“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.
6
While Garrosh’s venomous words and arrogant attitude were not unexpected, Anduin found that he was disappointed nonetheless. Most would be surprised at his sentiments; Anduin personally had been attacked by Garrosh, and had barely survived.
Toward the end of his time as warchief of the Horde, Garrosh had become increasingly obsessed with accumulating spiritual and magical means to overcome the Alliance—no matter the cost. Anduin could scarcely credit some of the things that Garrosh was rumored to have done, but he had seen other actions with his own eyes. Garrosh, unlike Varian, had chosen to use the dark abilities of the sha—deadly and terrifying physical manifestations of negative emotions—to empower his troops.
Garrosh had stolen a mogu relic known as the Divine Bell to accomplish this task. When rung, the bell emitted pure and unremitting chaos. There was, as with all things in Pandaria, a way to balance the bell—the Harmonic Mallet. Anduin had reassembled the broken artifact and, in a confrontation with Garrosh, had used it to strike the bell, turning the sound of discord into true harmony.
He had thwarted Garrosh, and the enraged orc had swung at the bell with his axe, Gorehowl, shattering the mogu relic.
And Anduin’s bones.
The ache rose again, in each part of his body that had been crushed by the bell’s broken shards crashing down upon him. The pain came briefly when he shifted position, and manifested in a different, deeper way when he recalled the incident. Velen had told him that the pain probably would never disappear entirely, and there was a good chance it would increase with age.
“The body does not completely forget the harm done to it, and each of your bones has its own memory,” he had said. Then the ancient draenei had smiled, adding, “And thank the Light, you, dear young prince, will live to listen to those memories.”
That was enough for Anduin. And, he reflected, as the mallet had wrought harmony out of discord, so too could sentient beings. Anduin believed this in the very depths of his soul. It was something that the draenei and even the naaru believed, and they were wiser than he. The Earthen Ring, which had done so much to help the world recover after the wounds Deathwing had inflicted upon it, was composed of shaman of all races. They had united with the Cenarion Circle to restore the World Tree Nordrassil. Cooperation was possible; he’d seen it. Every individual was unique—and could grow.
The trial had barely begun. If the list of his crimes had not moved Garrosh—except to boasting—then perhaps the bronze dragons’ ingenious contribution to the proceedings would do so.
The young prince felt bad for Baine Bloodhoof, whom he still considered a friend. He remembered the night he and the tauren had sat in Jaina’s parlor, after Baine had been forced to flee for his life during the Grimtotem uprising. Anduin admired Baine for taking on the responsibility of defending the orc who had slain his father. Anduin glanced up at Varian for a moment, wondering how his father would behave if he were in Baine’s place. He hoped Varian would rise to the occasion with as much dignity.
Tyrande Whisperwind rose from her table and walked to the center of the arena. She was clad in a flowing robe that could be described by the pedestrian adjective “white,” but was so much more than that—subtle hues of lavender and blue and pearl and silver united in a garment that managed to be both simple and elegant at the same time, as was she. Anduin had met her before, and of all the Alliance leaders—and even some of the Horde—she intimidated him more than any other. It was not that she was overbearing or haughty. On the contrary, she had been kind and gracious.
Anduin saw in Tyrande the very essence of what was beautiful in the radiant moon goddess she worshipped, and in the cool night woodlands her people so loved. And when she had spoken to him the first time, at the service for Magni Bronzebeard, he had trembled at the kind touch of her hand on his cheek in a gesture of comfort as sincere as it had been profound.
Now, Tyrande looked up at the faces in the gallery for a long moment, not speaking, as if gathering her thoughts, then lifted her glowing gaze up to the four August Celestials.
“It is my right as Accuser to speak first to the jury, and to those assembled,” she began. Her voice carried, but was melodic rather than strident. “This right is so granted because the Accuser must prove her case. But I am almost tempted to let the Defender speak first, because Chu’shao Baine Bloodhoof has chosen to accept a much more difficult task than I.”
She began to walk with graceful steps, her long blue hair flowing down her back, her lavender face turned up toward the onlookers. “For Garrosh Hellscream has done me a great service this day. Not only does he admit to the lengthy list of heinous crimes with which he is charged, but he boasts of them, and offers insult to this court. No one in this temple—indeed, I would venture to say no one in Azeroth—has been untouched by the deeds of this single orc.”