War Crimes

31

It was the final day of the trial, and tension crackled in the air. As Sylvanas walked into the temple, she passed one of the goblin bookies who had thus far managed to elude the pandaren guards.

“Hey, Lady,” he said, his spectacles perched on his broad, bald head and the buttons on his waistcoat polished to gleaming perfection, “sure you don’t want to place a bet?”

Sylvanas was in high spirits, and the thought amused her, so she paused and smiled down at the little green cheat. “What are the odds?” she asked, a grin quirking her lips.

“Even money and dropping for swift execution, two to one for life imprisonment, and some truly fascinating odds for the crazier scenarios.”

“Such as?”

He consulted his notes. “Let’s see . . . twenty-five to one for a split jury, eighteen to one for an escape attempt, fifty to one for sudden unfortunate demise of the Accused, and two hundred to one for full and total repentance, including, but not limited to, volunteer work at the Orgrimmar Orphanage.” He peered up at her, the spectacles making his tiny eyes look disturbingly enormous.

“Does anybody really bet on that one?” she asked, amused.

“Hey, you’d be surprised. Long shots come in every day. I once saw a spit-and-polish gnomish drag car that was leading by fifteen lengths at the turn fail to finish on the old Mirage Raceway.”

Oh, the temptation. But Sylvanas could not risk the goblin remembering the bet, so instead she patted his shiny green head and went inside.

Tonight, after closing arguments, the August Celestials would withdraw to debate, and Garrosh would have his last meal. She knew it would be the green curry fish; it was Garrosh’s favorite, and Vereesa had confirmed it would be served. Whatever happened in the courtroom today, it was nothing more than inconsequential entertainment. Let others worry and wrinkle their brows in concern, debate and argue and fret. Sylvanas and Vereesa were the only ones who understood how marvelously pointless it all was.

Taran Zhu had to strike his gong a few more times than usual to quiet the buzz of chatter. “As I am certain all of you know by now, today is the final day of the trial of Garrosh Hellscream.” He peered at Tyrande. “Chu’shao Whisperwind, are there any witnesses you care to summon again to speak?”

Sylvanas noticed the night elf was wearing a more formal robe than she had previously, no doubt in anticipation of a victory. Which under any other circumstances Sylvanas would be delighted to have her celebrate. “There are none, Fa’shua.”

“Chu’shao Bloodhoof, are there any witnesses you care to summon again?”

Baine shook his horned head. “No, Fa’shua.”

“So noted. Before the closing arguments begin, in what is likely a vain effort to prevent the last few hours of this trial from turning into a carnival, I wish to inform all present what they may expect to see. Today will unfold thus: The Accuser will give her argument for the execution of the Accused. The Defender will then speak his argument for life imprisonment. We will take a respite for two hours, so that the Accused may eat what could potentially be a last meal before making any final statement, should he so choose.”

Sylvanas went rigid. What? She had thought the curry would be served tonight, after the jury had gone to deliberate, not in the middle of the afternoon! All their plans . . . Her gaze went to her sister. She could not make out Vereesa’s expression from this distance, but her sister suddenly seemed to develop a great interest in her bag. Vereesa rummaged through it, then nodded and turned to look over in the direction of the Forsaken seating area.

Elation replaced momentary panic. My dear sister, she thought, fighting back a smile, what a team we shall be! Vereesa was keeping the poison on her person at all times, it would seem. They would not fail, no matter when the cursed orc was supposed to shovel food into his boastful mouth.

Disaster averted, Sylvanas returned her attention to the judge. He looked over the crowd, his face stern. “I trust there will be no disruption at that point. His fate is about to be decided before us all. He has a right to say whatever is in his mind and heart and be heard, and to speak for as long as he desires. If this is not understood, I will be more than happy to make it clear by giving anyone who lacks clarity a month in the heart of the Shado-pan Monastery.”

Sylvanas did not doubt for a moment that the pandaren would do so, and apparently no one else did either. Taran Zhu seemed satisfied with the gravity that met his statement and resumed.

“After the Accused has spoken, the jury will deliberate. We will all reassemble when the jury returns with its verdict. Chu’shao Whisperwind, we are ready to hear your closing statement.”

Jaina watched closely as Tyrande rose, taking a moment to look over her notes before rolling them up neatly and placing them aside. The night elf knew that this was what many of those who had come here had been waiting for. She had everyone’s full attention, and she took her time. Tyrande placed a runecloth bag, a simple thing, on the desk, reached inside, and withdrew a stone about the size of a hen’s egg.

“In my opening statement,” she began, her lyrical voice carrying clearly, “I told you that I had received the easier task. My job as Accuser was to produce evidence that Garrosh Hellscream did not deserve a ‘second chance,’ did not deserve to ‘make amends,’ or any other phrase the Defender might have trotted out to play upon your sympathies. Even before I spoke, Garrosh admitted to committing the crimes he has been charged with, and . . .” She smiled a little and shrugged. “I have no doubt you recall his attitude.”

Her pacing brought her back to her desk again. Tyrande carefully placed down the stone, reached into the bag, picked up a second rock, and continued speaking.

“The Defender asks, can people change? Of course they can. It is the nature of things to change. But sometimes, things do not change for the better. A tree grows, certainly. But so does a malignancy.” Once again, she put down the stone, and this time picked up two.

“I made you promises in my opening statement,” she said. “I told you you would watch Garrosh Hellscream plot, you would listen to him lie, and you would witness him betray.”

She paused and looked directly at Jaina. “I regret the terrible necessity that compelled me to show many of these scenarios. But I would be deeply remiss in my duty if I did not do everything in my power to make my case as fully and convincingly as possible.” And she bowed, bringing the stones in her hands to her heart.

Jaina understood. She swallowed hard and nodded. Tyrande did not overtly react, but Jaina thought she looked relieved. Yet again, the high priestess placed down the stones and drew two more. Four of them formed a small line along the edge of her desk now, and more than one person was eyeing them curiously.

“There were ten charges, all in all,” Tyrande said. “Multiple counts of many—most—of those charges.” She reached for more stones as she spoke, placing them down next to the others, all in that same tidy row.

“Genocide. Murder. Forcible transfer of population. Enforced disappearance of individuals. Enslavement. The abduction of children. Torture. The killing of prisoners. Forced pregnancy. The wanton destruction of cities, towns, and villages not justified by military or civilian necessity.”

Tyrande paused. She perused the stones, made a show of counting them all. “Nine stones here.” She gazed up into the stands, her radiant eyes searching the faces. “Perhaps you are wondering why there are only nine, when I have just said that there were ten charges against Garrosh. That is because these stones do not represent the charges.”

She turned back to her desk and picked up the first rock, examining it. “These stones,” Tyrande said slowly, “are more than representations. They are pieces of the very land that will forever bear the memory of Garrosh Hellscream. For instance . . . this was taken from the Stonetalon Mountains. Overlord Krom’gar murdered an entire village of innocents, following what he believed to be Garrosh’s philosophy for the new Horde. How did he do so? By dropping a bomb on them. Garrosh killed him for his . . . dishonor.”

She slammed the stone down, hard, and Jaina jumped, startled. A small gasp of surprise rippled through the arena. Tyrande looked up with her fierce, beautiful eyes and picked up the next stone.

“There are dark red patches on this one . . . it has seen much bloodshed. It was taken from the arena in Orgrimmar.” Tyrande fingered it thoughtfully. “The place where the mak’gora is fought. The place where Baine Bloodhoof’s father died by treachery.” This one, she placed down gently, and she moved to the third.

“This mossy stone is from Gilneas. Where Garrosh Hellscream attacked . . . and so many fell. And another—from Azshara, beautiful, autumnal Azshara. It is not so beautiful now, is it? Not when Garrosh Hellscream gave the land to the goblins, who carved it with machines into a giant symbol of the Horde. Who rendered the water unfit to drink in the capital city itself!” She slammed this one down as she had the first, and Jaina saw true pain in her face.

That pain deepened when she gently picked up the next stone, which had striations of blue and green. “Ashenvale,” Tyrande said. “Rich with forests and streams and life. Ashenvale. Ravaged by the orcs on Garrosh’s command, the site of a battle fueled by the abduction of children and the deaths of their parents.”

Jaina, enraptured, braced herself for the slamming down of the rock. But instead, the night elf softly placed it down, stroking it sadly before turning to the next. This one looked different from the others—like a piece of lava from a volcano—and suddenly Jaina realized where it had come from.

“Not content with plundering Azshara and Ashenvale, not given pause by having the deaths of innocents on his hands, Garrosh wanted more. Much more. He believed not only that the Horde had a right to survive and thrive, but that he had a right to do anything he wished to achieve that goal, regardless of what harm he might do.” She held up the piece of rock for all to see. “This is a piece of a molten giant! A powerful elemental being forced into brutal submission, used by dark shaman who cared not if the earth cried out in pain and anger at being so abused. And this . . . was after the Cataclysm!”

Three more left. Jaina looked at the one next in line. It was gray, and—smooth, the way a rock that had been worn down by centuries of water was smooth. Tyrande picked it up, with the care with which one might handle a delicate egg, and gazed directly at Jaina.

The archmage’s breath caught. She felt Kalec’s hand close, so lightly, on her own, so willing to withdraw if she did not wish comfort. Jaina didn’t look at him. She couldn’t tear her eyes away from that simple piece of rock. Instead, she opened her hand and entwined her fingers tightly with his.

“Theramore,” Tyrande said, her voice deep with emotion. She did not need to say anything further.

She pressed the stone to her heart before placing it back down onto the desk. “Darnassus,” she said softly, touching the next to last stone. “The night elf home, violated when the Sunreavers betrayed Dalaran and used their magic not to help this world, but to steal the Divine Bell.”

And the last . . . “The Vale of Eternal Blossoms,” she said, and her voice broke. Jaina knew this was no act. “An ancient place, hidden away for so long. Only recently have we been able to behold it. And now, it is so gravely damaged it may take another eternity for it to again reach full flower. All for Garrosh Hellscream’s unspeakable, unstoppable lust for power for one faction of the Horde!”

She whirled, her anger and passion etched in every taut line of her strong, lithe form. “What would such a one as he do with a second chance, other than use it to wreak more damage? To gather more power, to betray more allies? August Celestials! You are wise beyond our ability to truly comprehend. I urge . . . I implore you. Sentence Garrosh Hellscream to death for what he has done—to his enemies, to his allies, to the very land. He will not change. He cannot change. All there is of him is pride and hunger. As long as his heart beats, he will plot. As long as he breathes, he will butcher.”

She took a deep breath and rose to her full, elegant height.

“End it. End him. Now.”