“That he did.”
“I would like to show the jury the first Vision from this witness,” said Tyrande, and she stepped back to watch the unfolding scene. The troll leader and the warchief were in the throne room in Grommash Hold.
“Don’t talk back to me, troll,” Garrosh snarled. “You know who was left in charge here. Haven’t you stopped to ask yourself why Thrall chose me instead of you?”
“Dere be no question why, Garrosh. He gave ya tha title because ya be Grom’s son and because tha people be wantin’ a war hero.” It was true. Fresh from the aftermath of the defeat of the Lich King, the people were tired of war, but they still revered their war heroes. Go’el had thought the title, bequeathed for a short time, would help Garrosh learn to channel his energy. He had been so very wrong.
The image of Vol’jin was not yet done. “I tink ya be even more like ya father den ya thought, even witout da demon blood.”
Garrosh snarled and stepped closer to the troll, quivering with barely restrained rage. “You are lucky that I don’t gut you right here, whelp.”
“Stop here!” Tyrande said sharply, and the two figures froze as if instantly embedded in ice. “August Celestials—there it is, right there. Garrosh Hellscream, warchief of the Horde, explicitly threatens Vol’jin with death.” She nodded to Chromie, who moved her little fingers and resumed the scene.
“You are foolish to think that you can speak to your warchief in such ways,” Garrosh said.
“Ya be no warchief of mine. Ya not earned my respect, and I’ll not be seein’ tha Horde destroyed by ya foolish thirst for war.” Vol’jin was calm, precise, and cool, in contrast to Garrosh’s almost rabid agitation.
“And what exactly do you think that you are going to do about it? Your threats are hollow. Go slink away with the rest of your kind to the slums. I will endure your filth in my throne room no longer.”
The scene froze, then faded. Tyrande shook her head. “ ‘Go slink away with the rest of your kind to the slums,’ ” she repeated. “That is an interesting way to treat and to speak of a race that has served the Horde so loyally for so long.”
“I thought so myself.”
“So, far from treating you as a respected advisor as Go’el had instructed, Garrosh ushered the trolls into areas he himself described as slums, and banished you from his throne room. He also threatened your life.”
Go’el tensed. Vol’jin’s almost casual demeanor grew serious. “He did more than threaten.” He tilted his head back and exposed a raised scar, pale blue, where a would-be killer’s knife had slashed across his throat. Go’el looked up at the celestials and saw them shift unhappily at the visible evidence of Garrosh’s hatred.
Tyrande let the murmurs play out, then said, “I would like to show this despicable attack, and the role that Garrosh Hellscream played in it. Chromie?”
There was a universal rustling throughout the auditorium as nearly every spectator sat up straighter, leaned forward a little more. The story of what had happened to Vol’jin had spread throughout the Horde and Alliance both. Some were watching from mere prurient interest in the bloody details, but others watched to perhaps shake off lingering traces of disbelief.
“Warchief, could you please set the stage for us?”
“Of course. This be after the Horde landed on the shores of Pandaria. The Darkspears were not ordered to go with the rest of the Horde. I be thinking it a mistake to storm this place, but Garrosh was very happy to have a land . . . What did he say? . . . ‘This land is rich in resources: wood, stone, iron, fuel. And people,’ ” he quoted.
“Wood, stone, iron, fuel, and people,” mused Tyrande. “All listed as ‘resources’ in Garrosh’s mind. So you are telling this court that you believe Garrosh intended to enslave the pandaren?”
A horrified gasp rippled through the room, and Baine leaped to his hooves. “With respect, I protest!” he shouted. “Any response would be the witness’s opinion, nothing more, and there has never been any evidence that Garrosh desired to enslave an entire race!”
“No,” Tyrande shot back, “one who treated the trolls so well would never do that!”
The two faced each other angrily, and Taran Zhu struck the small gong with more force than he usually displayed. “I will have order in this court! I will remind all present that any outbursts will result in confinement for the duration of this trial! Chu’shao Whisperwind, unless you can support this accusation, I suggest you change your approach.”
“You did rule that a witness’s opinion is admissible in court, Fa’shua.”
Taran Zhu paused and then sighed. “That I did. Rephrase the question appropriately, then, please.”
Tyrande turned to Vol’jin. “Warchief, what do you think Garrosh meant by those words?”
“I don’t think he meant ‘enslave’ as Chu’shao Whisperwind be trying to say. I think he just wanted to have new recruits to fight. His war cry was, ‘Storm the shores, and paint this new continent red!’&”
“Red with blood, you mean? Exterminate the pandaren, not enslave them?”
“Chu’shao!” snapped Taran Zhu before Baine could even rise out of his chair. “You will cease putting words in the witness’s mouth, or I will reprimand you.”
Tyrande bowed and held up a hand. “Understood, Fa’shua. Please continue, Warchief.”
“I think his intention was to make Pandaria a territory of the Horde. Lots of people to fight for the Horde, and the Horde color be red. That’s what I think he meant.”
“But you are not certain?”
“I can only tell you what I heard, and what my own thoughts be.”
“Of course,” said Tyrande. Not for the first time, Go’el was filled with respect for Vol’jin’s integrity. It was only an opinion, and Vol’jin could have easily lied about it. But he had not done so. Still, Tyrande had raised the issue, and planted doubts, and neither the jury nor the spectators would stop wondering what Garrosh had really meant by those words.
“So . . . the Horde had arrived on Pandaria,” Tyrande prompted.
“Without the Darkspears. I went to see Garrosh. He be all angry and speaking bitter words like before; then he seemed to reconsider.”
“Thank you. Chromie?”
The little bronze hopped onto the table, activated the Vision of Time, and the scene manifested.
“This is the difference between me and you, Vol’jin,” the then-Garrosh stated. “I won’t let my people starve to death in the desert. I will stop at nothing—nothing—to ensure a proud and glorious future for the orcs and anyone with the courage to stand with us. Wait here.”
He walked off a little ways and spoke softly with one of the Kor’kron, Rak’gor Bloodrazor. Go’el frowned, wondering why Tyrande did not let the jury hear that whispered conversation. Garrosh returned a moment later, smirking.
“There is something you can do, troll, to demonstrate your value to the Horde. A mission in the heart of this continent.”
“I will go,” Vol’jin said, adding, “but only as a witness for my people. Someone gotta keep you in check, Garrosh.”
The scene froze, then faded to nothing. Tyrande turned back to Vol’jin. “Can you fill us in on what happened on this quest Garrosh assigned you and Rak’gor Bloodrazor?”
“We went in search of a saurok rookery,” said Vol’jin. “The scouts had reported there was ancient magic in those caves. Garrosh be wantin’ ’em checked out.”
“And what did you discover?”
Vol’jin inhaled deeply, then replied, “They were . . . unnatural. Bloodrazor told me Garrosh had learned there be some kind of connection between the saurok and the mogu. He . . . was right.”
Another scene appeared in the center of the arena. This time, Vol’jin, Bloodrazor, and a few others whom Go’el did not know were in a dark, damp cavern. The body of a massive saurok bled slowly into the stagnant, ankle-deep water. Eggs were everywhere—Vol’jin had found the rookery. A low growl escaped him, and when he spoke, his voice was deep and shaking—with outrage.