Blackmoore didn’t stand a chance, but he refused to yield. The blows on the sword he raised to defend himself must have jarred his bones to the marrow. His strength began to give out; his movements slowed; and one final strike sent his blade hurtling from his grasp. Even then, he did not yield. His hand went down to his boot and he came up with a dagger, springing upward with a shout, teeth bared, ready to bury it in Thrall’s eye.
Thrall’s bellow reverberated now as it must have done then, and his sword came slicing down.
Baine spared the onlookers the precise moment of Blackmoore’s passing. “Stop.” The scene disappeared before the fatal blow could fall.
“A fair fight,” Baine then said. “More than fair, some would say. Aedelas Blackmoore was a man guilty of many things. The son of a traitor, he had planned all along to turn traitor himself—to make weapons of the orcs, and use them to defeat the Alliance, with himself as the king of all the human realms. Additionally, he was cruel. He beat Thrall, badly, simply for losing a fight in the ring. He seduced young Taretha Foxton for his own amusement, then executed her for attempting to help Thrall. A monster, many, even humans, would say.
“Go’el had every reason to hate Blackmoore. And yet, he gave his enemy a fighting chance. He even brought him a weapon, so Blackmoore could die with honor.”
He turned and regarded Go’el. “What I cannot understand, then, is why an orc who so prized honor—even to the point of arming an enemy who had murdered someone he loved mere moments before—was ready to kill Garrosh Hellscream in cold blood. Is that in keeping with the Horde you envisioned, Go’el?”
Many things happened at once. Tyrande had risen, shouting, “I protest! The witness is not on trial here!” Go’el, too, was on his feet, but said nothing—he didn’t have to.
Taran Zhu struck the gong repeatedly. “Order!” he shouted. “Chu’shao Whisperwind! Go’el! Resume your seats immediately, or I shall reprimand you both! Chu’shao Bloodhoof, you will cease this line of questioning. I agree with the Accuser!”
Baine bowed to Taran Zhu, and faced Go’el. The orc was no longer standing, but he regarded Baine with a look the tauren had never seen directed at him before—one he had hoped never to see.
“I will get to the heart of the matter,” Baine said.
“A wise choice,” Taran Zhu said archly.
“Your decisions—both to stay away from Orgrimmar as long as you did, and your appointment of Garrosh Hellscream in the first place—have been criticized by some,” said Baine.
“I am aware of that criticism.” Go’el deliberately sat back and folded his arms across his chest.
“You have said here in this courtroom that there were reasons why you made these choices.”
“I did, and I listed those reasons.”
“Do you wish you had done things differently? Do you perhaps feel responsible for what Garrosh Hellscream has done?”
“No. To both questions.”
“You are certain of this?”
Go’el’s eyes narrowed, but before he could speak, Tyrande was on her feet. “With respect, I protest! The Defender is harassing the witness!” she shouted.
“Chu’shao Bloodhoof,” Taran Zhu said, his voice mild as usual, “if you have a point to make, please do so.”
“I do, Fa’shua, as you will see. Go’el was once taken by the Druids of the Flame,” Baine told the rapt audience. “They used one of his greatest strengths—his affinity with the elements—to torture him. Scattering a part of his essence to each elemental plane. During this time, he was forced to face his fears. I respectfully submit that those fears have a bearing on what happened on the battlefield—and in this courtroom.”
He nodded to Kairoz, who fairly leaped to his feet. The bronze dragon had been waiting for Go’el to testify after being forced to, as he had said, “take a backseat while Chromie showcases all the really exciting moments.”
Baine had replied, “I think a life hanging in the balance should be excitement enough.”
Kairoz had answered, “Then by all means, let us tilt that balance in our favor.” And he had found Baine several moments in time that he believed would do precisely that.
The scene that now came to life was a dramatic one—a temple in the sky, with columns as white as the clouds that surrounded it. Blue lightning crackled and jagged throughout the temple, followed by the angry answer of thunder. Revenants, their glowing blue-white, energetic forms encased by armor, whirled about. And in the center, caught in the raging tempest, was what looked to be the shadow form of a gigantic Go’el.
Aggra’s image stood, crying out to her mate, attempting to reach him. The words the gray shadow figure uttered were filled with grief and pain.
“Failed. I have failed this world. The elements . . . will not speak to me. The Earthen Ring . . . has lost faith in my leadership. My weakness . . . has delivered Azeroth . . . into oblivion.”
Her clothing and hair were whipped by the angry winds, and Aggra’s voice was all but swallowed up. “Go’el, it’s me—Aggra! Don’t you know me?”
“Oblivion . . . nothing . . . but oblivion,” moaned the despairing shadow. “I have . . . failed the Horde . . . as warchief. Garrosh . . . will lead it to ruin. My people . . . to ruin. Cairne, my brother . . . why did I not listen?”
The image faded, like a ghost with the first light of a new day. Baine quoted, his voice soft but carrying clearly, “ ‘Why did I not listen?’ ”
And another scene took shape.
20
No, not this moment . . .
Go’el’s heart ached deep within his chest, stopping his breath for a few seconds. He looked over at Baine, shocked that the son would so use the image of the father. Baine stared down at his hands. He was unable to watch. So, it pains him as well. But he still chooses to show this. Go’el gritted his teeth and called on every tool he knew for calmness.
“You are making a grave mistake,” came a deep, rumbling voice. As Go’el knew it would.
Cairne Bloodhoof.
The elderly bull awaited Thrall beneath the dead tree that at that time bore the skull and armor of Mannoroth. Cairne stood with his arms folded, his muscles and erect posture belying his years. A soft murmur rippled through the crowd. Horde and Alliance had both respected and admired this tauren.
They said you were winning the fight, my brother . . .
“Cairne!” the image of Go’el—no, he was Thrall then—said. “It is good to see you. I had hoped to hear from you prior to my departure.”
“I do not think you will be glad, for I do not believe you are going to like what I have to say,” the tauren replied.
“I have ever listened to what you have to say, which is why I requested you advise Garrosh in my absence. Speak.”
Except it wasn’t true, was it? He hadn’t listened.
“When the courier arrived with your letter,” Cairne said, “I thought I had indeed, at long last, finally become senile and was dreaming fever dreams as poor Drek’Thar does. To see, in your own writing, that you wished to appoint Garrosh Hellscream as leader of the Horde!”
Cairne’s voice rose as he spoke. Thrall looked about, frowning slightly. “Let us discuss this in private,” Thrall began. “My quarters and ears are open to you at all—”
“No.” Cairne stamped his hoof, a rare show of anger. “I am here, in the shadow of what was once your greatest enemy, for a reason. I remember Grom Hellscream. I remember his passion, and his violence, and his waywardness. I remember the harm he once did. He may have died a hero’s death by slaying Mannoroth; I am the first to acknowledge that. But by all accounts, even your own, he took many lives, and gloried in the doing. He had a thirst for blood, for violence, and he quenched that thirst with the blood of innocents. You were right to tell Garrosh of his father’s heroism. It is true. But also true were the less savory things Grom Hellscream did, and his son needs to know these things as well. I stand here to ask you to remember these things, too, the dark and the bright, and to acknowledge that Garrosh is his father’s son.”