War Crimes

14

The Ghostlands, it was called now. Once, the Windrunner family called it home. Vereesa had been invited back a single time before by Halduron Brightwing, to fight their mutual, ancient enemy, the Amani. It had made her soul-sick then, and did so again now. As she flew her hippogryph over the Thalassian Pass, her stomach muscles contracted and her palms grew slippery on the reins.

The Dead Scar. Twining its way through a once-beautiful land, leaving a trail like a slug where hundreds of undead feet had trod. No one knew if it would ever recover. It penetrated Tranquillien, aptly named no longer, dividing the Sanctums of the Moon and of the Sun, on into Eversong Woods and through Silvermoon, cleaving that wondrous city of song and story as well. Even from this height, she could see the legacy of the Lich King, dead things still shuffling, still killing.

Dead, but not dead. Like my sister.

No. Not like Sylvanas. She and her people had their own wills, their own minds. They could choose what they would and would not do. Whom they would and would not kill. And that ability was what had brought Vereesa back to the place of her childhood, where she had never thought to return.

Her eyes were dry, her senses dull with the constant press of pain that had begun with word of Rhonin’s death and had not ever truly eased. She steered her mount to the west, and could not help but wonder if Sylvanas was enjoying the thought of Vereesa returning to Windrunner Spire.

Seeing it again brought a wave of fresh pain, new and sharp and adding fuel to her hatred. Orcs had not done this to her home, but orcs had taken enough from her—first her brother, Lirath, and then Rhonin, her great light. They desired to raze Quel’Thalas as thoroughly as Arthas later had.

As she drew closer, Vereesa’s lip curled in a snarl. The spire—her family’s spire—was crawling with walking corpses and transparent spirits.

Banshees.

The spirits drifted, seemingly as without aim in death as they had been full of purpose in life. Speckled in among them were hooded figures in red and black robes. Vereesa knew who they had to be. They were the human followers of the Deatholme cult that had sprung up after Arthas’s incursion, using Windrunner Spire for some obscene and violent purpose.

Using my home.

Vereesa let out a wordless shriek, and all the impotent anger that had raged inside her since Garrosh’s defeat surged forward at this welcome outlet. She nocked and let fly arrow after arrow. The first one caught the acolyte in the eye. The second and third pierced throats before the victims even registered what was happening. The fourth target turned a shocked face up to Vereesa, and his fingers flexed as he reached for a weapon; then he too was dead. Leaping off her hippogryph before it even had a chance to land, she attacked the fallen rangers, swinging a sword that glowed as it sliced through incorporeal flesh, sending them to oblivion and presumably peace, with more rage than pity. Vereesa winced as a banshee’s howl shuddered through her body, but it only slowed her an instant before the specter’s terrifying scream was forever silenced. The high elf added her own screams to the cacophony, jumbled phrases that said nothing but spoke bitterly of poisonous anger and pain.

Two more acolytes had the misfortune of being too slow in their spells. Vereesa charged them, slicing the head off of one and following through to bring the sword carving across the chest of another. As he fell, blood spurting, she thrust the sword down through his belly.

She caught her breath, yanking the sword free, looking about for any more enemies, living or undead, that might be converging on the spire. Vereesa was unconcerned about being recognized. Few enough living beings ventured out here anymore. A hooded cape was sufficient disguise if an intrepid blood elf dared approach the deserted place, and any acolyte that saw her would not live to report back.

The minutes crawled past. From time to time Vereesa heard again soft, mindless moans and sighs. She fought her adversaries back when their meandering brought them onto Windrunner property, ruined though it was. Mist, clammy and cold, clung to her skin. She began to pace back and forth, wondering if this was all some kind of cruel trick on Sylvanas’s part.

Her sharp ears caught the faintest of sounds behind her and she whirled, bow ready, arrow nocked. Before she could let the missile fly, there was a splintering of her arrow’s shaft, and the string twanged.

The archer, clad in black leather, had shot Vereesa’s arrow right out of the bow.

The newcomer brushed her hood back. Glowing red eyes pierced the haze, and black lips twisted in a sardonic grin.

“Have a care, Sister,” Sylvanas said, lowering her weapon. “I do not think you want to kill this banshee.”

They walked along the gray sand, the sound of the waves easier to bear than the sighs and laments of the dead, though not by much. Sylvanas thought the place full of ghosts, not only literal, but those of a family that once picnicked here.

“We are all that is left,” Vereesa said, as if reading her thoughts. Sylvanas smiled a little. As the two middle children, they had always had a bond that set them apart from Alleria, the eldest, and Lirath, their only brother.

“A diplomatic choice of words,” she said.

Vereesa had come to a halt, peering out across the North Sea. “First Lirath, murdered by the orcs. Then Alleria, vanished in Outland. Why did you pick this place, Sylvanas?”

“Why do you think, little sister?”

“To wound me. You chose a rendezvous site where the dead feel at home. Where the living are not welcome.” Then she amended, “Unless they have evil intentions.”

Sylvanas stiffened. “To wound you? Arrogant child!” She laughed without humor. “Did you not notice who clustered about you, sobbing and shrieking for their lives back? Those were my rangers! I died here!”

Vereesa winced. “I—I am sorry. I thought . . . you were used to . . . well . . .”

“Being the ‘Banshee Queen’? The ‘Dark Lady’?” Sylvanas spoke in an exaggerated tone. “It is better than rotting. At least now I have a say in what happens in the world.”

“We have less of a say than we could have hoped,” Vereesa said. She picked up a rock and threw it into the ocean, where it immediately vanished. “I do not know who you are now. You are not she who was my beloved sister.”

I am . . . and I am not, Sylvanas thought, but said nothing.

“But you and I agree on one thing.” Vereesa turned, her face flushed and her eyes blazing. “Garrosh Hellscream must die for what he has done. And it seems as though you, like me, do not trust the celestials to reach that same decision, or else you would not have come.”

“I cannot disagree with you on any of those counts. And it was brave of you to attempt to contact me—especially if, as you have said, you do not know who I am now.” Brave, and a bit reckless. Had the locket been intercepted, Vereesa would have been branded a traitor.

“I took a risk. It seemed worth it. I hope it was.”

“You did not do so simply to have me sympathize with how wretched a creature Garrosh Hellscream is,” Sylvanas said, folding her arms. “You must have a plan.”

“I—well, not yet.”

Sylvanas arched a brow, and began to calculate how long it would take to kill Vereesa.

“I wanted to tell you that we are not alone,” said Vereesa. “There are others who think exactly as we do, and who would either actively help us or not stand in our way if we attempted to . . . to murder Garrosh.”

“People complain and grumble, Sister, but few are willing to act. These allies you speak of will evaporate if they get a whiff of any danger to their persons or their reputations.”

Vereesa shook her head earnestly. “No. They will not. I even have Lady Jaina’s approval.”

Sylvanas frowned. “Now I know you lie, Sister. Jaina Proudmoore may no longer be the dewy-eyed peace lover she was before, but she cannot possibly advocate an assassination. She might hope for Garrosh’s death, but she would never act upon it.”

“You are wrong. She wants him to die. Before sentence is pronounced. Save us all the trouble of a trial, she said. There are others too. Sky Admiral Catherine Rogers, for one. She hates the Horde, Garrosh most of all.”

“I recall she is from Southshore,” Sylvanas said. “I doubt she will want to work with the Banshee Queen of the Forsaken.”

“She does not have to know. No one has to know. Just us.”

Sylvanas fell silent, thinking. “We could wait to see if the celestials do the job for us first.”

“No. If they do decide on mercy”—and Vereesa spat the word—“we will not get another chance. We have to act while the trial is going on. While both of our sides have access to him.”

At that, Sylvanas laughed aloud. “Access? Have you seen how heavily he is guarded, Sister? Even the most accomplished assassin will not be able to penetrate that cell.”

Vereesa smiled. It was still the face Sylvanas remembered, still the same lips that had parted in shrieks of laughter when Vereesa was a child. But the expression gave Sylvanas a glimpse into a cruelty she would never have expected her sister to display.

“No,” Vereesa agreed. “Not an assassin. But even prisoners must eat, must they not?”

Poison. No wonder Vereesa’s thoughts had turned to her sister.

“And you wish a poison no one can detect—a poison that has not been created yet.”

Vereesa nodded.

“Perfect,” said Sylvanas. “I am ashamed that it had not occurred to me, actually.”

“We will need to get someone to infiltrate the kitchens, or tamper with the food at its source,” Vereesa continued. “Or else convince someone who is already trusted with preparing his meals. We—”

“A moment, before you careen off plotting and scheming, entertaining though that might be,” said Sylvanas. “I have not said that I will participate.”

“What? You just said it was perfect!”

“Oh, it is. But I have suffered beneath the hand of a tyrant before,” Sylvanas said. “And defied he who made me. Arthas raised me to torment me, but he is gone and I am here. I defied Garrosh as well, and I will see him dead.” She spread her hands, indicating her body, as strong and, in its own way, as beautiful as when she drew breath, but blue-gray and cold to the touch. “And—I am Forsaken. You can understand my reasoning. What is yours, little one?”

“I cannot believe you are asking me this!”

“I am, and I pray you, answer.” Her voice was cold. “What did Garrosh do to make you decide upon this course?”

“What did he not do? He unleashed a horror upon Theramore that cannot ever be excused! And they died . . . terribly. It is sheer luck I was not among their number.”

Sylvanas shook her head. Her locks had been pale blond in life, but appeared to be silver, and now they looked almost as white as her sister’s. They were the moons, Alleria had teased, calling them Lady Moon and Little Moon, while she and Lirath—the eldest and the youngest—were the suns of the family, with their bright golden tresses. Alleria . . .

“That is not the reason.”

“The orcs have ever been our enemies. Garrosh is the worst they have spawned that yet lives. Their history is littered with monsters and demonic barbarism. They took our baby brother from us, Sylvanas! And you know Alleria would have fought anyone for the honor of dispatching Garrosh herself. She would want us to do this.”

Sylvanas pursed her lips. “While I agree with all you say, that is not the reason either.”

Vereesa swallowed hard. “You do want to wound me. You want to see me suffer.”

“I want to judge for myself the depth of your pain. It is not the same thing.”

Vereesa was Alliance. She had married a human, had borne children with him. That had been her home, and she had a place there. What she said she now wanted went against the laws that the Alliance claimed to uphold—though, certainly, there were rogues and murderers and thieves enough among their number.

For a moment, Sylvanas thought her sister would refuse. The Windrunners had ever been strong willed. Vereesa’s slender body was as taut as her bowstring, almost quivering with tension. Sylvanas waited with the patience of the dead—another gift Arthas had unwittingly bestowed upon her—for the fury she sensed boiling inside her sister to erupt.

It did not happen.

Instead of fire, Sylvanas saw water—tears filling Vereesa’s eyes and spilling down her face. Vereesa did not even bother to wipe them away as she spoke.

“He took my Rhonin.”

That was all. That was everything.

Sylvanas stepped forward and embraced her sister, and Vereesa clung to her like the drowning woman she was.