War Crimes

12

Baine inclined his head. Anduin thought he caught a faint echo of regret from the tauren, but if it was there, it was gone an instant later.

“We have all seen what you endured, Prince Anduin,” Baine said. “For a while, rumors circulated that you were dead. I am very pleased to see that you survived.”

“So am I,” Anduin said, and a small titter rippled through the courtroom. Baine’s ears twitched.

“You said earlier that you were frightened when you confronted Garrosh. How did you feel when you realized the bell was about to fall upon you?”

Anduin blinked and drew back slightly at the question, then recovered. “I . . . it . . . it happened so fast.”

“Try to remember, please.”

The prince licked his lips. “It’s impossible to describe how terrified I was. And how . . . betrayed I felt. That sounds foolish, I know, to feel ‘betrayed’ by an enemy.”

“Why did you come to confront Garrosh at all?”

“To prevent him from invoking the sha.”

“Understood. But why?”

“Because . . .” Anduin paused. The obvious answer, of course, was that he wanted to stop Garrosh from using the sha as a weapon. He’d talked his own father out of the same idea, persuasively arguing that the abominations would do more harm than good. Varian had seen the wisdom of it.

“I wanted Garrosh to understand just what he’d be doing,” he blurted. “I thought if I could make him grasp the price he’d be paying for victory, he’d—well, he’d—”

“He would what?”

“He would see that it wasn’t honorable. That it was—dark in a way I didn’t believe he was dark. That sacrificing his people to those . . . things . . . wasn’t the path toward any kind of victory worth having.” The words tumbled from him, uncensored, unimagined until they passed his lips. But Anduin knew by the easing of pain in his wounded bones that it was the truth—and it was of the Light.

Baine’s body quivered, ever so slightly, and he strode over to Anduin, peering at him intently. “When the weight of the brass pieces of the bell crushed you, I would imagine you were filled with fury. That when you awoke and faced an agonizing and long recovery, you wanted revenge against Garrosh for breaking every bone in your body, after you had come to him with help and wisdom.”

Anduin said, very quietly, “No.”

Baine pressed on. “You weren’t in torment? Frightened that you might never walk again? Angry?”

“Yes, of course, all those things.”

“But yet you say now, here, under oath, that you did not want revenge.”

“That’s true.”

“That is a remarkable attitude. Why not?”

“Because it doesn’t do any good. It won’t unbreak my bones, or bring back the dead. It won’t do anything but cause more damage.” It came easier now, the flow of words, as easy as breathing, and as necessary to life.

“But certainly you do not wish Garrosh to do any of the things he has been charged with ever again, do you?”

“No.” No more torment, no more pain. We’re here to help one another. To grow and prosper together.

“Well, the Accuser insists that the only way to be certain that these terrible things won’t happen again is to put Garrosh Hellscream to death. Is that what you want?”

“With respect, I protest! What the witness wants is not relevant to the verdict to be rendered in this courtroom!” Tyrande’s voice was strained, and her movements were slightly less graceful than usual as she sprang to her feet. She shot Anduin a confused look.

“Fa’shua,” Baine said, “most of Garrosh’s victims are dead and cannot speak for themselves. Prince Anduin is one who has survived to tell us his thoughts. If we purport to be trying to obtain justice, I maintain that those who have been the most wronged should be allowed to express their opinions.”

The pandaren eyed first Baine, then Tyrande. “You do understand, Chu’shao Bloodhoof, that this is a sword that can cut both ways? If I agree to allow this witness to speak such an opinion, then the Accuser’s other witnesses may do the same.”

“I understand,” Baine replied, and now Tyrande’s look of confusion transferred to Baine. Anduin wondered at the tauren’s tactics—surely, he had handed Tyrande a powerful weapon in permitting a witness’s opinion on the fate of Garrosh Hellscream. Baine was too intelligent not to realize that.

“Very well, this shall be admissible. Prince Anduin, you may answer the question.”

“Please tell the court, Prince Anduin,” said Baine. “Do you want Garrosh Hellscream to die for what he has done?”

“No,” Anduin Wrynn said quietly.

“Why not?”

“Because I believe people can change.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Because I saw it happen with my father.” Anduin’s eyes flickered to Varian, who looked surprised.

“Do you think Garrosh Hellscream can change?”

A pause. Anduin turned his golden head to regard Garrosh intently. Inside his heart was no fear, only peace. He took a deep breath, expanding himself so that the true answer could come.

“Yes.”

Baine settled back and nodded. “I have no further questions.” Tyrande looked at Anduin, then at Baine, then at Anduin again, and shook her head.

Anduin permitted himself a quiet sigh of relief as he rose and resumed his regular seat in the audience.

Sylvanas sat still as stone, the rage inside her belying her cool exterior. She could not believe the night elf’s incompetence. If Sylvanas had been the Accuser, she would have had many questions for the young human prince, questions as silky and as dangerous as spider webbing with which to entrap him. Yet despite the fact that Garrosh Hellscream had broken every single bone in Anduin Wrynn’s body, the child had piped up with testimony so hand-wringingly heartfelt that Sylvanas felt the mood in the entire chamber shift, and Tyrande had shaken her head.

“Court will take an hour’s respite,” said Taran Zhu, and struck the gong. As Baine left the floor, Sylvanas hastened to meet him, but Vol’jin had beaten her to it. The two were heading for the door, and the troll was actually congratulating Baine on his “fairness.”

“No one gonna feel that Garrosh was treated badly by the Horde now, whatever else Tyrande springs on you. Mon, you could be calling the prince of Stormwind as a witness for the Defender!”

“Young Wrynn knows what is right,” Baine rumbled. “He is forgiving. His word counts for much.”

“More, apparently, than the word of the high chieftain of the tauren,” snapped Sylvanas, falling into step beside them as they emerged outside. It was noon, and Sylvanas disliked the sun, but she was not about to back off.

Baine’s ears flattened. “Be mindful of your own words, Sylvanas,” Vol’jin said. “You don’t know when you gonna have to eat them.”

“Fortunately, I do not have to be mindful of what I say when all of Azeroth is watching, or else I might become as much a boot-licking Alliance sympathizer as—”

Baine did nothing so obvious as roar and seize her throat. He merely stopped in his tracks, gripped her upper arms, and squeezed. He was so gentle and precise in his movements and speech when off the battlefield that she had forgotten he was a warrior—and one of the finest the Horde could boast. He could, she realized belatedly, snap her arms like brittle twigs.

“I am not an Alliance sympathizer,” he said in a deep, calm voice. “Nor do I lick boots.”

“Let her go, Baine,” said Vol’jin, and Baine obeyed. “Sylvanas—Baine be doing his job, the job that I, his warchief, asked him to take on. He does it with honor. There be nothing wrong with that. Don’t you go acting like there is.”

“I do not object to him doing his job well,” said Sylvanas, recovering her composure. “I object to him doing it so well he might actually win!”

Baine chuckled ruefully. “You do not intend to, but you flatter me. I believe there is little danger of that,” he said. “I have made those spectators who are hungry for slaughter pause and think for a moment, nothing more. And that is all to the good. One should never make the decision to take another life lightly—not in battle, not in the mak’gora, not in a courtroom. Now, if you both will please excuse me, there is some work I must do in preparation for the next witness.”

He bowed to both of them, letting his body drop more deeply to Vol’jin than to Sylvanas, and departed. Kairoz was waiting for him, and Sylvanas realized he had watched the whole thing. Sylvanas wished she could claw the smirk off the dragon’s handsome face. Why wasn’t he suggesting more damning things to show?

Vol’jin shook his head and sighed.

“When you gonna be getting wiser instead of just smarter, Sylvanas?” he said, not unkindly.

“When the Horde itself grows wise enough to realize not to dish out mercy to those who have done nothing to deserve it,” she replied. “Garrosh might have been a good choice for leader of the Horde for a short while, but once Thrall announced he was going for good, something else should have been done.”

A smile played around the warchief’s long tusks. “Like making a Dark Lady a dark warchief?”

Sylvanas shook her head. “Power in that capacity does not interest me. I would have thought you knew that, Vol’jin.” It was the best kind of lie—one that had some truth to it. She was, indeed, not interested in wielding power in so blatant and crude a fashion.

He shrugged. “Who knows what you want, Sylvanas. Sometimes I don’t even think you do.” He jabbed a sharp-clawed finger at her. “Leave Baine be. He not gonna rob you of your kill. You just need to let it come in its own time.”

He walked off, calling to one of the vendors for a quick bite to eat. Sylvanas watched him go, considering.

Her anger had not abated. It never did. Anger was to her now what breathing had been when her heart still beat. But it had changed, from hot and impulsive to thoughtful and controlled.

Vol’jin and Baine were not thinking clearly. They were too caught up in how their own people functioned, in what Horde members would want to see, and how they would perceive things. Even if they did take into account the Light-loving members of the Alliance, the verdict would never be in question.

But the jury was not made up of members of the Alliance and Horde. It was made up of beings who were completely impartial—and completely detached from the more visceral, transitory, intense emotions of the other races of Azeroth. Perhaps that detachment would stretch to being aloof from concepts such as “mercy” and “second chances,” in which case she need not worry. Or perhaps it would distance them too much from white-hot vengeance and the unending ache of the deaths of people one had once loved.

Clarity came to her, calming and arrow-sharp. She could not take the risk that the celestials, “august” as they might be, would make the wrong decision.

Sylvanas would not let her “kill” come “in its own time,” as Vol’jin had urged. She would take matters into her own hands, as she had done many times before. But how, precisely? It was possible she could accomplish it alone, but unlikely. Whom, then, could she trust? Not Baine, of course. Not Vol’jin. Perhaps Theron—he had seemed willing to talk. And Gallywix doubtless had a price.

There was still some time left before court resumed. She always thought better in her own realm, in the Undercity, beneath lowering skies and surrounded by the Forsaken, who entrusted themselves to her guidance. She would let them, let her home, inspire her.

She approached the mage assigned to the court, Yu Fei, and requested a portal. Just as Yu Fei had finished murmuring the words of the spell and an image of the Undercity appeared before her, another pandaren, whom she did not know, raced up.

“Lady Sylvanas,” he said, “my apologies, but I was instructed to give this to you!” He pressed a scroll and a small package wrapped in blue cloth into her hands. Stepping back quickly, he bowed. Even as Sylvanas opened her mouth to inquire who had sent said scroll, the air shimmered around her and she manifested in her quarters.

They were spare, as befitted one who did not linger overlong in them. Sylvanas Windrunner no longer needed sleep as such, though she did come here from time to time simply to be alone and to think. She had few belongings: a bed hung with heavy, dark drapes; a desk with candles and writing materials; a chair; and a single shelf lined with a half-dozen books. Select weapons were displayed on the wall within easy reach. She needed very little else in her present existence, and she did not keep much from her past one.

Curious as to who might be sending her a missive and a package, and cautious about opening them, Sylvanas inspected the scroll thoroughly. She sensed no magic from it, nor did she notice any telltale signs that would alert her to poison. The scroll was sealed with red wax, but there was no identifying mark. Turning her attention to the package, Sylvanas noted that the blue cloth was an item commonly sold in all major cities. She shook it gently, and something clinked inside. Sinking down on the soft bed, she then removed her gloves, cracking the seal with a fingernail.

The handwriting was elegant, the lines few:

Sylvanas narrowed her eyes speculatively, trying to think who this mystery person might be. The handwriting wasn’t immediately recognizable, but it was somehow familiar. She had a rather lengthy list of people who had turned against her, or whom she had defied. Amused, she unwrapped the parcel and opened the small wooden box.

Her chest contracted, and she dropped the package as if it had bitten her.

The banshee stared at its contents, then rose and unsteadily made her way to her desk. Her fingers shook as she unlocked a drawer. Here, untouched for years, was all that remained of her past. There were only a few items: decades-old letters, arrowheads from significant kills, some other odds and ends, the detritus of a life.

And a small box.

Part of her urged her to throw the new gift inside this drawer, turn the key, and forget again. No good could come of this. And yet . . .

Holding the box, she returned to the bed. With unwonted gentleness, Sylvanas lifted the lid and gazed at what was inside. An adventurer had found this, several years ago, lying among the ruins of the spire where she had fallen. It had been returned to her. The memories it unleashed had nearly broken her then, and threatened to do so now.

Such a small thing, to have such power over the Banshee Queen: a simple piece of jewelry. Sylvanas picked up the necklace, letting the cool metal rest in her hand and gazing at the blue, winking gem that adorned it. Gently she placed it down next to the one she had just received.

They were a perfect match, save for the gemstones. Hers was a sapphire; this was a ruby. Different, too, Sylvanas knew, were the inscriptions.

She opened hers and read: To Sylvanas. Love always, Alleria.

Alleria . . . the second of the Windrunners to have left them. First had been their brother, Lirath, the youngest of them all, and perhaps the brightest. Then Alleria, lost beyond the Dark Portal in Outland. Then . . .

Sylvanas shook her head, reclaiming her composure. Of the Windrunner immediate family, she was certain of only one who yet drew breath.

Sylvanas opened the ruby locket, knowing what she would find, but needing to see it with her own eyes.

To Vereesa. With love, Alleria.