War Crimes

19

Harrowmeiser sighed. Another gorgeous evening in the scenic Howling Fjord, in the lovely continent of Northrend. With those spiffy “northern lights” that everyone just went on and on and on about. And the delightful subfreezing temperatures. And an oh-so-appealing lumpy cot and something that sometimes could actually be called “food.”

The goblin stood regarding the setting sun. A woman flanked him on either side, and not for the first time he wondered what their faces looked like without their helms.

Yep . . . just another glorious day here at Westguard Keep, a reluctant “guest” of the Alliance.

He had lost track of how long he had been held captive, his beautiful zeppelin, the Lady Lug, used now by the enemy to protect the keep from being overrun by nearby pirates. Day in, day out. With no real change of seasons, it was hard to estimate. Years, certainly.

Not even a shirt, he thought sadly as the chill set in. I’m from Ratchet. A tropical clime, thank you very much. And they have me here, with iron balls strapped to my feet and not even a shirt.

“You know, Greenie Girl,” Harrowmeiser mused, “once word about this cruel practice gets back to the Horde, this could be some kind of international incident. I mean”—and he stretched, working a flex or two into the movement—“I’m practically naked here.” He showed his sharp yellow teeth in a leer and waggled his eyebrows suggestively at the woman on his left.

The gritting of her teeth was almost audible. The emerald-eyed dwarf loathed the nickname, which of course only reinforced Harrowmeiser’s usage of it at every possible opportunity.

“Ach, dinna need to tell me,” Greenie Girl muttered. “Talk about a cruel practice!”

“Oh?” he asked. “Could it be that the sight of my glistening green skin, stretched taut against my rippling muscles—”

“—reminds us of plague vats? Why, yes,” chimed in Bluebell. Her name was something much less approachable, like Sergeant Somebody-or-other, but the woman’s eyes were the hue of the sky itself.

“Come now, ladies, you must have hearts somewhere underneath all that plate armor,” Harrowmeiser said. “I’ve been imprisoned here for a long time now, and I’ve done everything you’ve asked of me. You want defense against those pirates down there?” He stabbed a sharp-nailed digit in the direction of the Shattered Straits, where a good half-dozen pirate galleons were harbored. Now and then they made incursions, but for the most part they lingered beyond reach of anyone on the land.

But not, Harrowmeiser thought, his small chest swelling with pride, beyond the reach of the brilliance and talents of the goblin people! “You got defense against those pirates down there! I’ve supervised this zeppelin on Alliance orders every single day, ferrying boatloads of adventurers, since you captured my ship, and only once has—”

“Seven hundred and thirteen.”

“I beg your pardon, Bluebell?”

The human’s eyes went a lot less sky-blue and a lot more glacier-blue. “Seven hundred and thirteen times. Your zeppelin has had some sort of malfunction or accident seven hundred and thirteen times. And today’s not yet over.”

“Madam! You wound me!”

A snort from Greenie Girl. “Ha! Don’t we wish! Dinna tease, goblin—it’s nae kind.”

“Me? Tease? Never! You know, they say, once you go goblin . . .” he began, but paused when he realized that neither of them was listening to him.

Their heads were turned to the right, looking in the direction of the main gate, and Harrowmeiser’s large ears caught what had gotten their full attention. Guttural sounds of indecipherable war cries rent the air, along with Alliance shouts of defiance. There was the too-familiar clash of steel, and the angry singing of arrows, and the shouts turned into screams of anguish.

“Oh, this is dandy,” he muttered. “I got these things strapped to my feet, and here come the vrykul all out for blood.”

“Stay here,” said Bluebell, and she took off running.

“Wow,” said Harrowmeiser, raising an eyebrow in appreciation, “she can move pretty fast in that armor.”

“So can I,” murmured Greenie Girl. They stood in silence for a moment, and the dwarf twitched. Suddenly she swore a colorful oath. Drawing her sword, she fixed Harrowmeiser with a glare through her visor. “Ye stay right here!” And then she took off to follow her companion, running at a brisk trot toward the commotion.

Harrowmeiser wasted no time. He went as far as the chains about his legs permitted him and reached a patch of earth next to the docking area. Groping frantically about, his fingers closed on a stone. His brow furrowed in concentration, he started slamming it against the locking mechanism. He glanced up toward the gate, trying to figure out what was going on, and then back at the zeppelin.

Hell with the lock, he thought. He hefted one of the heavy iron balls with a grunt and dragged the other with him as he inched toward the Lady Lug and sweet, sweet freedom. Ungrateful wenches. They’d miss him when he was gone. He was the only thing that brought a little humor, a little brightness, into their bleak, Alliance-colored world.

He heard the sound of running feet on the deck and froze. His ears drooping, Harrowmeiser saw what looked to be two human males racing toward him. One wore plate armor from head to toe; the other was probably a mage or a priest. His hand kept his hood low over his face. They weren’t wearing uniforms, and they were coming around the wall rather than directly from the fort, but it didn’t matter. They’d already been part of the fray—the warrior had a bloodied sword drawn.

The goblin gulped. “I was, uh, just getting the ship ready!” Harrowmeiser exclaimed with a ghastly attempt at a smile. “We could mount an aerial attack—really show those vrykul bastids, huh?” He balled his fists and punched the air, making what he hoped sounded like fierce grunting noises.

“Get on board,” the mage said in a silky but harried voice. “Hurry. Shokia and the others are buying us time.”

Harrowmeiser was completely confused, but hey, they were letting him get on the zeppelin. He started slogging toward the ship. The warrior let out an exasperated grunt, and Harrowmeiser realized he was a she, though wearing a male’s armor. To his astonishment and secret delight, she swept him up in her arms—iron balls and all—and carried him on board. She deposited him unceremoniously in front of the wheel, and his hands closed on the handles as if for dear life.

“Wow, you got some good muscles there! Where to, lady?” he shouted.

“Down there, and I am no lady!” the woman yelled back. Her voice was deep and husky, inviting no disobedience. She was looking back at the dock, doubtless wondering when the escape would be noticed.

“Hey, remember, you said it, not me,” Harrowmeiser retorted. Then he said, “Wait, wait . . . you mean you want me to take ’er down toward the pirates?”

“I did not realize I had liberated an imbecile,” the warrior woman snapped, glaring at him through the slits in her helm. Boy, and did she ever have a glare. Harrowmeiser didn’t even know that human eyes could look like that.

“There’s pirates down there,” he repeated. “Oh . . . oh no . . . I get it now. You’re pirates too, aren’t you? This is all about the attacks, isn’t it? Listen. I can explain everything! The Alliance made me do it!” For one of the few times in his life, Harrowmeiser was actually telling the truth.

The woman grunted and removed her helm, revealing gray skin and tufts of mashed-down, spiky black hair.

“Pirates, pagh,” the orc said, and spat. Right on the deck of his lovely zeppelin. “Drunken rum-swilling vermin. Unfortunately, we need their aid right now, and we will have it.”

“I’m rescued!” Harrowmeiser crowed. “It’s about time! Who are you guys, anyway?”

“I am Zaela, the leader of the Dragonmaw,” said the orc, drawing herself up.

“Holy cow,” gasped Harrowmeiser. Word of her exploits during the siege had reached him even in Northrend. Some Alliance “heroes” liked to rub in news of Horde defeats. “Warlord Zaela? I thought you were—”

Zaela swore colorfully. “I am alive, well, and burning for revenge, as I imagine are you, goblin.”

“Harrowmeiser’s the name. Indeed I am, but I am burning more to escape cleanly, and getting recaptured by pirates was not what I had in mind. What do you want with them?”

“We need people to fight for our cause, and they will do so. If we pay them well enough. My sources tell me you were once well connected, and may yet have access to significant funds. You will help us create an army.”

Suddenly it all made sense. This, he was comfortable with. “Oh yeah, sure, I got some good business partners and have made a copper or two in my day. But what’s your cause? I might not want to support it.” He folded his arms stubbornly.

She whirled. “You will support our cause because it will free you. And keep you alive.”

She had a point. “Your negotiation tactics, while not exactly subtle, are convincing. Okay, I’ll take you down to the pirates.”

“Will they recognize you, goblin?” the tall, slender human said to Harrowmeiser in a silky voice. He flipped back his hood, revealing long white hair and glowing green eyes. A blood elf! “I would be quite vexed if we have gone to all this trouble to save you, and you spoil things by getting your head separated from your shoulders.”

“They, uh . . . might?” he hedged.

“Well,” the blood elf drawled, “stay out of the way and let us do the talking. Or wait—perhaps we could get a disguise for you as well.” Seeming to realize something, he snapped his fingers exaggeratedly. “No, that will not work. You are too short for a dwarf.”

Harrowmeiser glared. The mage reached out and patted the top of his head.

Baine Bloodhoof saw a mixture of resignation and determination in Go’el’s blue eyes. He respected the orc deeply, and considered asking no further questions. But he knew if he did not question his friend, he would be a coward, and would not be discharging his duty to the fullest. Either Go’el and Vol’jin would understand, or they would not. Baine had accepted the task, and he would complete it.

He inclined his head and held the position for a beat longer than was necessary for courtesy. “Let the record show that the Defender recognizes Go’el, once known as Thrall, as a true hero in a world in which that term is bandied about far too casually. The Defender thanks him for his many years of sacrifice, for the good of the Horde, and indeed for Azeroth. We owe him much.”

Go’el’s eyes narrowed, but he replied politely, “I did what I was called upon to do.”

As do I, Baine wished he could say. “When you stepped up to claim the mantle of warchief, you had a vision of your new Horde, did you not?”

“I did. I wished to have a Horde composed of races and individuals who valued honor, martial prowess, and respect for one another as family. I wanted to leave behind old ghosts of the demon-ridden heritage that so dogged our footsteps.”

“And you feel that the Accused threatened this? Even though it was his own father who put the truest end to that demon-ridden heritage?”

“With respect, I protest,” said Tyrande. “Grom is not the Hellscream that is on trial here. A son is not his father.”

“I agree with the Accuser. Ask the question another way, Chu’shao,” Taran Zhu said.

“Did you feel that Garrosh threatened your vision of the Horde?”

“I did, but I also said that I was not sure I had the right—”

“Just answer the question, please, yes or no.”

A brief flash of anger showed in those blue depths, but Go’el replied, “Yes.”

“You are, as I have said, known for your honor. You are even fair to your enemies, as the jury is about to see.”

The image of a human male appeared. He had prostrated himself on the floor, and the earth seemed to be trembling beneath him. His hair was black and he was clad in fine clothing. He seemed terrified.

Kairoz froze the scene. Baine turned to Go’el. “Do you recognize this man?”

Go’el’s face was hard. “I do. And . . . I am grateful you did not show what happened before this.”

Baine knew what Go’el referred to. Kairoz had insisted it would make the eventual point better if Baine were to show that scene, but the tauren did not have the stomach to do so. “Can you identify him for the court, please?”

“It is—it was—Aedelas Blackmoore.” A surprised murmur rippled through the room as everyone realized that they were witnessing a truly historic moment. “I had come to parlay with him. I offered to spare Durnholde Keep and the lives of everyone in it, if he would only agree to free my people. He . . . refused.”

Hating himself, Baine asked, “Would you please tell the court what form that refusal took?” He did not look at Go’el.

There was a moment of silence. Then Go’el said, “I told him my terms. His answer was . . . to throw the head of a murdered young woman, Taretha Foxton, at my feet.”

“You are an orc, imprisoned by humans. What would such a death mean to you?”

“You know, Baine.” The voice was low and cold.

Now Baine turned, keeping his expression carefully neutral. “I do. The jury does not.”

Go’el took a deep breath, composing himself. His voice was precise and controlled. Only the tight clenching of his fists betrayed his emotion. He looked up where the celestials sat, and there was kindness and empathy on their wise faces.

“Taretha Foxton was my friend. She thought of me as a brother. Had she been my own sister, I could not have loved her more. She was kind to me, and had already risked her life once to help me escape. She gambled with it a second time to send me a warning—and that time, she lost. Blackmoore—” He paused, clenching his teeth, then continued. “Blackmoore killed her, cut off her head, and threw it down at me, hoping to break me. He did not.”

Baine gestured to Kairoz. A younger version of Thrall now appeared in the scene. He looked every inch the hero that he was—bigger and more powerful than most orcs, clad in the black armor of Orgrim Doomhammer, and wearing the massive weapon that was the late orc’s namesake strapped to his back. In each hand, Thrall held a sword, one of which he tossed at Blackmoore. The man screamed and scuttled back, staring up at him. It was plain to see now that Blackmoore’s linen shirt was stained with vomit.

“Thrall, I can explain . . .”

“No,” said Thrall, in the same unnaturally calm voice he had just used with Baine. “You can’t explain. There is no explanation. There is only a battle, long in the coming. A duel to the death. Take the sword.”

Blackmoore shrank back. “I . . . I . . .”

“Take the sword, or I shall run you through where you sit like a frightened child.”

Blackmoore’s hand shook, but he grasped the hilt of the sword and clumsily got to his feet.

“Come for me.”

And, surprisingly, Blackmoore did. It was obvious to anyone watching that the human had been drinking, but even so, he was swift and Thrall had to act quickly to parry the blow.

Blackmoore’s expression changed. His brows drew together and his lips thinned, and as he feinted to the left and then attacked fiercely on the right, his moves were steadier and had power behind them.

In his day, Baine recalled, Blackmoore had been thought a superior warrior. Indeed, Kairoz had informed Baine that in an alternate timeline, Blackmoore had himself won the kingdom of Lordaeron and had ruled as a tyrant. Thrall was much stronger, but Blackmoore was more agile—and he was fighting for his life.

When Thrall noticed that the human was looking about for a shield to protect his left side, the orc furiously tore the door off its hinges and threw it at Blackmoore.

“Hide behind the coward’s door.”

Blackmoore twisted out of the way, pushed the door aside, and called, “It’s still not too late, Thrall. You can join with me and we can work together. Of course I’ll free the other orcs, if you’ll promise that they’ll fight for me under my banner, just as you will!”

Incredulity showed on the orc’s green face; then anger darkened it. In that instant, Blackmoore lunged. Thrall was so taken aback by Blackmoore’s ludicrous words that he failed to parry in time. The human’s sword clanged off the black armor.

“You are still drunk, Blackmoore, if you believe for an instant I can forget the sight of—”

Baine had seen this before. He knew what to expect. And even he found himself starting as Thrall exploded into action. Thrall had held back—but he was doing so no longer. He bore down on Blackmoore with speed, power, and lethal grace.

Blackmoore didn’t stand a chance, but he refused to yield. The blows on the sword he raised to defend himself must have jarred his bones to the marrow. His strength began to give out; his movements slowed; and one final strike sent his blade hurtling from his grasp. Even then, he did not yield. His hand went down to his boot and he came up with a dagger, springing upward with a shout, teeth bared, ready to bury it in Thrall’s eye.

Thrall’s bellow reverberated now as it must have done then, and his sword came slicing down.

Baine spared the onlookers the precise moment of Blackmoore’s passing. “Stop.” The scene disappeared before the fatal blow could fall.

“A fair fight,” Baine then said. “More than fair, some would say. Aedelas Blackmoore was a man guilty of many things. The son of a traitor, he had planned all along to turn traitor himself—to make weapons of the orcs, and use them to defeat the Alliance, with himself as the king of all the human realms. Additionally, he was cruel. He beat Thrall, badly, simply for losing a fight in the ring. He seduced young Taretha Foxton for his own amusement, then executed her for attempting to help Thrall. A monster, many, even humans, would say.

“Go’el had every reason to hate Blackmoore. And yet, he gave his enemy a fighting chance. He even brought him a weapon, so Blackmoore could die with honor.”

He turned and regarded Go’el. “What I cannot understand, then, is why an orc who so prized honor—even to the point of arming an enemy who had murdered someone he loved mere moments before—was ready to kill Garrosh Hellscream in cold blood. Is that in keeping with the Horde you envisioned, Go’el?”

Many things happened at once. Tyrande had risen, shouting, “I protest! The witness is not on trial here!” Go’el, too, was on his feet, but said nothing—he didn’t have to.

Taran Zhu struck the gong repeatedly. “Order!” he shouted. “Chu’shao Whisperwind! Go’el! Resume your seats immediately, or I shall reprimand you both! Chu’shao Bloodhoof, you will cease this line of questioning. I agree with the Accuser!”

Baine bowed to Taran Zhu, and faced Go’el. The orc was no longer standing, but he regarded Baine with a look the tauren had never seen directed at him before—one he had hoped never to see.

“I will get to the heart of the matter,” Baine said.

“A wise choice,” Taran Zhu said archly.

“Your decisions—both to stay away from Orgrimmar as long as you did, and your appointment of Garrosh Hellscream in the first place—have been criticized by some,” said Baine.

“I am aware of that criticism.” Go’el deliberately sat back and folded his arms across his chest.

“You have said here in this courtroom that there were reasons why you made these choices.”

“I did, and I listed those reasons.”

“Do you wish you had done things differently? Do you perhaps feel responsible for what Garrosh Hellscream has done?”

“No. To both questions.”

“You are certain of this?”

Go’el’s eyes narrowed, but before he could speak, Tyrande was on her feet. “With respect, I protest! The Defender is harassing the witness!” she shouted.

“Chu’shao Bloodhoof,” Taran Zhu said, his voice mild as usual, “if you have a point to make, please do so.”

“I do, Fa’shua, as you will see. Go’el was once taken by the Druids of the Flame,” Baine told the rapt audience. “They used one of his greatest strengths—his affinity with the elements—to torture him. Scattering a part of his essence to each elemental plane. During this time, he was forced to face his fears. I respectfully submit that those fears have a bearing on what happened on the battlefield—and in this courtroom.”

He nodded to Kairoz, who fairly leaped to his feet. The bronze dragon had been waiting for Go’el to testify after being forced to, as he had said, “take a backseat while Chromie showcases all the really exciting moments.”

Baine had replied, “I think a life hanging in the balance should be excitement enough.”

Kairoz had answered, “Then by all means, let us tilt that balance in our favor.” And he had found Baine several moments in time that he believed would do precisely that.

The scene that now came to life was a dramatic one—a temple in the sky, with columns as white as the clouds that surrounded it. Blue lightning crackled and jagged throughout the temple, followed by the angry answer of thunder. Revenants, their glowing blue-white, energetic forms encased by armor, whirled about. And in the center, caught in the raging tempest, was what looked to be the shadow form of a gigantic Go’el.

Aggra’s image stood, crying out to her mate, attempting to reach him. The words the gray shadow figure uttered were filled with grief and pain.

“Failed. I have failed this world. The elements . . . will not speak to me. The Earthen Ring . . . has lost faith in my leadership. My weakness . . . has delivered Azeroth . . . into oblivion.”

Her clothing and hair were whipped by the angry winds, and Aggra’s voice was all but swallowed up. “Go’el, it’s me—Aggra! Don’t you know me?”

“Oblivion . . . nothing . . . but oblivion,” moaned the despairing shadow. “I have . . . failed the Horde . . . as warchief. Garrosh . . . will lead it to ruin. My people . . . to ruin. Cairne, my brother . . . why did I not listen?”

The image faded, like a ghost with the first light of a new day. Baine quoted, his voice soft but carrying clearly, “ ‘Why did I not listen?’ ”

And another scene took shape.