07. Letter of apology

[moonshadows]

I can feel Thrall’s anger in the air long before he comes into sight. My hair moves restlessly as though a storm were about to break, and the Kor’kron feel it, too. When his heavy steps rattle down the wooden stairs from the zeppelin tower, I am right there with a handful of runners. His eyes meet mine briefly in wordless thanks.

“You. Get me Vol’jin’s best shadow hunters. They are to meet me in the War room. You, take twenty Elites and find me Rhegar Earthfury. Hold him with honor in the third conference room. You. Get me the goblin who keeps the record of strangers entering and leaving Orgrimmar. Bring him to the second conference room. Go.”

The three runners salute and dash off, more intimidated by the will holding that kind of anger in check than they would have been had Thrall been yelling rather than spitting out clipped words.

“What happened?” I ask as I half-jog to keep with my brother.

His glare clears the hall as he strides ominously to the second conference room. “Wrynn was a slave.”

“A slave? But-“

“There are gladiator slaves in my Horde.” A torch flares angrily as Thrall passes it. “Wrynn was a slave in my Horde.”

It goes without saying that someone, or many someones, are going to rue the day they thought gladiatorial slavery was a good idea. The goblin who keeps record of foreigners entering the city hustles in not long after I seat myself at the low table. Thrall is too worked up to sit, instead pacing back and forth in unnervingly silent agitation.

“The human king entered Orgrimmar sometime in the past year under an assumed name,” he growls as soon as the door has shut. “He was a slave owned by Rhegar Earthfury. I want to know under what name he was here, and when.” The unfortunate goblin is pinned by Thrall’s intense blue gaze. “I also want you to find the record of any person who entered this city as a slave or indentured servant over the entire history of the city. Hire as many as you need to do this, but Wrynn is your top priority. I want that information by sunset.”

“Yes, Warchief,” the goblin squeaks, banging his thin chest in salute before fleeing.

The shadow hunters are waiting for us in the War Room.

“There is a gladiatorial slave ring in my Horde,” Thrall growls at them. “I want names and locations. Every member of the Horde who owned a slave. Where they live. Where the slaves were trained, and by who. Where they competed. Who organized it. Especially who organized it. Do not move on any targets. I want to take the head off of this beast and dismember the body in one fell swoop. I also want the names and locations of any former slave. Report every bit of information when you have it.”

“As you wish, mon,” one of them purrs, and they evaporate out of the room.

Thrall takes a deep breath, the crackle of lightning nearly tangible in the air around him. “I am trying to imagine how this situation could be any worse,” he says mildly, “but nothing comes to mind. Wrynn agreed to meet with me under a flag of truce, and wound up kidnapped and enslaved. This is going to set peace back by many years. Tari, help me see this in perspective before I meet with Rhegar?”

I step closer and he envelops me in a hug. “His son still lives. He trusts Jaina’s word still. The Horde remains free of the demons’ taint, and the spirits have not risen up to rebuke you for not being omniscient.”

After a few seconds, Thrall laughs. “Very true. Alright, I think I can face Rhegar without throttling him now.”

I follow silently as he leads the way to the third conference room and seat myself at the low table as the Elites file out, leaving the three of us alone in the room.

“What’s this about, Warchief?” Rhegar asks warily as he obeys Thrall’s gesture to sit.

“The wind tells me an interesting tale,” my brother half-growls. “You neglected to tell me that the commodity you traded was the lives of slaves who fought as gladiators for your benefit.”

The smaller shaman is silent for a long moment. “I kept no one who truly desired their freedom,” he says at last. “Your example taught me that a person is only a slave as long as they do not fight the shackles.”

“Tell me about the human.”

Rhegar looks frightened, now. The air hums and crackles. “I found him amidst the wreckage of a ship, half-dead. He was fighting a crocolisk bare-handed and winning. He did not remember his name or who he was, where he had come from, anything. He refused to fight for sport, but he would fight to defend the other two I teamed him up with. After a while, he started remembering things. I knew he couldn’t be kept at that point, and turned a blind eye when he engineered his escape.”

“Do you have any idea,” Thrall growls softly, “who that human was?”

Mutely, the other shaman shakes his head.

“That was Varian Wrynn, the king of Stormwind.”

“Blessed ancestors…” Rhegar has gone pale. “No wonder he hates us so.”

“This will not go unpunished, you realize.”

“Whatever you demand, Warchief, I give freely.”

“You will be providing me everything you know about the….”

“The Crimson Ring,” Rhegar supplies.

“…the Crimson Ring. There may be monetary compensation required.” Thrall turns to me. “Tari, what am I missing? What is proper when one human wrongs another?”

“An apology,” I say quietly. “I don’t know if he’ll read it or not, but we owe it to him to ensure that a letter of apology is written and delivered.”

“That will be your first task,” my brother declares with finality. “In fact…” A quick word with one of the Elites outside, and he sits back down. “None of us are leaving until it has been written.”