War Crimes

20

No, not this moment . . .

Go’el’s heart ached deep within his chest, stopping his breath for a few seconds. He looked over at Baine, shocked that the son would so use the image of the father. Baine stared down at his hands. He was unable to watch. So, it pains him as well. But he still chooses to show this. Go’el gritted his teeth and called on every tool he knew for calmness.

“You are making a grave mistake,” came a deep, rumbling voice. As Go’el knew it would.

Cairne Bloodhoof.

The elderly bull awaited Thrall beneath the dead tree that at that time bore the skull and armor of Mannoroth. Cairne stood with his arms folded, his muscles and erect posture belying his years. A soft murmur rippled through the crowd. Horde and Alliance had both respected and admired this tauren.

They said you were winning the fight, my brother . . .

“Cairne!” the image of Go’el—no, he was Thrall then—said. “It is good to see you. I had hoped to hear from you prior to my departure.”

“I do not think you will be glad, for I do not believe you are going to like what I have to say,” the tauren replied.

“I have ever listened to what you have to say, which is why I requested you advise Garrosh in my absence. Speak.”

Except it wasn’t true, was it? He hadn’t listened.

“When the courier arrived with your letter,” Cairne said, “I thought I had indeed, at long last, finally become senile and was dreaming fever dreams as poor Drek’Thar does. To see, in your own writing, that you wished to appoint Garrosh Hellscream as leader of the Horde!”

Cairne’s voice rose as he spoke. Thrall looked about, frowning slightly. “Let us discuss this in private,” Thrall began. “My quarters and ears are open to you at all—”

“No.” Cairne stamped his hoof, a rare show of anger. “I am here, in the shadow of what was once your greatest enemy, for a reason. I remember Grom Hellscream. I remember his passion, and his violence, and his waywardness. I remember the harm he once did. He may have died a hero’s death by slaying Mannoroth; I am the first to acknowledge that. But by all accounts, even your own, he took many lives, and gloried in the doing. He had a thirst for blood, for violence, and he quenched that thirst with the blood of innocents. You were right to tell Garrosh of his father’s heroism. It is true. But also true were the less savory things Grom Hellscream did, and his son needs to know these things as well. I stand here to ask you to remember these things, too, the dark and the bright, and to acknowledge that Garrosh is his father’s son.”

“Garrosh never had the taint of demonic blood that Grom had. He is headstrong, yes, but the people love him. He—”

“They love him because they only see the glory! They do not see the foolishness. I too saw the glory,” Cairne admitted. “I saw tactics and wisdom, and perhaps with nurturing and guidance those are the seeds that will take root in Garrosh’s soul. But he finds it far too easy to act without thinking, to ignore that inner wisdom. There are things about him I respect and admire, Thrall. Mistake me not. But he is not fit to lead the Horde, any more than Grom was. Not without you to check him when he overreaches, and especially not now, when things are yet so tenuous with the Alliance. Do you know that many secretly whisper that now would be a fine time to strike at Ironforge, with Magni turned to diamond and no leader yet visible?”

“Of course I know this.” Thrall sighed. “Cairne—it won’t be for very long.”

“That does not matter! The child does not have the temperament to be the leader you are. Or should I say, you were? For the Thrall I knew, who befriended the tauren and helped them so greatly, would not have blithely handed over the Horde he restored to a young pup still wet behind the ears!”

“You are one of my oldest friends in this land, Cairne Bloodhoof,” Thrall said, his voice dangerously quiet. “You know I respect you. But the decision is made. If you are concerned about Garrosh’s immaturity, then guide him, as I have asked you. Give him the benefit of your vast wisdom and common sense. I need you with me on this, Cairne. I need your support, not your disapproval. Your cool head to keep Garrosh calm, not your censure to incite him.”

“You ask me for wisdom and common sense. I have but one answer for you. Do not give Garrosh this power. Do not turn your back on your people and give them only this arrogant blusterer to guide them. That is my wisdom, Thrall. Wisdom of many years, bought with blood and suffering and battle.”

Thrall stiffened. This was the absolute last thing he had wanted. But it had happened, and when he spoke, his voice was cold.

“Then we have nothing more to say to one another. My decision is final. Garrosh will lead the Horde in my absence. But it is up to you as to whether you will advise him in that role, or let the Horde pay the price for your stubbornness.”

Go’el watched, his heart heavy with sorrow, as then-Thrall turned his back on his brother and walked into the night. He knew what he had done then—mounted his wyvern and flown to the Dark Portal, to begin his training in Draenor.

He would never see Cairne again.

The image of Cairne stood, his eyes following the departing figure. Then he sighed deeply and lowered his head. After a moment, he looked up at the skull of the demon.

“Grom, if your spirit lingers, help us guide your son. You sacrificed yourself for the Horde. I know you would not wish to see your son destroy it.”

“Stop.” The image of the old bull faded. Baine faced Go’el and drew himself up. “I ask you now, Go’el, the same question you asked yourself: Why did you not listen?”

Go’el expected Tyrande to protest, but she remained seated, calm, a slight smile playing around her lips. She was giving him the chance to respond, and he took it.

“Because I am not a bronze dragon. I do not flit backward and forward in time, knowing all the possible repercussions of every choice I make at every turn. I am mortal, and can only work with what I have in front of me, just as you do. I made the best decision when there was no good decision. Yes, I appointed Garrosh to lead the Horde in my absence. And when the Cataclysm struck, you, Baine Bloodhoof, were there with me, and you understood why I left Garrosh in charge. Do I wish I had chosen otherwise? Wishes do not a world make. We do the best we can where we are, every minute, every breath. We make mistakes, and we have to live with them. We try to learn from them. And that is all we can do.”

“Garrosh Hellscream made mistakes too,” replied Baine. “And his mistakes will be even harder to live with.”

“If he lives,” Go’el said.

“You tried to kill him, did you not?”

“You know that I did.”

“If you could go back to that moment—with Garrosh before you in defeat—would you again attempt to kill him?”

Go’el looked deep into his heart. Would he?

The answer surprised him.

“No,” he said quietly. “Over these last few days, I have come to believe that this trial is a good idea. Voices needed to be heard, and they would otherwise not have been. I have every faith in the August Celestials to make the right decision.”

“I have one more question for you,” Baine said. “You have admitted that you have made mistakes in your life.” He pointed to where Garrosh sat, blank-faced, arms, legs, and waist encircled by chains. “He, too, made mistakes. Shouldn’t he have the chance to learn from them? To do what he can to correct them?”

“There are some things you can never correct,” Go’el rumbled, his voice rich with emotion. “Sometimes you just have to stop what is causing the damage before it does more. Your father was wise, Baine. But do we know that he was right? Do we know all ends? I don’t. Do you?”

He locked gazes with Baine, and it was the tauren who looked away first.

“No further questions, Fa’shua,” Baine said, and resumed his seat.

Tyrande rose with a rustle of her gown. “You say that we do not know all ends, Go’el, and this is so. May it please the court, I wish to show one possible end, had Go’el made a different choice. An end that was so very likely, so highly probable, that Ysera the Awakened had a vision of it—a vision that prompted her to seek out the witness.”

“The Accuser may present this Vision,” Taran Zhu agreed.

This scenario took time to form. At first, nothing could be seen or heard. Then, gradually, Go’el could discern the shapes of buildings, mountains, trees. And as they came into focus, he realized that the buildings had no inhabitants; the mountains, no meadows; and the trees were only skeletons. It was so silent because there was nothing left alive to make sounds. All he could now hear was the wind, and the crackling of distant thunder.

More things came into sight: bodies, rotting where they had fallen. Bodies of humans and orcs and taunka, of mammoths and magnataur and bears. No carrion feeders came to partake of the feast; the ravens, too, lay still on the dead earth, their black feathers rippling in the dispassionate wind.

No, wait—something yet lived. The discordantly beautiful purple, violet, and indigo hues of a twilight dragon came into view as he and his brethren flew over the abattoir that was now Azeroth. He was joined by another, then another, until the air was so thick with them that Go’el could barely glimpse the final horror the Vision currently displayed. But a glimpse more than sufficed.

Impaled upon the spire of Wyrmrest Temple was the body of the Destroyer, the Worldbreaker—the bringer of death, dead himself, dead in a world where only twilight dragons wheeled and circled.

This Vision would never come to pass. And Go’el knew it was, at least in part, because of him.

“No further questions.”