War Crimes

17

The door from the hall clanged shut behind Anduin, and per his specific request, he was alone in a room with a mass murderer.

Anduin poured himself a glass of water and drank. He noticed that this time, his hand didn’t tremble quite so much. Garrosh, shackled as usual, sat on his sleeping furs, regarding the human prince.

“I would know your thoughts about Vol’jin’s testimony,” Garrosh stated.

Anduin’s lips thinned. “If we’re sticking to our bargain, you tell me something first this time.”

Garrosh rumbled a deep, melancholy chuckle. “I will say to you then, that I believe today has put an end to any hope that I will walk out of this cell other than to my execution.”

“No, it . . . didn’t go well,” Anduin allowed. “But what specifically makes you say that?”

Garrosh stared at him as if he were an idiot. “I threatened Vol’jin, banished his people, and tried to have him killed. Surely that is enough.”

Anduin shrugged. “He threatened you as well, paid no honor to your title, and vowed to your face that he would kill you. He could easily have had followers ready to carry out the deed in Orgrimmar if he couldn’t. Maybe you banished his people not because you hated them, but because you were afraid of them.”

Shouting in rage, the orc was on his feet so fast Anduin jerked backward. At his bellow of fury, the Chu brothers entered and rushed forward.

“It’s all right!” Anduin said, raising a hand and forcing a smile. “We are just . . . discussing things.”

Li and Lo exchanged glances. Li regarded Garrosh with a slow, appraising stare. “It sounded like more than that.” The orc was silent, but breathed hard and swiftly as his fists clenched and unclenched.

“It wasn’t,” Anduin said.

Lo said quietly, “Prisoner Hellscream, you will control yourself. Speaking with His Highness is a privilege, and one that will be revoked if we feel he is in any danger. Do you understand?”

For an instant, it looked as though Garrosh would attempt to burst through the bars to get at Lo. Then he sat down. His chains clanked. “I understand,” he said, still angry, but in control.

“Very well. Do you wish to continue, Your Highness?”

“Yes,” said Anduin. “Thank you, but you may go.”

The brothers bowed and left, although Li gave Garrosh another warning look before he ascended the ramp out of sight.

“I would have killed you if there had not been bars between us,” Garrosh growled softly.

“I know,” Anduin replied. Oddly, he wasn’t frightened. “But there were.”

“Indeed.” Garrosh took a deep breath and continued. “I was not afraid of some cowardly attempt on my life. I was never scared of Vol’jin.”

“Then why did you not challenge him to a mak’gora?” Anduin shot back, recovering. “Why do something underhanded, something that goes against your own traditions, if you weren’t afraid he’d beat you in a fair fight? That’s the game cowards play. That’s the game Magatha played.”

“I thought you honorable, but you strike below the belt, whelp.”

“I speak the truth, Garrosh. That’s what’s upsetting you, isn’t it? It’s not what others think about you. It’s what you think about yourself.”

Anduin expected another burst of fury, but this time Garrosh turned his rage inward. Only his eyes revealed his anger.

“I have never forgotten my people’s traditions,” he said, in a voice so soft Anduin had to strain to hear it. “I repeat what I said to Vol’jin. Were I free, I would indeed stop at nothing to ensure a proud and glorious future for the orcs—and anyone with the courage to stand with us.”

“What if the Alliance stood with you?”

“What?”

“What if the Alliance stood with you? Is it truly the orcs’ pride and glory that concerns you, or your own?” The words were not planned; they flowed out almost as if of their own accord. Even as Anduin spoke them, he realized their absurdity. And yet, something inside him whispered, No, not absurd, not impossible. There can be peace. No one need give up such a future. Unity, working together for the good of all—what else could inspire such true pride, bring such lasting glory?

Wasn’t it this, and not killing, that made a hero?

Garrosh stared at him in utter shock, his mouth slightly open in disbelief.

Anduin’s breathing was shallow as the moment stretched out between them. He did not dare speak again, for fear of breaking the spell.

Finally, Garrosh spoke.

“Get out.”

The disappointment made every bone in the prince’s body ache, as if they sung a dirge.

“You lie, Garrosh Hellscream,” Anduin said softly, sorrowfully. “There is something you’ll stop at. You’ll stop at peace.”

And without another word, Anduin rose, ascended the ramp, and knocked on the door. It was opened for him in silence, and he left, feeling Garrosh’s gaze boring into his back.

Jaina was alone in her tent at Violet Rise, washing up for dinner. Located far to the northwest of the Temple of the White Tiger, Violet Rise was the base of operations of the Kirin Tor Offensive. Presently it also played host to Varian and Anduin, as well as several powerful magi, Vereesa, Kalecgos, and herself. She changed into a less formal robe and splashed water from a basin on her face. She almost felt like humming. Vol’jin’s testimony had been damning. She had never interacted with the troll, and Light knew their kind had ever been dangerous to humans and other Alliance members even before there had been a Horde. It was amusing, in a way, to hear him talk about the variety of races under the Horde banner when one took into account the trolls’ lengthy history of racial superiority. Nonetheless, she all but cheered at his words spoken in court.

“Jaina?”

“Kalec!” she said. “Come in.”

He lifted the flap but didn’t enter. Her good mood ebbed as she saw his face. “What’s wrong?”

“Care to go for a walk with me?”

It was raining—it seemed it was always raining here—but Jaina said, “Of course.” She stepped out of the tent slipping on a cloak as she did so, and he let the flap drop closed. Their hands met and clasped. Jaina told Nelphi, an eager young apprentice who helped out all the magi on Violet Rise, they would be gone for a little while, but not to delay supper if everyone else was ready.

They walked across the wide, paved square where the other magi were going about their business in the drizzle. Still hand in hand and in silence, they descended the great staircase, once trod by mogu feet, leading toward the water, picking their way across broken pieces of the trail. As they turned left through Shadewood Thicket, Jaina realized that Kalec was taking her down to the small patch of beach at the bottom of a winding path. The arcane guardians set here to keep watch paid them no mind, trundling about on their programmed duties of surveillance. Jaina focused on stepping safely across the rain-slicked, ancient paving stones, growing more certain that she would not enjoy the conversation they were about to have.

As she set foot on the narrow beach, Jaina could not help but be reminded of walking along a similar patch of sand, Dreadmurk Shore, outside of the walled city that was no more. She recalled seeing the blue dragon in flight, searching for a place to land, and remembered how she had broken into a run to meet him.

His face had lit up when he saw her. They had spoken of those who had come to aid her against the Horde. Jaina had expressed concern for the generals’ personalization of the battle to come.

She recalled what she had said to him then: “If anyone should be bitter and hateful, it should be me. Yet I hear the things some of them call the Horde—insulting, cruel terms—and I feel so much regret . . . My father didn’t just want to win. He hated the orcs. He wanted to crush them. Wipe them off the face of Azeroth. And so do some of these generals.”

Anduin had been right. People did change. Now, she was one of those whom she had once mentally chided.

It had been then that Kalec had first hesitantly expressed that he wished to be more than a friend to her. He had promised to help her defend her home. “I do not do this for the Alliance, or for Theramore. I do this for Theramore’s lady.” And he had pressed a kiss into her palm.

They had grown closer when Kalec struggled against losing himself while under the influence of the artifact that had revealed the true story behind the creation of the Dragon Aspects. But the events of the recent months had again put distance between them, and he had only recently come to Pandaria. Now he regarded her, with love, but also with unhappiness, and she felt a chill that had nothing to do with the crisp air coming off the sea.

For a moment, she simply took in the sight of Alliance vessels in the water, and the beautiful, violet light of the topmost part of the tower. It hovered a good distance away from the levitation platform below. Sigils in the shape of the Kirin Tor’s eye surrounded it, and to Jaina it looked almost like a lighthouse, a beacon in the storm.

Black humor made her chuckle. “First a swamp, then the rain. One of these days, we’ll have to find a really nice beach.”

When he did not respond with a quip of his own, she felt cold inside. She inhaled a deep breath and turned to him, taking both his hands in hers. “What is it?” she asked, though she was afraid she already knew.

For answer, he gathered her in his arms and held her tightly, resting his cheek on her white hair. She slipped her arms around his waist and breathed in his scent, listening to his heartbeat. Too soon, he gently disengaged and looked down at her.

“This war has taken so much from you,” Kalec said. “And I don’t just mean physical things.” He smoothed a lock of hair that had fallen across her eyes, letting the single streak that was all that remained of her golden tresses trail through his fingers. “You’ve grown so . . .”

“Hard? Bitter?” She had to struggle not to let her tone of voice match the words.

He nodded sadly. “Yes. It’s as if the process of wounding doesn’t ever stop for you.”

“Shall I list what’s happened?” She spoke sharply, but didn’t regret it. “You’ve been there for some of it!”

“But not all. You didn’t ask me to come with you to Pandaria.”

She looked down. “No. But that doesn’t mean I don’t—”

“I know,” he interrupted gently. “I am here now, and glad to be, and I hope to continue to be with you, whatever comes. I want to help, Jaina, but you seem to like this dark place where your heart has landed. I watch you in court each day, and I see someone who is filled more with hatred than with love. Garrosh might have put you there. But you’re staying in that place of your own free will.”

She stepped back, staring at him. “You think I like this? That I like having nightmares, and feeling so angry I am about to explode? Don’t you believe I have a right to be satisfied—no, no, downright ecstatic—that someone who did such horrible things is getting what he deserves?”

“I don’t think you like it, and I do believe you have a right to your feelings. What worries me is that those feelings won’t end with this trial.”

A vein throbbed in her temple, and she placed a hand to it. “What makes you think they won’t?”

“Remembering how eager you were to have Varian dismantle the Horde.”

“I can’t believe you—”

“Hear me out, please,” he implored. “Think for a moment how you would feel if Varian did what Garrosh has done. Let’s say he decided that the Alliance should consist solely of humans. He decrees that the draenei should only be allowed in Stormwind if they live in slums. He orders that Tyrande be murdered if she doesn’t agree to create a legion of satyrs to fight in his army. The gnomes and the dwarves are tolerated merely as a labor force. He hears that some artifact is located in the most beautiful place in Azeroth, a place of great sacredness. He destroys it to get what he wants. He—”

“Enough,” said Jaina. She was trembling, but couldn’t identify the emotion. “You’ve made your point.”

He fell silent.

“I didn’t destroy Orgrimmar. And I could have. So easily,” she said.

“I know.”

“Do you remember when you told me you would stay and fight in the Battle of Theramore?” He bit his lower lip and nodded. “I was frustrated with the generals for their hatred of the Horde. And you asked me if I thought that hatred would make them unreliable commanders in battle.”

“I do remember,” he replied. “You also said that it didn’t matter how you and they felt. And I said it did matter, a great deal—but defending the city was the most important thing at that moment. Just like defeating Garrosh was, when all of us—Alliance and Horde—were trying to take him down.”

“So . . . you’re telling me that now that we have, that he’s standing trial . . . the differences between—between us . . . they matter again.”

He whispered, “Yes.”

Tears stung her eyes. “How much?” she said in a faint voice.

“I don’t know yet. I won’t until I see who we are at the end of all this. If you keep hanging on to this hatred, Jaina . . . it will devour you. And I couldn’t bear to watch . . . to lose you to that. I don’t want to lose you, Jaina!”

Then don’t leave me, her heart cried, but she didn’t voice it. She knew what he meant by the words, and they went far beyond a simple physical parting. This wasn’t a lover’s quarrel over something foolish. This was about who they were, at their very cores. And whether or not they could continue to be together if what their hearts most needed was in conflict.

And so Jaina didn’t argue. She didn’t promise to change, nor did she threaten to leave. She simply arched up, threw her arms around his neck, and kissed him with her whole heart. With a soft little sound of pain and love commingled, Kalecgos pulled her tightly to him, clinging to her as if he would never let go.

It was a beautiful evening in Silvermoon City. Thalen Songweaver, informally clad in stockings, breeches, and a linen shirt open at the throat, had the windows flung wide to let in the night air, and the gossamer curtains swelled and billowed softly. Faint sounds wafted up to his luxurious apartments in the Royal Exchange. He lay on his bed, smoking a hookah of black lotus and dreaming glory. The normally relaxing combination was failing him tonight. While his senses were dulled, the agitation remained, and his white brows drew together as he brooded upon the current situation.

Not so long ago, his position was one to be envied. He had provided aid in more than a single capacity to his warchief, Garrosh Hellscream: first, by pretending to be a devoted and trustworthy member of the Kirin Tor while reporting faithfully back to Garrosh, and second . . . well. Suffice it to say that history would forever remember Theramore not for how it was founded, or evolved, but for how it had been obliterated.

The thought made the blood elf smile as he idly fiddled with a miniature toy mana bomb, a small-scale replica of the one he had created. He’d given them out as a little thank-you to those of the Horde who had freed him from his Theramore prison. It was, he knew, in exquisitely poor taste, but was still vastly amusing.

Yet even reflecting on that moment of glory did not make him feel comfortable this evening. He sighed, rising and walking to the window. He leaned on the sill, peering out. While the auction house was open at all hours, the streets were quiet this time of night. Unlike their kaldorei cousins, civilized elves conducted most of their business with the sun smiling down upon them. If he’d wanted to see lively activity at night, he’d have taken quarters above Murder Row.

It had been going so very well. And then everyone had turned on Garrosh. Thalen’s aquiline nostrils flared. Even his own leader, Lor’themar Theron, had refused to aid the warchief. Weaklings, all of them. Now Garrosh’s fate was being decided by a bunch of talking bears and some glowing sort of . . . spirit beings, or whatever they were. Absolute madness.

He glanced back fondly at his lavish quarters. He suspected that soon wisdom would dictate that he vacate them. Theron had been too busy overthrowing the rightfully appointed warchief to bother with a lone archmage, but once they had all decided what to do about Garrosh, no doubt the sin’dorei leader would recall that little incident in Theramore, and elves like Songweaver—elves actually loyal to the Horde, imagine such a thing!—would become persona non grata. Who knew—if Theron kept cozying up to the Alliance, he might even call for executions.

Thalen’s hand went to his slender throat, stroking it thoughtfully. He rather liked his head right where it was.

Such melancholy thoughts. Perhaps a drink at the Silvermoon City Inn would help ease him into slumber. He was just about to pull the windows closed, then paused as he saw two huge black wolves riding into the exchange. For a moment, he thought nothing of it, assuming the cloaked orcs were adventurers seeking to unload their most recent spoils at the auction house. But they rode past both the house and the bank, halting directly below his window. He saw now they were both females. One had the hood of her cloak down and was looking about guardedly. The other’s hood hid the rider’s features.

Unease warred with curiosity—his bane, Thalen mused sourly. Ah well, bravado to the last . . .

“Hail, friends or foes,” he called down in a bright voice. “I am not quite sure which. Either you have come to arrest me, or you are my rescuers from that unpleasant imprisonment in Theramore come to visit me, as I invited you to do.”

The hooded rider lifted her face. The sight was intended for his eyes only, and it was the proud visage of a gray-skinned orcish female. “Neither, but a friend nonetheless. We have come seeking your assistance in a matter most urgent and full of glory.”

Zaela, the leader of the Dragonmaw clan, grinned fiercely up at him.

“Well, well,” he said, “I thought you were—”

“I am alive and well, and I am pleased that you are also.” His heart leaped at her next words. “As you said—someone rescued you once, when you languished in captivity. I think you might be the sort of person who would care to return that favor.”