“Dese mogu . . . dey workin’ wicked, dark magic here. Da saurok, dey not born—dey was created. Flesh shaped an’ bent.” He shook his head in revulsion. “Dis be the blackest of magics, mon!” He turned to Bloodrazor, his weapon raised, clearly expecting orders to destroy all the eggs.
Instead, the orc gave him a cruel grin. “Yes!” Bloodrazor exclaimed. “The power to shape flesh, to build warriors. This is what the warchief wants!”
Go’el tore his gaze from the unfolding scene to look at the reactions of the jury and spectators. As was usually the case, the celestials appeared impassive, but they were the only ones. The rest of those beholding this scathing indictment had expressions ranging from nausea to fury and every shade in between.
“Garrosh playing god?” shouted the image of Vol’jin, infuriated. “Making monsters? Dis ain’t what da Horde is about!”
That, Go’el thought, was the phrase. The phrase that, even if unheard by anyone save those few comrades of Vol’jin, had been spoken and released into the world. It had guided Go’el, when he helped retake the Echo Isles for Vol’jin. It had enabled the troll leader to cling to life and claw his way back to recovery to defend the Horde that was his family. It was Varian’s knowledge of that truth that had prevented him from doing what Garrosh wanted to do with the sha, that had caused the human king to refuse to take Orgrimmar and occupy it.
This is not what the Horde is about.
And it never would be.
But it was what Garrosh had wanted it to be, and the scene continued, unsparing.
Bloodrazor went to Vol’jin, and the troll glared angrily at him. The orc’s nostrils flared and he made a face, as if he had smelled some horrible stench.
“He knew you were a traitor!” he snarled, and although Go’el knew it was coming, even he was startled by how swiftly the bulky, armored Kor’kron moved. The knife’s arc was the briefest flash, and the blood spurted from Vol’jin’s open throat as the troll collapsed.
The crowd gasped. The scene vanished.
“Zazzarik Fryll, would you read charges two, three, four, five, and seven again, please?” Tyrande asked the court secretary.
The goblin harrumphed, searched through several scrolls, and then proceeded to read aloud: “Murder.”
Tyrande lifted a hand to interrupt him and he paused, blinking through his spectacles at her.
“Murder,” she said, and held up her index finger. “Ordering a member of the Kor’kron to slice open Vol’jin’s throat if he did not approve of Garrosh’s barbaric plan. Continue, please.”
“Um . . . Forcible transfer of population.” The goblin looked at her expectantly.
Tyrande held up a second finger, ticking off the counts. “Forbidding the trolls—who are completely viable and respected members of the Horde—to live in certain areas.”
“Enforced disappearance of individuals.”
Three, now. “Sending Vol’jin out with Bloodrazor, knowing full well that it was likely Vol’jin would be murdered.”
“Enslavement.”
“Possibly of Pandaria. Certainly the saurok mutations were not volunteers.”
“With respect, I protest,” Baine said. “Garrosh is not responsible for what happened to the saurok.”
“I agree with the Defender,” said Taran Zhu.
“No, but the Vision of Time makes it clear he wished he had been responsible,” Tyrande snapped, and Taran Zhu was forced to nod.
“I will allow the term ‘an expressed desire for enslavement,’ ” the pandaren said.
“Torture.”
“If we agree that Garrosh planned to do something similar to what happened to the saurok—warped. Twisted. Bent and violated. Beings were to be made this way for no other reason than one orc’s whim.”
She gestured. “In this single witness, we have evidence of fully half the charges of which Garrosh Hellscream is accused. Half! There are others who will speak of murder, and torture, and the remaining despicable acts Vol’jin has confirmed that Garrosh has committed. He—”
“Fa’shua,” Baine rumbled. “If the Accuser has run out of questions to ask the witness and must now resort to oratory, may I have a chance to question him?”
It was a palpable hit—Tyrande’s cheeks flushed a darker shade of purple.
“Do you have any more questions for the witness, Chu’shao Whisperwind?” Taran Zhu asked pleasantly.
“I do have one more scene I wish to present, Fa’shua, if I may. It is . . . extremely important. Only one person yet lives who has experienced it.”
“By all means then, proceed.”
Tyrande had recovered her composure and nodded calmly to Chromie.
Go’el was confused at first. Tyrande was presenting something that she had just shown: the scene of Garrosh insulting Vol’jin, then walking off to speak privately with Rak’gor.
But this time, everyone could hear what Garrosh said to his Kor’kron bodyguard.
“I have no doubt that you will be able to confirm my suspicion,” the image of Garrosh said, for Bloodrazor’s ears alone. “See how the troll reacts. If he approves, he may live. If he does not—he is a traitor. Cut his throat.”
The scene froze. Tyrande walked forward, right up to the oversized image of Garrosh, his face caught in a smug leer. She looked from the Vision-orc to the true one.
In stark contrast to the almost caricatural, gloating Hellscream from the past, this Garrosh had little expression. His eyes, though, were fixed on Tyrande, not on the scene she had captured. Her back was straight, her head high. She was beautiful and terrible in her righteous fury, an implacable goddess of justice untempered by mercy and unfettered by compassion, her chest rising and falling with quickened breath, her heartbeat pulsing visibly in her long, slender throat. Go’el tensed, waiting for what he knew was coming. The impassioned speech. The outrage. The disgust at the depths to which the son of Hellscream had sunk. She would have no lack of supporters in her excoriation of Garrosh. The courtroom was about to be thrown into upheaval.
Finally, she spoke.
“So now, we know.”
The words were uttered in a quiet voice that was heard throughout the shocked, silent room. She stared at Garrosh a moment longer. Then, with a curl of her lip that spoke more eloquently of contempt than anything else she might add, she turned her back on him.
“No further questions.”
16
Baine’s mind was scrambling, frantic, desperately trying to come up with something that had even the faintest chance of undoing the damage Tyrande had just done to his case.
Vol’jin was Baine’s friend. He had always respected the troll, and they had grown closer since Cairne’s death. He had no desire to interrogate Vol’jin, question his interpretation of events, or try to discredit him to the jury. But it had been Vol’jin who had urged him to defend Garrosh in the first place.
“Warchief Vol’jin . . . you are a troll of honor, and both Horde and Alliance realize that. No one is disputing that this attempt on your life happened, or that the trolls were exiled to one of the less savory parts of Orgrimmar.”
Vol’jin waited, expectant. “You are now the one bearing the responsibilities of warchief,” Baine continued. “You have already been forced to make some extremely challenging decisions. Might I ask what your policy on traitors will be?”
“With respect, I protest!” Tyrande shot to her feet. “As you just ruled, Fa’shua, the witness’s ability to lead the Horde is not a subject for debate in this courtroom!”
“Fa’shua,” Baine said, “I am not questioning his ability. I am merely asking for his stand on policy.”