blackrock orc clapped Frandis on the back so hard the Forsaken nearly fell forward on the table. “I might expect to find tauren or Forsaken here. But I must say, you look sorely out of place.” He looked right at Kelantir as he spoke.

“Not at all. I have been in worse places than this,” the paladin said, narrowing her eyes at Malkorok while the innkeeper, presumably the rascal Grosk, served them.

“Perhaps, perhaps,” Malkorok said. “But why are you not in Orgrimmar?”

“Iron allergy,” Kelantir said.

Despite the tension, Anduin grinned. He liked this Kelantir. She was brave. It was the sort of thing his friend Aerin, a gutsy dwarf, lost to the upheaval of the Cataclysm, might have said.

Malkorok seemed taken aback at first, then laughed.

“It does seem that you and several others prefer more rustic environments. Where is that young bull Baine, and his toady, Vol’jin? I had hoped to speak to them.”

All eyes went to the new warchief and the Defender. They, of course, were seeing this for the first time, like most of those present, and looked slightly startled at the blatancy of the insult.

“I have not seen them in a while,” said Kelantir. She plopped her boots up on the table, keeping her gaze steady. “I do not much involve myself with the tauren.”

“Really?” replied Malkorok. “Yet we have witnesses that put both you and Frandis right in this very inn just last night, in close conversation with both the tauren and the troll, among others. They reported that you were saying things like, ‘Garrosh is a fool,’ and ‘Thrall should return and kick him all the way to the Undercity,’ and ‘It was cowardly to use the mana bomb on Theramore.’ ”

“And the elements,” another Kor’kron added.

“Yes, the elements—something about how it was too bad Cairne hadn’t killed him when he had the chance, because Thrall would never utilize the elements in such a cruel and insulting fashion,” Malkorok continued.

Kelantir’s beautiful face was frozen. Frandis Farley dripped ichor on the table, holding his mug.

“But, if you say you haven’t seen Baine or Vol’jin recently, then I suppose those witnesses must be mistaken,” said Malkorok.

“Clearly,” said Frandis, recovering. “You need better informants.” He turned back to his drink.

“We must,” Malkorok said agreeably, “for it’s obvious to me that neither of you would ever say such things against Garrosh and his leadership.”

“I’m glad you understand that,” said Frandis. “Thanks for the drinks. Can I buy the next round?”

“No, we had best be on our way,” replied Malkorok. “See if we can find Vol’jin and Baine, since, unfortunately for us, they are not here.”

Fortunately for them, Anduin thought. Their loa and Earth Mother must have been keeping them safe.

Malkorok rose and nodded. “Enjoy your drinks,” he said, then exited the inn with the other Kor’kron.

“That was far too close for comfort,” Kelantir said, exhaling in relief.

“Indeed,” said Frandis. “For half a moment, I expected to be arrested, if not outright attacked.”

Kelantir looked around. “That is odd. Grosk is gone.”

Frandis brought his jaw back into position for a frown. “What? With such a crowded inn? He should be hiring more help, not skipping out with several thirsty customers waiting on him.”

And as the two locked gazes, Anduin knew. The hair at the back of his neck rose, and he wanted to shout out a warning. But this was not the present; it was the past, and it was too late, had already been too late by the time Farley and Bloodblade had realized what was going on.

The ill-fated pair leaped to their feet and raced toward the door. Ice crackled up to stop them in their tracks, and the scene went white. The sound of an explosion echoed through the hall, and then the Vision disappeared.

Tyrande stood in the center of the arena, looking up at where the celestials sat. It was hard to read them from this distance, but Anduin, who knew at least Chi-Ji well, knew that they had to be as distressed as anyone present. The night elf opened her mouth, as if to say something to the jury, then seemed to think better of it, shaking her head. She did not have to explain what exactly they had just seen. They all understood.

“No further questions, Fa’shua Zhu.”

And she walked back to her chair in a huge coliseum filled with total silence.