War Crimes

11

Most would have assumed, when Shokia turned up in Hammerfall, that she was so disheartened at the fall of Garrosh Hellscream that she wanted to return to orcish roots. To come here—where Orgrim Doomhammer, another great warchief, had been killed—and vanish into obscurity, contenting herself with putting her astonishing sniper skills to work slaughtering enemy trolls and Alliance adventurers. Those who assumed that would be wrong, but it was a façade Shokia was happy to maintain. She was not retreating to lick wounds and mourn failure. She was an agent of someone who wanted what she did—a return to the glory of the Horde. Shokia was in deep cover.

Hammerfall had become an unofficial refuge for discontents who felt they had no place in the current world, and so her story was not questioned. And she had been content to wait for her orders, enjoying watching the heads of her enemies explode like thrown pumpkins through her scope.

Since the trial of Garrosh Hellscream had begun in Pandaria, however, she had grown anxious. When would her ally summon her to the field of battle? What would his instructions be? Who else shared their feelings?

“Wait for me to send you orders,” he had said in that silky voice. “I will not fail to do so, but only when the time is right.”

So when Adegwa, the tauren innkeeper, let her know there was a letter for her, she was hard put to contain her delight.

Shokia had packed her precious rifle, her few other belongings, mounted her wolf, and was at the gorge a scant five minutes later. She took up a position overlooking the trail, peering through the scope of her rifle, but did not have long to wait.

A black wolf, his pelt sleek and glossy, came into view. His rider crouched low over his back. The cloak hid her face, but billowed out sufficiently for Shokia to determine that her new comrade in arms was another orc female. Slowly, Shokia began to grin. She wondered if . . . She would find out soon enough.

The rider slowed, and the wolf began to pick his way up the trail. Without revealing her position behind a boulder, Shokia cried out, “Hail, wolf rider! Are you a friend of the dragon’s?”

The orc came to a halt and shoved back her hood, revealing her strong face. “Under most circumstances, I am no friend to dragons,” Zaela, warlord of the Dragonmaw, called back. “But this time—yes.”

“Zaela! I had heard you had fallen in battle!”

“I fell, indeed, but I lived to keep fighting for our true leader. I came alone, as instructed, but what remains of my clan is ready for battle.”

“Then,” said Shokia, lifting the scroll, “let us gather more allies!”

“I summon His Royal Highness Anduin Wrynn, prince of Stormwind, to speak as witness.”

Anduin had been dreading this moment. He’d always resented SI:7’s code name for him, “the White Pawn,” and had no desire to become involved in this case in any fashion, fearing that both sides would use him thus. His father had known, of course, but Jaina hadn’t, and she looked surprised and a little concerned as Varian gave his son’s arm a squeeze and Anduin then descended from the stands to the witness chair.

He was accustomed to royal events, and had even given speeches to throngs much larger than this one. But that was different. In those situations, he was a guest, or an invited speaker, or the respected host. He knew what to do, how to behave. This was completely new, and not a little unsettling. He caught Wrathion’s eye as he took his seat. He could almost hear the Black Prince saying, How very interesting! The amusing thought calmed him.

Tyrande gave him a kind smile as she approached. “Prince Anduin,” she said, “thank you for being here today.” He thought it best not to remind her that it wasn’t as if he’d had a choice in the matter, and merely nodded. “Your Highness, you are known throughout Azeroth as a proponent of peace. Is that accurate?”

“Yes,” Anduin replied. He ached to elaborate, but remembered what his father had told him. Stick to the questions. Don’t volunteer anything. Tyrande knows what she’s doing.

“So it would be fair to say that you do not hate the Horde, or its races?”

“It would be fair, yes.”

“You have worked with them on occasion, and urged mercy even in wartime, correct?”

“Yes, I have.”

“Everyone here knows Garrosh Hellscream by name and reputation, of course. But you have had personal encounters with him, have you not?”

Here we go, he thought, and deliberately did not look at Garrosh. “I have.”

“On how many occasions?”

“Two.”

“Can you please tell the court about them?”

Anduin wondered why she didn’t just show both encounters, given the unique tool she had in the Vision of Time. Perhaps she was saving her allotted minutes for something more lively than people sitting around talking. “One was in Theramore, at a peace conference. My father, Lady Jaina Proudmoore, and I were there, and Thrall brought Garrosh and Rehgar Earthfury, and some of the Kor’kron.” He hadn’t thought about that ill-fated meeting in some time; so many other things had happened. Anduin found himself looking at the chained orc, whose steady gaze made Anduin feel like an insect pinned to a board. Odd . . . Garrosh was the prisoner, not he, yet it was Anduin who came close to squirming in his seat.

“How did the conference unfold?”

“It was a bit of a rocky start,” Anduin admitted. “But as things progressed, we started to find some common ground. Even Garrosh—”

“Can you elaborate as to what you mean by a ‘rocky start’?”

“Well, first of all it was storming, so no one was in a particularly good mood. Everyone brought weapons—for the formal laying down.”

“Who put down the first weapon?”

“Um . . . I did. My bow. That was the first time I spoke with Thr—I mean, Go’el.”

“Did King Varian and the warchief follow your example?”

“They did. They learned they had more in common than they thought when they sat down to talk.”

“What did Garrosh contribute to these peace talks?”

“Well . . . he didn’t seem to understand that being a leader means sometimes thinking about things that aren’t all that exciting. He interrupted when Go’el and Father were discussing trade. He kept talking about the Horde . . . just taking what it wanted.”

Tyrande gave Garrosh a pointed glance. “I see. Please continue.”

“Go’el and Father were starting to get along when word came of another attack by the Lich King. They agreed it needed to be addressed but were planning on resuming the conference, but then we were attacked by agents of the Twilight’s Hammer cult. It all fell to pieces after that. Of course, that’s just what the cult intended. They broke the attack down by races—the Horde members of the cult targeted the Alliance races of the summit, and vice versa. Garrosh was shouting about ‘human treachery,’ Father mistakenly believed that Go’el had hired an assassin, and . . .”

“History documents the rest, thank you, Prince Anduin.” She paced deliberately, her back to him, her face turned to the crowd peering eagerly down. Anduin, too, glanced up at the spectators, and thought again of his father’s comment about the gladiator pits. They were hungry for blood, he realized, and the idea both chilled and saddened him. His gaze went back to Garrosh, and there was weariness in the orc’s posture that made Anduin wonder if Garrosh was thinking the same thing.

And if, finally, he might not want to fight it anymore.

“I would like to move on to your second . . . encounter . . . with Garrosh Hellscream.”

He knew this was coming, of course, but was unprepared for the way he responded. It was as if no time had passed—as if only a moment ago, the great bell had fallen . . . He cleared his throat, and was displeased that his voice shook slightly when he spoke.

“It was a few months ago, before—”

Tyrande turned, smiling gently, but holding up a hand that forestalled further comment. “May it please the court,” she said. “I do not need you to tell it, Prince Anduin. I would like to show it.”

So that’s what she wants to save the Vision for . . . “Do you think that’s wise?” Anduin blurted. Too fresh in his mind was the awful screaming of the Divine Bell, and the effect that sound had on those with any kind of darkness in their hearts. The thought of replicating that moment horrified him. “What if it—”

Tyrande held up a hand. “Do not fear, Your Highness. I understand your concerns. I spoke with Chromie at length about this event, and she and I have already witnessed it. While these displays granted to us through the Vision of Time are remarkable, seeing and hearing the bell rung in this manner does not have the same effect as actually being in its presence.”

“Thank the Light,” Anduin murmured as he relaxed, exhaling in relief. His bones ached, abruptly and deeply. Neither he nor his body, apparently, would relish watching the events surrounding the Divine Bell play out. His palms were moist and he took a breath to steady himself, whispering a soft prayer. A gentle wave of healing energy washed through him, and the pain subsided somewhat.

“Now that you have been reassured, Prince Anduin, can you please set up the details of what we are about to see?”

He licked his lips and glanced up at the celestials. They did not show any reaction, but simply seeing them was calming to Anduin. Keeping his gaze focused on them and avoiding Hellscream, he spoke. “The mogu created an artifact that Lei Shen, the tyrant known as the Thunder King, called the Divine Bell. Its origins were violent and cruel, in keeping with the discord and horrors it would unleash when it was rung. Its tones fueled the anger and hatred of Lei Shen’s warriors, lending them unnatural strength and power, while striking fear into the hearts of his enemies. Once the Alliance learned about it, the night elves hid it away in Darnassus. The idea was to keep it out of any hands that might misuse it—Horde or Alliance. Lady Jaina herself placed protective wards to keep it safe.”

“It sounds like a powerful weapon.” And of course, Tyrande knew it was.

“It was a double-edged sword,” Anduin continued. “It took as much as it gave—perhaps more.”

“What happened to the bell?”

“A Sunreaver agent, acting on orders from Garrosh, was able to bypass Lady Jaina’s wards on the bell. He and several other Horde members stole it.”

“From what you are telling us, it sounds as though this bell would have made Garrosh Hellscream unstoppable.”

Without even realizing it, Anduin glanced over at Garrosh. His skin crawled at the expression on the orc’s face, but the reaction was not from fear. The stillness Garrosh assumed was unnatural for him, whom Anduin always recalled posturing and bellowing. Anduin reached for a glass of water on the small table beside his chair before continuing.

“The pandaren had crafted the means to combat the ringing of the bell. They had made the Harmonic Mallet, which turns the bell’s chaos to harmony. The mallet had been broken and scattered, but with help, I managed to find and assemble the pieces, and located an ointment to activate it. When it was restored, I headed out to confront Garrosh. I wanted to stop him before he rang the bell.”

“Alone?”

“There wasn’t time for anything else.”

Tyrande nodded at Chromie, and what Anduin had been dreading began.

This time, though, Anduin had a chance to hear what Garrosh said before the human prince had reached him.

Garrosh stood, larger than life in the Vision, the one whom Anduin remembered, not this still-as-stone orc who sat in the courtroom watching with an emotionless visage. He was alone save for his champion, Ishi, on a platform off the Mogu’shan Vaults, facing the bell. It was enormous, much bigger even than the mighty orc himself. It bore the face of a grotesque creature on it, and its lower rim was studded with spikes. Garrosh grinned and roared in triumph, lifting his arms. He called out to his people, still lingering in the vaults, “We are the Horde. We are slaves to nothing and no one! With the Divine Bell, I will burn away any remnants of weakness within us.”

Garrosh was trembling, Anduin realized, shaking with an almost uncontrollable passion and excitement as he spat out the names of the emotions he despised.

“Fear . . . despair . . . hatred . . . doubt. The lesser races are buried beneath their weight. But we will control their power. Together, we will destroy the Alliance and claim what is rightfully ours. Let our song of victory begin.”

Despite Tyrande’s words of reassurance, Anduin clenched his fists so tightly that his fingernails cut into his palms, and his brow was dewed with sweat. The dark song rang out, but he knew at once that the high priestess had been right—he heard the awful, discordant cry of the bell only in his ears, not in his heart or his bones. Gratitude left him weak for a moment as he watched and listened.

Anduin saw his image race toward the bell. He thought of himself as average-sized; his father, of course, was a particularly large human male, but Anduin had been used to that since his birth. But to see his form standing next to not only the then-warchief of the Horde but also the gargantuan bell made him realize how slender he was . . . how very breakable—

“Stop, Garrosh! You do not know what that bell is capable of!” His own voice—firm, certain.

Garrosh whirled, saw Anduin, looked past the prince, and then smiled as he realized Anduin was all that stood between him and victory. He threw back his head and laughed.

“So in the end, it is not Varian but his whelp who comes to face me. You run bravely to your death, young one.”

Tyrande called, “Stop here,” and the scene froze. Anduin blinked, coming back to the present moment. “That was indeed exceptionally brave, Your Highness.”

“I, uh . . . not so brave,” Anduin admitted. “I was scared to death. But I had to stop him, no matter what the cost.”

Tyrande seemed taken aback, but then she smiled—sweetly, genuinely. “Ah,” she said in a kind voice, “to proceed with what you knew was right even while afraid—that is courage indeed.”

Anduin felt his color rise, but all he said was, “Well, it’s the truth. He couldn’t be allowed to continue.”

Tyrande gave Chromie the signal to resume the scene.

“I will not let you do this. I swear to it,” the image of Anduin cried out.

“Stop me then, human,” Garrosh taunted, knowing Anduin couldn’t physically prevent him from striking the bell a second time. Couldn’t hold back that massive arm, couldn’t even reach him or the bell fast enough. Garrosh proceeded to make a mockery of Anduin’s threat.

Again the awful sound, terrible in its beauty, rang out, and this time the bell had a victim in Garrosh’s champion.

Ishi cried out, his body contorting as the dark entities known in Pandaria as the sha, the very essences of hatred, fear, doubt, and despair, descended upon and into him. Even now, the sound of the orc’s anguish made Anduin’s heart ache.

“This pain!” screamed the orc, who had likely endured more of it than most could ever imagine. “I cannot control it!”

Both Anduins—the one in the courtroom and his image—watched, transfixed, as Ishi struggled. No doubt drawn by the screaming, Horde members began to emerge from the depths of the vaults. Ishi charged his own people, who were forced to fight him or be slaughtered themselves. “Pause,” said Tyrande. “Prince Anduin—why did you not strike earlier, or now?”

“The mallet would only work once. A glancing blow would have wasted my chance. I had to wait till I could strike strongly and true. As for why I didn’t do anything here—I didn’t know what it would do to Ishi.”

“You were concerned for the welfare of an orc champion?”

Anduin was puzzled. “Why shouldn’t I be?”

Tyrande stared at him for just an instant before recovering. “Continue,” she instructed Chromie.

Garrosh kept encouraging Ishi to “fight,” to “master,” to “use” the sha, while Ishi went through every conceivable negative emotion—doubting the Horde’s strength, grieving the fallen, fearing his own death, which claimed him soon after. Ishi fell to his knees, his last thought of his duty, gasping, “Warchief! I . . . I have failed you.”

Garrosh went to the dying warrior and said, calmly and brutally, “Yes, Ishi. You have.”

And suddenly, Anduin was angry. Garrosh had forced the sha upon Ishi, and both he and Anduin had watched how hard the champion had struggled to dominate things that he simply couldn’t. He’d given his life to try to please his warchief, and for all his effort and suffering, he had received the cruelest possible words from Garrosh. Now Anduin did turn his gaze upon the prisoner, feeling his face flush with the emotion, and clenched his jaw when Garrosh, curse him, actually let his lips curl in a tiny smirk of satisfaction.

His bones ached.

“Your interference has cost me a great warrior, young prince,” the image of Garrosh was saying. “You’ll pay with your life.”

“That is where you are wrong, Garrosh.” Anduin’s own voice sounded impossibly young in his ears. He watched himself leap upward. He remembered praying silently with all his being to the Light, asking for peace, for this single strike to ring true. The image of Anduin brought down the hard-won mallet upon the Divine Bell, and saw a great crack mar the beautiful and dangerous-looking surface. Garrosh Hellscream reeled backward, stunned, barely able to keep his balance as the sound washed over and through him.

The then-Anduin turned, and hope shone brightly on his young face. He opened his mouth to speak—

Garrosh recovered, growled, “Die, whelp!” and charged—not at Anduin, but at the bell, which would never again summon sha with its call. The bell that fractured and fell upon Anduin in a rain of brass and agony. The bell that shattered his bones, which now ached so fiercely with remembered torment that it was all Anduin could do not to gasp.

The next thing he was to remember was waking up in the care of pandaren monks and his teacher, the kind and wise Velen, who had saved his life. What the Vision of Time now displayed was new to him, and Anduin forced himself to focus on what he was witnessing rather than the icy-cold ache of his body.

To his surprise, the Vision-Garrosh looked distressed, rather than pleased at having dealt a death-blow to the son of his great enemy. “There is much I do not know about this artifact,” he muttered. “The weak-willed cannot control this sha energy, but I will master it.”

No one dared speak to him. Even his own people stood silently by, doubtless wondering what would happen next. Garrosh roused himself. “At least the human prince is dead,” Garrosh said. The words bit deep. “King Wrynn now knows the price of his continued defiance.” He waved a hand dismissively, turning inward again, his massive brow furrowed. “Leave me. I have much to think about.”

The scene faded. Anduin was glad to see the last of it, but Garrosh’s words—and his expression—confused him. He glanced over at the orc, who wore the same expression as he had in the display—a furrowed brow of deep thought, but no hint as to the nature of those thoughts. Anduin gazed into those yellow eyes, and was pulled away from them only by Tyrande’s voice.

“Chu’shao, your witness,” Tyrande said, stepping back. She bowed to the prince of Stormwind, and her wonderful eyes were kind. Anduin gave her a ghost of a smile, then steeled himself. It was now Baine’s turn to question him.