War Crimes

37

Despite the excruciating pain of the burns along her torso, Zaela dearly wished she had the time to spare to take Varian Wrynn’s head, as she had promised. Garrosh would no doubt have displayed the trophy to loud cheering, and she, Zaela, would be the one who had scored the kill. More important than her ego was to make sure that Garrosh had been able to escape cleanly, and at first, when she entered the temple, it was impossible to tell. It was a battlefield condensed into a small, confined arena. She saw at least one blue and one bronze dragon hovering over the fray, doing what they could to attack the enemy without harming their allies. A few of the smaller infinites had actually come into the temple, and they had no such restrictions. Elsewhere, the pirates were shouting joyfully as they gave vent to their bloodlust, pausing in their slaughter only long enough to rifle through the pockets and pouches of the fallen—friend or foe.

Zaela’s nostrils flared with contempt. She did not charge into the fight, though her racing heart longed to do so. Instead, gritting her teeth against the agony of her burns, she threaded through the combatants, searching for her warchief. There was no sign of the mighty Garrosh, or the slender high elf his time-walking friend had pretended to be, and joy flooded her. Her mission was now both successful and complete. There was no more need to linger here.

“My Dragonmaw!” she shouted, lifting her gore-stained axe without revealing the pain the action caused. “The infinites await us outside, to bear us to safety and victory! Leave the pirates to their fate!”

A cheer went up among her people, and she took pleasure in the look of betrayal on the stupid faces of their onetime allies. Fools. Not one of them had ever asked how they would be leaving the battle. They would now either die or rot in prison. They would not be missed—by anyone.

It seemed to end as soon as it began. The pirates, somehow taken by surprise at Zaela’s casual abandonment of them, were quickly rounded up and turned over to the pandaren. More frustrating was the escape of most of the Dragonmaw on the backs of the infinite dragons. Those that remained behind either were already dead or fell within minutes.

Once the fighting was over, Go’el searched for Aggra. He found her holding their child, standing over the corpses of three pirates who had apparently been foolish enough to attack her. She appeared tired, probably, Go’el thought, from healing as well as fighting. Aggra turned to him as he approached. Go’el wrapped mate and child both in his powerful arms.

“You have fought against yourself ere now, my heart,” Aggra said as she stepped back to gaze up at him fondly. “But always before, it has been more . . . metaphorical.”

His eyes were somber as he looked at her. “I pray to the ancestors to never have to do so again.” To have seen himself as Blackmoore’s obedient pawn had been unnerving. He had struggled to accept this part of himself, per Baine’s wise words, instead of killing this Thrall—a thrall in every sense of the word. And in the end, it was the name that enabled him to do so. He had been Thrall, and so he understood what he had left behind; this orc had never known he could become Go’el. It seemed as though all the others had also won their difficult personal battles.

“Go’el!” The voice was Varian’s, but weakened and hoarse. Go’el turned and his blue eyes widened in horror.

Jaina . . .

Varian, himself bleeding from several wounds, staggered in, carrying the archmage’s frighteningly limp body. He made it a few more steps before his legs buckled, but he did not drop his precious burden. Go’el was there, cradling Jaina and lowering her with care to the ground. Aggra handed the baby to Eitrigg and followed Go’el.

“She has lost a great deal of blood,” Aggra said, but even so, her brown hands were reaching into her ever-present pouch of totems. Go’el imitated her, grasping the totem for water and asking for its healing touch, but he felt hope slipping away with every breath. There appeared to be only the single bullet wound, but it was close to her heart, and he was drained. There was a waxy pallor to Jaina’s skin, and Go’el couldn’t even see if her chest rose and fell.

Varian snarled as others tried to help him. “I’ll be all right,” he said, grimacing. “Her first.”

“Jaina!” Anduin pushed his way through, his heart on his young face. He dropped his knees beside the woman he called “aunt.” Without hesitation and with utmost care, he covered the wound with his hands. A dim glow began to suffuse them, and the red-saturated fabric made a soft, squishy noise.

Go’el could not feel the elements responding. His call to them was too weak. He had struggled against himself and against other foes, and both he and Aggra were exhausted. So too was the young prince, as was evidenced by the dark circles under his eyes and the slump of his shoulders. Even Tyrande, who prayed to her Mother Moon in a voice that trembled, and Velen, ancient and wise as he was, appeared to have arrived too late.

Kalec raced up, his face almost as pale as Jaina’s, as the archmage exhaled a red, frothy bubble. The dragon fell to his knees, taking her face between his hands. “Jaina,” he whispered. “Don’t. Don’t go. You’ve faced so much more than this. You’re so strong, Jaina. You hang on. Do you hear me? Hang on!”

“Jaina,” Anduin urged. “Please . . . please, don’t leave us. I already watched myself die today. I can’t watch you too . . .” Tears poured down his face, and even as he uttered the words, the Light faded.

Her chest barely rose and fell. A few more breaths and she would be gone. Go’el’s friend for so long would be lost to him forever. There would be no chance to repair what had been damaged. Jaina would have died his enemy, and Go’el could think of nothing worse than that. Unable to speak, he gently placed a hand on Aggra’s shoulder, interrupting her spell. She looked at him, and he shook his head. Her face contorted, not with her own pain, but with empathy for her mate, and she embraced Go’el fiercely.

Anduin lifted his hands. They were drenched with Jaina’s blood. Beside him, Kalec had gone very still. He looked stunned, utterly disbelieving.

“Anduin,” said Varian, in the gentlest tone Go’el had ever heard from him, “come away. There’s nothing you can do.”

Even those who had opposed Jaina seemed shaken. There was no expression of glee or triumph on any face, just shock that one who was so legendary, so much bigger than life to so many, was still subject to its rules.

“No,” Anduin whispered. “I can’t . . .”

“And so, the student remembers the lessons of my temple,” came a voice that was at once young and ancient, eager and solemn, and unspeakably kind. “Hope is what you have when all other things have failed you. Where there is hope, you make room for healing, for all things that are possible—and some that are not.”

Go’el looked up to see Chi-Ji, the Red Crane, hovering in the air above them. The wind from his wings was cool, so refreshing after the heat of battle and the warmth of tears. It smelled of spring, and new beginnings, of life and hope. The orc’s aching heart eased, and filled instead with peace. The bruises to body and spirit, the wounds and hurts both great and little, melted away like snow beneath the sun. Calmness and contentment settled upon him, and when he looked down at Jaina, the bleeding had ceased and the archmage’s flesh was once again glowing with health. Jaina opened her eyes, looking at the sea of faces—human, dragon, orc, and so many others—gazing at her with wonderment and joy. She reached for Kalec, and he pressed her hand to his cheek.

To Anduin, she said in a voice still somewhat weak, “You’re getting pretty good at this.” The prince laughed shakily. Kalecgos gathered her in his arms, holding her tightly and pressing his face into the soft crook of her neck for a moment. Go’el realized that Jaina looked . . . happy. Perhaps she had been healed in more than body, and he wondered how she had been able to accept her raging alternate self. He supposed he would never know. Their eyes met, and he smiled at her. And when she stretched out a hand to him, he took it. She squeezed it once and let go. Elsewhere, others too were rising, hale and whole and looking not a little bewildered.

“Thus is the blessing of Chi-Ji,” the crane said. “No more shall die this day. Take this second chance, and use it wisely.”

“I thank you, Red Crane,” Varian said, and he bowed deeply. He turned to look at Chromie. “Garrosh is gone. It was Kairoz, wasn’t it? How did that happen?”

Chromie looked as angry and defeated as Go’el had ever seen her. Pale, her brown and golden tabard spattered with blood and dust from the Sands of Time, she addressed them.

“We once knew the timeways inside and out,” she began. “We could see the past and the future with perfect clarity. Our flight’s charge, from the moment Nozdormu became our Aspect, was to protect the sanctity of the timeline. And we were given vast power to do this. Now . . . things aren’t quite so clear. We can still travel the timeways, but we don’t have that perfect knowledge anymore. That’s why we’ve enlisted mortals to help us keep the timeline safe. But there have been some mutterings. Some of us think that perhaps we should use what skills we have left to manipulate the timeways. Alter the past, change the future to something better.”

She smiled sadly. “Of course, who’s to say what is ‘better’? Especially when we don’t have the perfect insight we once did. That’s what’s held most of us back. But it’s obvious now that Kairoz was among those who thought that the bronze dragons could and should change things. He always did like to tinker . . .” Her voice trailed off.

“How could this have happened? You told us that the Vision of Time had limited abilities,” Tyrande said. It was clear that she was trying not to attack Chromie, who was obviously as devastated—perhaps more so—as they were, but the high priestess was extremely frustrated and angry. “That it could only show images of things past or future, not manifest them or alter them in any way.”

“That was true until this morning,” Chromie said. “Nozdormu was adamant about that. But the Vision of Time was Kairoz’s creation. He must have constructed it with a way to bypass the safety measures.”

Varian frowned and looked at Go’el. They both remembered finding Kairoz’s behavior odd. “He did it this morning,” Varian said. “Right out in the open, in front of us all. He’s a bold one, I’ll give him that.”

“Wrathion’s in on it,” Anduin said. “He was the one who knocked out me and the Chus.”

An uneasy silence settled on everyone. Vol’jin broke it. “So now we got a high and mighty bronze dragon inventor, the last black dragon, and the son of Hellscream all working together, and we don’t even be knowing where or when to look for ’em.” He shook his head.

Go’el turned his attention to the celestials. Other than Chi-Ji, they had remained silent and somewhat distant. “You did not join us during our fight against ourselves physically, but you granted us the gifts of insight. I understand why you did not do more,” he said. “And all of us are grateful beyond words to you, Chi-Ji, for the life of Jaina and others. But I would have thought you would be more”—he strained for the word—“distressed that Garrosh is gone, since it was your duty to pronounce sentence.”

“August Celestials, please sate this pandaren’s curiosity,” said Taran Zhu. “Do you know what verdict you would have rendered?”

“Indeed we do,” rumbled Niuzao. “We knew from the very beginning.”

Everyone stared at the celestials. Go’el struggled against his anger, and Tyrande looked stunned.

“And . . . what would you have decided?” asked Taran Zhu.

“Garrosh Hellscream would live, so that he would continue to learn,” said Yu’lon, undulating her graceful green form. “Dear ones, wisdom, fortitude, strength, and hope cannot be learned in death.”

“Life is not about reward and punishment,” said Xuen. “It is about understanding, accepting who oneself is right now, in order to know what to change, and how.”

“We feel that justice has been done,” said the Black Ox, stamping a hoof and shaking his shaggy, gleaming head.

“Then why have a trial at all?” demanded Tyrande. “If you knew at the outset what his sentence would be at the end of it? Were you simply toying with us?”

Yu’lon said, very gently, “Never, passionate Accuser. Your efforts were vital to the outcome of the trial. You see . . . It was not merely Garrosh Hellscream who was on trial.” For a moment, Go’el did not understand. Then comprehension dawned.

“We were too,” he said. He was surprised that he was not furious at having been manipulated, but a deeper part of him, a wiser part—the part that blended with the Spirit of Life—completely accepted it. He saw in the faces of the others—tauren, human, troll, elf, even dragon—that they did as well.

Chi-Ji bobbed his head. “The young prince and the tauren Defender grasped it earliest. But now, all of you understand. You have been judged and sentenced both. With all of our blessings, and the knowledge you have obtained of your own hearts and minds and those of others, your task is to go back into the world and do what you must.”

They looked at each other. Varian, fit and strong, with one hand on his son’s shoulder. Kalecgos and Jaina, their fingers entwined. Tyrande and Baine, Accuser and Defender, standing side by side. Vol’jin, nodding and looking thoughtful. Chromie, and Lor’themar, and so very many others.

Go’el was no longer in a position of leadership among them. Even so, he found that all of these faces eventually turned toward him. Humbly, Go’el, son of Durotan and Draka, spoke for them all.

“We will find Garrosh.”