War Crimes

5

The crowds—and the security for them—were unlike anything Jaina Proudmoore had ever seen. She was grateful for Varian’s guards, who helped clear a path through the milling throng that swirled about the entrances and enabled Jaina, Kalec, Varian, Anduin, and Vereesa to reach their reserved seats.

All the leaders of each Horde race were likewise gathered, their colorful clothing and skins and generally raucous presence a sharp contrast to the almost stoic Alliance seated across from them. The August Celestials had wisely placed members of factions that had no allegiance to either Horde or Alliance in the middle seats, a physical buffer lest things become heated. Jaina was surprised to see in that section a certain elven-looking female, her red tresses crowned with thorns. Her face was lovely, yet etched with an expression of ethereal sorrow. Jaina’s heart ached in sympathy.

“Alexstrasza,” she said softly.

“I would she had not come,” Kalec sighed, easing into a seat beside Jaina. “This can only be painful for her.”

It seemed to Jaina that Alexstrasza, the great Life-Binder and former Dragon Aspect, would be above such things as trials and the younger races’ method of justice. She had always behaved with dignity, courage, grace, and compassion, even when faced with inconceivable horrors and deep personal loss. Her sister, the green dragon Ysera, sat beside her, holding Alexstrasza’s hand and looking about with a childlike air of curiosity and wonder.

“Alexstrasza needs to be here,” said Jaina. “Not for the trial. For herself. Just like I do.”

“Wrathion’s here too,” said Anduin. “I invited him to come, to watch, and listen, and make up his own mind as to what was the best for Azeroth. I’m glad he decided to do so.”

Jaina followed Anduin’s gaze, curious for her first look at the being who often went by the soubriquet of the Black Prince. Few knew of him; fewer still knew of his true identity.

“Well, then,” said Jaina, keeping her voice soft for Anduin’s ears only, “looks like all the flights are represented.”

Wrathion was, as far as anyone knew, the only uncorrupted black dragon in existence.

Sired by Deathwing, he had escaped the vile touch of the Old Gods thanks to intervention while still in the shell. Although he had been fortunate in that respect, Jaina had to admit that his life had not been idyllic. The red dragonflight, under Alexstrasza’s command, had sought a way to purify the black dragons. One red dragon, Rheastrasza, had resorted to extreme measures in an effort to fulfill that charge. Rheastrasza had kidnapped a female black dragon and forced her to lay eggs. With the cooperation of a gnome inventor, Rheastrasza had managed to purge a single egg of the madness that had tormented the entire flight. Deathwing had not been pleased and had destroyed the egg—or so he thought. Anticipating this, Rheastrasza had swapped the purified black dragon egg for another, sacrificing not only her own life but that of her unhatched child.

Wrathion, though still in the shell, had been fully sentient and keenly aware of what was transpiring, aware also that he would be raised and closely watched by the red dragonflight for perhaps his entire life. His “liberty” came when his egg was stolen by rogues, and he hatched and remained free of red dragon influence. How he had escaped his captors was a mystery, but here he was, alive and quite sane.

Anduin and Wrathion had met and become friends of a sort in Pandaria, though, as Anduin admitted, that friendship was mainly focused on how different their outlooks were. Wrathion’s “age” was hard to define. If it was judged by actual years of life, then he was a toddler of two. But as he was a dragon, he was possessed of an innate intelligence and wisdom, and his appearance was that of a youth approximately Anduin’s age.

Jaina had, throughout Anduin’s life, often felt maternal toward him, and was uneasy about his new friend. On the one hand, Anduin had few equals his own age. On the other, Jaina had her concerns that Wrathion might be, as the phrase went, a “bad influence.” Oddly enough, the reason wasn’t that he was a black dragon. Before the horrors of his madness perverted him, Neltharion—better known as Deathwing—had been the Aspect of Earth, wise and protective. It was some of the things Anduin had reported Wrathion as saying that concerned her. She noticed that the Black Prince sat as far away from Alexstrasza as possible. Given his history, she couldn’t blame him.

He looked largely human, though dramatic, with his darker skin and unusual outfit of baggy pants, tunic, and a turban. He was flanked on his left side by an orc female, whose face seemed set in a perpetual glower, and on his right by an equally menacing-looking human female. He gave Anduin a smile and turned his glowing eyes, the sole thing that indicated his true form, to Jaina. He inclined his head and graced her with a smile as well, but one that suggested he found something humorous. Jaina wondered what amused him.

Pandaren guards stood close by, still and patient as a serene mountain lake, but well able to explode into swift action in less than a heartbeat should it be required. If violence did erupt, it would be bare-handed; Jaina felt the presence of the magic-dampening field like an oppressive fog, and weapons were forbidden.

“This looks familiar,” Varian murmured.

“What does?” Jaina inquired.

“That,” he said, and Varian nodded at the seats starting to fill with spectators. “That’s the same look I saw when I fought in the gladiator pits. They’re thirsty for blood.”

“They will not get it today,” said Vereesa. She did not have to add, But if there is justice, they will by the end of this trial.

“They’d better not,” said Varian. “Everything will be lost if this dissolves into chaos. Including far too many lives.”

Jaina turned her attention to the floor. Baine and Tyrande were already present. Each sat in a chair at his or her respective table, waiting. That did not surprise Jaina. What did surprise her was that there were two others also awaiting the arrival of Taran Zhu, the celestials, and Garrosh. Jaina recognized Chromie, the extremely powerful bronze dragon who opted for the least threatening appearance possible, but did not know the handsome high elf to whom Chromie was speaking. Both wore the brown tabard of their order and sat beside a small table set off to one side, atop which perched a covered object.

Just as Jaina wondered why two bronzes were present—and apparently in an official capacity at that—a pandaren dressed from head to toe in long, formal robes entered. He carried a polearm that bore the standard of the Shado-pan. He slammed down the butt of the weapon three times, and the crowds quieted, settling into their seats.

“Respect for the rule of law is dear to the pandaren people. Law is the means by which wrongs can be righted, and by which balance can be restored. This is a historic occasion, as, for the first time in our long history, outsiders will be participating. In the search for righting the wrong, we traditionally name the one who is on trial, and the one or ones who seek justice. And so, with all solemnity, we open the judgment upon Garrosh Hellscream for wrongs against the people of Azeroth. Please stand to acknowledge the August Celestials, who will listen with open ears and hearts to the testimony presented here, and to show respect to he who will judge the lawfulness of the proceedings, lord of the Shado-pan, Taran Zhu.”

Everyone obeyed, getting to their feet. Chi-Ji, Xuen, Niuzao, and Yu’lon entered the balcony, all seeming to move without effort. Their grace and beauty, as always, made Jaina’s breath catch, even in these new forms. She had asked Aysa about it. The pandaren had told her that it was a gesture of respect to the Horde and Alliance. They were exquisite and unique, not just in their appearances, but in the energy that seemed to emanate from them. Taran Zhu might be more accessible, as he was a mortal being, but even he was imposing, and his posture bespoke controlled power and peace. He ascended into the fa’shua’s chair and, picking up a small mallet, struck a gong three times, letting the echo subside before he spoke.

“You may be seated,” he said, his clear, quiet voice carrying even in the enormous chamber. “Before the Accused appears, I will advise all present that I will tolerate no disturbance of this trial. Anyone who violates this rule will be held under guard until the trial’s completion. Also, to suit the uniqueness of this situation, there will be a unique manner of presenting evidence.”

He nodded to the two bronze dragons. They got to their feet and whisked away the concealing cloth, revealing an hourglass.

Jaina understood what they would be doing before they even began to speak. Their voices, explaining how this Vision of Time artifact would work, faded away, and a dull roaring sound filled her ears. For a moment, she couldn’t breathe; for a moment, she was drowning again, just like when—

The pain of her hand being tightly gripped brought her back to the present. Breath came in, and she gasped quietly as it flooded her lungs. The roaring ceased, though Jaina could still hear her heart thudding, swift as a rabbit’s. She turned to Kalec, who watched her keenly, concern on his beautiful face. She licked dry lips and nodded, mouthing I’m all right.

He looked uncertain, but relaxed his grip. Jaina took several slow, deep breaths. The bronze dragons had finished their explanation and stepped back.

Taran Zhu nodded to the guard. “You may bring in the prisoner.”

The effect of those six words was galvanic. Everyone in the room was suddenly alert, their eyes focused on the door that led to the outside, and to the lower chambers.

Garrosh Hellscream entered, flanked by six guards—two Horde, a troll and a tauren; two Alliance, a night elf Sentinel and a draenei vindicator; and two of the largest, most muscular pandaren Jaina had ever seen. Garrosh’s distinctive armor—adorned with the tusks of the demon slain by the orc’s illustrious father, Grom—was gone. He wore only a belted cloth tunic and simple shoes. The fabric had obviously not been cut for him and strained against his massive shoulders and chest. Dark tracings, like webby fingers, competed with the tattoos on his brown skin—the legacy of the sha. Chains, each link bigger than Jaina’s hand, bound him at the neck, wrists, and feet, reducing his long stride to a halting shuffle exaggerated by his damaged leg. His face was impassive, and he displayed neither a cowed stance nor a prideful one.

For a moment, the silence was absolute, broken only by the clank of the chains and the tramp of the guards’ boots.

Then chaos erupted.

Waves of people—both Alliance and Horde, and even some nominally neutral parties—rose in their seats, some rushing down to the balconies to scream epithets and shake their fists. Although Jaina disliked the dampening field as much as anyone, she was grateful for it now. She realized she did not want Garrosh to be killed out of hand by an angry mob. She wanted him to hear and—thanks to the bronze dragons—to see all he had done. The devastation he had caused. The hate he had engendered. She wanted him to know how severely all of Azeroth had turned against him.

And, she realized with a burst of shame, if she couldn’t kill him, she didn’t want some unknown, furious crowd member to have the honor.

The pandaren response was swift. Most of the guards stationed in the seating area were monks, whose own bodies were weapons, and the protestors were quickly subdued and removed from the arena. Garrosh’s guards all drew their weapons and closed ranks about him, their backs to the orc and their calm faces turned to the crowd.

Other than the guards, the only ones who seemed unruffled by the outburst were Taran Zhu, the four celestials, and Garrosh Hellscream himself. The orc’s brown, tattooed face might as well have been carved from stone for all the emotion it revealed.

Taran Zhu’s voice carried a stern warning: “You have now all witnessed what happens should you disrupt this court. Those who have done so will be held under guard for the remainder of the trial, at which time they will be released. Anyone who further disturbs this most solemn event will join them.”

He nodded, and the guards around Garrosh returned to their flanking formation. Garrosh was led before Taran Zhu’s dais, where he halted. The two massive pandaren took up sentry positions behind him. Jaina knew that the only movement they would display—barring another outburst of violence—would be the slow blinking of their eyes. The remaining four guards bowed to Taran Zhu and filed out. Taran Zhu looked down at the orc for a moment. “Garrosh Hellscream. You have been charged with war crimes, and crimes against the very essence of sentient beings of Azeroth, as well as crimes against Azeroth itself. You are also charged for all acts committed in your name, or by those with whom you have allied.”

Garrosh merely stood there, silent and still.

Taran Zhu continued. “The charges are as follows: Genocide. Murder. Forcible transfer of population. Enforced disappearance of individuals.”

The list of the heinous crimes alone was powerful enough to make Jaina tense. She glanced over at where Vol’jin and the other Horde leaders sat. She had heard of the treatment of trolls under Garrosh—and what the orc had tried to do to Vol’jin himself.

“Enslavement. The abduction of children. Torture. The killing of prisoners. Forced pregnancy.”

Anduin winced, and Jaina could not blame him. She thought of Alexstrasza and the horrors that had been perpetrated upon the Life-Binder personally and the red dragonflight in general. Kalec was very still beside Jaina. She looked up at him, meaning to offer him comfort, and instead found him looking down at her. He knew what was coming, and slipped an arm around her.

She braced herself.

“The wanton destruction of cities, towns, and villages not justified by military or civilian necessity.”

The Vale of Eternal Blossoms.

Theramore.

“What say you to these charges, Garrosh Hellscream?”

Garrosh did not reply, and for a wild second, Jaina wondered if maybe, just maybe, hearing the charges so bluntly laid out before him would move the former warchief. She had heard of his anger at an underling who had slain innocents in his name, knew that the one thing even Garrosh’s enemies must give him credit for was a passionate devotion to his race. And, at one time, he had also been given credit for honor.

She stared at Garrosh, hardly daring to blink or even breathe, not knowing if she wanted him to break down and ask forgiveness for his atrocities or to stand firm—so that they could kill him with impunity.

And then Garrosh smiled, beginning to slowly applaud, although the chains about his wrists hampered the gesture.

“The show has barely commenced,” he responded, sneering, “and already I give it a standing ovation. This promises to be more entertaining than the Darkmoon Faire!” His contemptuous laughter rang through the hall. “I will not say that I am guilty, for that denotes shame. Nor will I protest innocence, for I claim no such. Let the comedy begin!”

For a second time, audience members leapt to their feet, seemingly willing to climb over one another in order to wrap their bare hands around Garrosh Hellscream’s throat. Jaina had no memory of placing her own hands on the arms of her chair and lifting herself halfway out of her seat until she became aware of Kalec and Varian, one on each side, almost forcibly holding her down.

“Do not rise, beloved,” Kalec whispered urgently, and she realized she was about to add her own shouts of outrage to the cacophony. Sweat broke out on her forehead as she commanded herself to sit, fists clenching.

Meanwhile, Taran Zhu had lost his patience. He struck the gong several times, and barked orders in Pandaren. More members of both Horde and Alliance were hauled away to spend the rest of the trial confined to muse upon their unruliness.

Once relative calmness was reestablished, a composed Taran Zhu regarded Garrosh. “Since your words do not change the original intent of this trial, we will proceed as planned.” He nodded to Garrosh’s guards, who escorted him to the empty chair beside Baine, where he would sit for the duration of the trial. Despite his chains, Garrosh appeared to lounge, defiant and smug, and Jaina hated him with an intensity so bright and burning it made the mana bomb he had dropped on Theramore look like a candle’s flame.