She whirled. “You will support our cause because it will free you. And keep you alive.”
She had a point. “Your negotiation tactics, while not exactly subtle, are convincing. Okay, I’ll take you down to the pirates.”
“Will they recognize you, goblin?” the tall, slender human said to Harrowmeiser in a silky voice. He flipped back his hood, revealing long white hair and glowing green eyes. A blood elf! “I would be quite vexed if we have gone to all this trouble to save you, and you spoil things by getting your head separated from your shoulders.”
“They, uh . . . might?” he hedged.
“Well,” the blood elf drawled, “stay out of the way and let us do the talking. Or wait—perhaps we could get a disguise for you as well.” Seeming to realize something, he snapped his fingers exaggeratedly. “No, that will not work. You are too short for a dwarf.”
Harrowmeiser glared. The mage reached out and patted the top of his head.
Baine Bloodhoof saw a mixture of resignation and determination in Go’el’s blue eyes. He respected the orc deeply, and considered asking no further questions. But he knew if he did not question his friend, he would be a coward, and would not be discharging his duty to the fullest. Either Go’el and Vol’jin would understand, or they would not. Baine had accepted the task, and he would complete it.
He inclined his head and held the position for a beat longer than was necessary for courtesy. “Let the record show that the Defender recognizes Go’el, once known as Thrall, as a true hero in a world in which that term is bandied about far too casually. The Defender thanks him for his many years of sacrifice, for the good of the Horde, and indeed for Azeroth. We owe him much.”
Go’el’s eyes narrowed, but he replied politely, “I did what I was called upon to do.”
As do I, Baine wished he could say. “When you stepped up to claim the mantle of warchief, you had a vision of your new Horde, did you not?”
“I did. I wished to have a Horde composed of races and individuals who valued honor, martial prowess, and respect for one another as family. I wanted to leave behind old ghosts of the demon-ridden heritage that so dogged our footsteps.”
“And you feel that the Accused threatened this? Even though it was his own father who put the truest end to that demon-ridden heritage?”
“With respect, I protest,” said Tyrande. “Grom is not the Hellscream that is on trial here. A son is not his father.”
“I agree with the Accuser. Ask the question another way, Chu’shao,” Taran Zhu said.
“Did you feel that Garrosh threatened your vision of the Horde?”
“I did, but I also said that I was not sure I had the right—”
“Just answer the question, please, yes or no.”
A brief flash of anger showed in those blue depths, but Go’el replied, “Yes.”
“You are, as I have said, known for your honor. You are even fair to your enemies, as the jury is about to see.”
The image of a human male appeared. He had prostrated himself on the floor, and the earth seemed to be trembling beneath him. His hair was black and he was clad in fine clothing. He seemed terrified.
Kairoz froze the scene. Baine turned to Go’el. “Do you recognize this man?”
Go’el’s face was hard. “I do. And . . . I am grateful you did not show what happened before this.”
Baine knew what Go’el referred to. Kairoz had insisted it would make the eventual point better if Baine were to show that scene, but the tauren did not have the stomach to do so. “Can you identify him for the court, please?”
“It is—it was—Aedelas Blackmoore.” A surprised murmur rippled through the room as everyone realized that they were witnessing a truly historic moment. “I had come to parlay with him. I offered to spare Durnholde Keep and the lives of everyone in it, if he would only agree to free my people. He . . . refused.”
Hating himself, Baine asked, “Would you please tell the court what form that refusal took?” He did not look at Go’el.
There was a moment of silence. Then Go’el said, “I told him my terms. His answer was . . . to throw the head of a murdered young woman, Taretha Foxton, at my feet.”
“You are an orc, imprisoned by humans. What would such a death mean to you?”
“You know, Baine.” The voice was low and cold.
Now Baine turned, keeping his expression carefully neutral. “I do. The jury does not.”
Go’el took a deep breath, composing himself. His voice was precise and controlled. Only the tight clenching of his fists betrayed his emotion. He looked up where the celestials sat, and there was kindness and empathy on their wise faces.
“Taretha Foxton was my friend. She thought of me as a brother. Had she been my own sister, I could not have loved her more. She was kind to me, and had already risked her life once to help me escape. She gambled with it a second time to send me a warning—and that time, she lost. Blackmoore—” He paused, clenching his teeth, then continued. “Blackmoore killed her, cut off her head, and threw it down at me, hoping to break me. He did not.”
Baine gestured to Kairoz. A younger version of Thrall now appeared in the scene. He looked every inch the hero that he was—bigger and more powerful than most orcs, clad in the black armor of Orgrim Doomhammer, and wearing the massive weapon that was the late orc’s namesake strapped to his back. In each hand, Thrall held a sword, one of which he tossed at Blackmoore. The man screamed and scuttled back, staring up at him. It was plain to see now that Blackmoore’s linen shirt was stained with vomit.
“Thrall, I can explain . . .”
“No,” said Thrall, in the same unnaturally calm voice he had just used with Baine. “You can’t explain. There is no explanation. There is only a battle, long in the coming. A duel to the death. Take the sword.”
Blackmoore shrank back. “I . . . I . . .”
“Take the sword, or I shall run you through where you sit like a frightened child.”
Blackmoore’s hand shook, but he grasped the hilt of the sword and clumsily got to his feet.
“Come for me.”
And, surprisingly, Blackmoore did. It was obvious to anyone watching that the human had been drinking, but even so, he was swift and Thrall had to act quickly to parry the blow.
Blackmoore’s expression changed. His brows drew together and his lips thinned, and as he feinted to the left and then attacked fiercely on the right, his moves were steadier and had power behind them.
In his day, Baine recalled, Blackmoore had been thought a superior warrior. Indeed, Kairoz had informed Baine that in an alternate timeline, Blackmoore had himself won the kingdom of Lordaeron and had ruled as a tyrant. Thrall was much stronger, but Blackmoore was more agile—and he was fighting for his life.
When Thrall noticed that the human was looking about for a shield to protect his left side, the orc furiously tore the door off its hinges and threw it at Blackmoore.
“Hide behind the coward’s door.”
Blackmoore twisted out of the way, pushed the door aside, and called, “It’s still not too late, Thrall. You can join with me and we can work together. Of course I’ll free the other orcs, if you’ll promise that they’ll fight for me under my banner, just as you will!”
Incredulity showed on the orc’s green face; then anger darkened it. In that instant, Blackmoore lunged. Thrall was so taken aback by Blackmoore’s ludicrous words that he failed to parry in time. The human’s sword clanged off the black armor.
“You are still drunk, Blackmoore, if you believe for an instant I can forget the sight of—”
Baine had seen this before. He knew what to expect. And even he found himself starting as Thrall exploded into action. Thrall had held back—but he was doing so no longer. He bore down on Blackmoore with speed, power, and lethal grace.