“Do you think he deserves a second chance?”
“If he defeated me—yes. That is the way of the orcs—the true way. Honor.”
Baine could barely believe what he was hearing. “I do not wish to misunderstand you, so forgive my repetition. You do not want Garrosh executed by this court, but rather wish to challenge him in honorable combat. And if he won that combat, you would see him forgiven?”
“He would need to earn his reputation back, given that he has ripped it to shreds and trampled it into the angry earth,” Saurfang snapped. “But yes. If he were a victor, then he should have that chance. He had honor, once. He could learn it again.”
Baine could barely refrain from letting out a shout of delight. This, he understood. This, he could support, and moreover, it was fair. He thought of his father, dying in the mak’gora, and how Cairne would have approved, and knew in his heart he was on the proper track. Despite his anger toward Garrosh, Baine was in truth doing the right thing.
He gave Tyrande a triumphant look and announced, “I have no further questions.”
And to his surprised pleasure, neither did Tyrande. When Taran Zhu sounded the gong to close the opening day of proceedings, for the first time since the trial had begun, it looked like Garrosh Hellscream might just, quite literally, keep his head.
11
Most would have assumed, when Shokia turned up in Hammerfall, that she was so disheartened at the fall of Garrosh Hellscream that she wanted to return to orcish roots. To come here—where Orgrim Doomhammer, another great warchief, had been killed—and vanish into obscurity, contenting herself with putting her astonishing sniper skills to work slaughtering enemy trolls and Alliance adventurers. Those who assumed that would be wrong, but it was a façade Shokia was happy to maintain. She was not retreating to lick wounds and mourn failure. She was an agent of someone who wanted what she did—a return to the glory of the Horde. Shokia was in deep cover.
Hammerfall had become an unofficial refuge for discontents who felt they had no place in the current world, and so her story was not questioned. And she had been content to wait for her orders, enjoying watching the heads of her enemies explode like thrown pumpkins through her scope.
Since the trial of Garrosh Hellscream had begun in Pandaria, however, she had grown anxious. When would her ally summon her to the field of battle? What would his instructions be? Who else shared their feelings?
“Wait for me to send you orders,” he had said in that silky voice. “I will not fail to do so, but only when the time is right.”
So when Adegwa, the tauren innkeeper, let her know there was a letter for her, she was hard put to contain her delight.
No doubt, your fingers itch to fire at our enemies. But first, you must accumulate allies. What follows is a list of those who will be helpful. Seek them out, and when you are gathered, I will send you further instructions.
Meet the first one today, in Drywhisker Gorge.
Shokia had packed her precious rifle, her few other belongings, mounted her wolf, and was at the gorge a scant five minutes later. She took up a position overlooking the trail, peering through the scope of her rifle, but did not have long to wait.
A black wolf, his pelt sleek and glossy, came into view. His rider crouched low over his back. The cloak hid her face, but billowed out sufficiently for Shokia to determine that her new comrade in arms was another orc female. Slowly, Shokia began to grin. She wondered if . . . She would find out soon enough.
The rider slowed, and the wolf began to pick his way up the trail. Without revealing her position behind a boulder, Shokia cried out, “Hail, wolf rider! Are you a friend of the dragon’s?”
The orc came to a halt and shoved back her hood, revealing her strong face. “Under most circumstances, I am no friend to dragons,” Zaela, warlord of the Dragonmaw, called back. “But this time—yes.”
“Zaela! I had heard you had fallen in battle!”
“I fell, indeed, but I lived to keep fighting for our true leader. I came alone, as instructed, but what remains of my clan is ready for battle.”
“Then,” said Shokia, lifting the scroll, “let us gather more allies!”
“I summon His Royal Highness Anduin Wrynn, prince of Stormwind, to speak as witness.”
Anduin had been dreading this moment. He’d always resented SI:7’s code name for him, “the White Pawn,” and had no desire to become involved in this case in any fashion, fearing that both sides would use him thus. His father had known, of course, but Jaina hadn’t, and she looked surprised and a little concerned as Varian gave his son’s arm a squeeze and Anduin then descended from the stands to the witness chair.
He was accustomed to royal events, and had even given speeches to throngs much larger than this one. But that was different. In those situations, he was a guest, or an invited speaker, or the respected host. He knew what to do, how to behave. This was completely new, and not a little unsettling. He caught Wrathion’s eye as he took his seat. He could almost hear the Black Prince saying, How very interesting! The amusing thought calmed him.
Tyrande gave him a kind smile as she approached. “Prince Anduin,” she said, “thank you for being here today.” He thought it best not to remind her that it wasn’t as if he’d had a choice in the matter, and merely nodded. “Your Highness, you are known throughout Azeroth as a proponent of peace. Is that accurate?”
“Yes,” Anduin replied. He ached to elaborate, but remembered what his father had told him. Stick to the questions. Don’t volunteer anything. Tyrande knows what she’s doing.
“So it would be fair to say that you do not hate the Horde, or its races?”
“It would be fair, yes.”
“You have worked with them on occasion, and urged mercy even in wartime, correct?”
“Yes, I have.”
“Everyone here knows Garrosh Hellscream by name and reputation, of course. But you have had personal encounters with him, have you not?”
Here we go, he thought, and deliberately did not look at Garrosh. “I have.”
“On how many occasions?”
“Two.”
“Can you please tell the court about them?”
Anduin wondered why she didn’t just show both encounters, given the unique tool she had in the Vision of Time. Perhaps she was saving her allotted minutes for something more lively than people sitting around talking. “One was in Theramore, at a peace conference. My father, Lady Jaina Proudmoore, and I were there, and Thrall brought Garrosh and Rehgar Earthfury, and some of the Kor’kron.” He hadn’t thought about that ill-fated meeting in some time; so many other things had happened. Anduin found himself looking at the chained orc, whose steady gaze made Anduin feel like an insect pinned to a board. Odd . . . Garrosh was the prisoner, not he, yet it was Anduin who came close to squirming in his seat.
“How did the conference unfold?”
“It was a bit of a rocky start,” Anduin admitted. “But as things progressed, we started to find some common ground. Even Garrosh—”
“Can you elaborate as to what you mean by a ‘rocky start’?”
“Well, first of all it was storming, so no one was in a particularly good mood. Everyone brought weapons—for the formal laying down.”
“Who put down the first weapon?”
“Um . . . I did. My bow. That was the first time I spoke with Thr—I mean, Go’el.”