“I . . .”
“I want you with me, Sister,” Sylvanas said, and her voice broke. “I have been . . . so very lonely. I did not even realize it until now. I did not think I could—stay with me. Please . . . stay, my Little Moon.”
24
“Chu’shao Whisperwind, you may summon your first witness.”
“Thank you, Fa’shua. I summon Gakkorg, formerly of the Kor’kron.”
There were not many Kor’kron left. Most of them had sided with Garrosh, even to the point of engaging in battle with Go’el’s forces when he arrived in the Echo Isles. Vol’jin had not yet selected his own special guards, and Baine imagined that there would be more than a few trolls among them. The handful of Kor’kron who had survived were in prisons, save for this one. Gakkorg had defected early on, even before Pandaria had been discovered. There had been a price on his head, but the canny orc had managed to stay underground.
He was younger than Baine had realized, and, as was usual for the Kor’kron, a fine physical specimen. His skin was a deep, almost emerald shade of green, and he walked with a limp as he went to the witness chair to make his vow.
“Please tell us your name and position,” Tyrande requested.
“I am Gakkorg. I was, as you have said, once a member of the Kor’kron. I served under Warchief Thrall and then later under Garrosh Hellscream.”
“Few survived long if they ‘once’ served,” mused Tyrande.
“With respect, I protest!” shouted Baine.
“I agree with the Defender,” said Taran Zhu. “Please ask your questions without commentary, Chu’shao.”
“When did you leave Garrosh’s service?” Tyrande continued.
“Shortly after his initial campaign to claim the continent of Kalimdor.”
“Thank you. Chromie, the Vision, please.”
The dragon of the Vision of Time awoke under Chromie’s gentle coaxing. The Gakkorg of the past appeared, a bulging, bloodstained sack flung over his back as he approached one of the many ramshackle metal longhouses that were sprinkled over Bilgewater Harbor.
The floor of the longhouse was covered with straw, and it housed captives.
They were asleep at first, but awoke when the door opened. There were four of them, and each had a strong chain fastened to his or her right foreleg. They yawned, knuckling the sleep out of wide, brown eyes and murmuring curiously, their faces larger than an adult human’s but still small for their kind. Thick, long hair tumbled in baby’s curls of black and brown and gray down their backs. They wore only the most primitive bits of animal skins for clothing, and as they started to sniff the air and realized what Gakkorg was carrying, they clapped excitedly and made sounds of delight. Their small tails lashed and they stomped their heavy feet up and down.
They were the offspring of the magnataur.
“That’s it, little ones,” encouraged Gakkorg. “Make a lot of noise so your parents can hear you.” He removed a hunk of dripping meat from the sack, and the younglings went wild. Laughter burbled from one. The rest cried with desire, tears glistening on round cheeks as they reached out their hands.
The image of Gakkorg regarded them for a moment; then he shook his head and muttered something to himself. He tossed a hunk of meat to one of them, a scant female, who pranced as best she could with her fettered foreleg, then plopped down to devour the sweetened meat. The others clamored all the louder for their own share, and Gakkorg obliged. Soon all four of them, from the youngest, barely a baby, to the eldest, a male with the smallest indication of tusks coming from either side of his head, were chewing on their food.
“Stop here, please.” The scene froze. “Who and what are these?” Tyrande inquired.
Gakkorg’s face was gray with sorrow. “Magnataur younglings,” he said. “Garrosh kidnapped them in order to force the adults to fight for him in Ashenvale.”
“Were they tortured in any way?”
“No,” said the orc. “My job was to feed and tend to them. When their parents grew difficult, I would give them special treats so they would make a lot of noise all of a sudden. They liked meat that had been soaked in honey. The parents couldn’t tell what we were doing to them, and worry kept them manageable. I would not torture younglings, night elf.”
“But you tended kidnapped ones,” Tyrande said, simply stating a fact.
Gakkorg rubbed his face. “Yes, I did,” he said heavily.
“Did the adults fight for the Horde in that battle?” asked Tyrande, although Baine knew that the high priestess had seen them herself.
“They did.”
“What happened to them?”
“They were all killed,” Gakkorg replied.
“So their little ones were orphaned,” Tyrande continued. “The adults died keeping their part of the bargain. What was Garrosh’s part?”
“He told the magnataur he would kill their offspring if the adults didn’t fight. If they did fight for the Horde, he would release the younglings.”
“I see. Did he honor his word?”
Gakkorg didn’t answer at once. He simply sat and stared at the images of the youngsters, frozen in time, the gore of their meal offset by the innocent delight they took in the treat.
“Answer the question, please,” Tyrande prodded.
Gakkorg shook himself. “Yes . . . and no. The magnataur—well, they are not the sharpest swords in the armory. And Garrosh was very clever in his wording.” Now he did look away from the scene and narrowed his eyes at Garrosh. His words were almost spat. “He released the younglings, all right. The magnataur assumed that Garrosh meant he would take them home. Instead, he sent orders that they were to be set loose on the beaches of Azshara.”
Baine closed his eyes. He did not dare look at Garrosh, for fear that he would physically attack the orc for this latest atrocity.
“But, they could fend for themselves, could they not?”
“Perhaps they could have, in Northrend, where they understood what was safe and what wasn’t. Where they could have found adults of their kind. But they were released on the Shattered Strand.”
“And that was not safe?”
“There are naga on the Shattered Strand.” Gakkorg’s voice was hollow. He said nothing more; he didn’t have to.
“And what did you do when you learned this?”
“I took off my tabard and disappeared,” he said. “I was not the only one.”
“Thank you. And so another count of the abduction—and murder—of children can be laid at Garrosh Hellscream’s feet. Chu’shao Bloodhoof, your witness.”
Baine couldn’t even speak to decline. He simply waved his hand in a negative gesture. He had nothing to say to Gakkorg, and feared if he did address the orc, it would be only to congratulate him for his desertion.
As Tyrande walked back to her seat and Gakkorg returned to his place in the stands, a Sentinel emerged and made a beeline for Tyrande. They spoke quickly, and Tyrande’s brows rose. She seemed disbelieving at first, but something the Sentinel said appeared to convince her.
“Chu’shao Whisperwind,” said Taran Zhu, “would you care to share with the court?”
“One moment, Fa’shua.” The two night elves continued speaking in sibilant whispers, and Tyrande finally nodded. The Sentinel hastened outside while Tyrande composed herself. She appeared to be stunned, pleased, and overwhelmed all at once. Eventually she rose, her robe rustling softly, and for a long moment simply stood at her desk. She made no move to call a witness, instead searching the crowd, then turned her gaze up to the celestials, as if trying to make a decision. Baine was on alert. Tyrande always presented herself as confident and controlled, but now she looked . . . quietly triumphant.
“Lord Zhu,” she said, “I submit a formal request to have this trial regarded as irreparably compromised.”
The arena began to buzz, and Taran Zhu struck the gong. For the first time since the trial began, Garrosh leaned over to speak to Baine. “What does this mean?”