Warcraft Official Movie Novelization

by Christie Golden

  The young mage didn’t answer. He, too, looked repelled by what he saw, but resolute to continue with his investigation. He analyzed the body, observing everything, then his gaze wandered inexorably to the barely human face. Steeling himself, the boy leaned over and gingerly inserted two fingers into the open mouth, pulling the jaw down. Lothar leaned in to watch, disgusted and fascinated, as the mage’s fingers probed.

  A faint tendril of green mist spouted upward, then vanished. The soldiers—Lothar among them—gasped. The mage leaped back, covering his mouth and nose with his sleeve, clearly not wanting the strange green steam to touch him. His face was pale, and he swallowed hard before turning to face Lothar.

  “What was that?” Lothar demanded.

  The youth took a deep breath, trying to calm himself. “You must summon the Guardian. It should be he who explains it.”

  It was a statement, not a request. Lothar blinked. “Medivh?” asked Karos, eyeing his commander.

  “We’re wasting time!” the boy insisted.

  Lothar regarded him with narrowed eyes. “Only the King summons the Guardian. Not I, and certainly not some scruffy puppy who barely has his first whiskers.” To Karos, he said, “Get him to Goldshire.”

  * * *

  The night was old, and dawn was not far away as Lothar’s gryphon landed gracefully near the cozy Lion’s Pride Inn. The air was damp and chill, the forest sounds that of the night creatures going about their business rather than the song of birds. A few yards distant, some of the locals had gathered despite the hour, making an outing of their own to ogle the king, his guard, and the flurry of activity.

  “Beasts, you say?” The voice was calm, quiet, but commanding, and cut cleanly through the cacophony of several other voices all talking at once. Of course, Lothar thought as the Royal Guards saluted smartly and allowed him entrance into the Lion’s Pride Inn, that might simply be how it seemed to him, considering how well he knew it.

  King Llane Wrynn was tall, with dark hair, wise, kind eyes, and a neatly trimmed beard. He looked every inch the king even now, clad as he was in less formal clothing. The royal family had been enjoying a day’s outing in Elwynn Forest when Llane had received a similar missive to the one the dwarven courier had given King Magni. They had retreated to the inn to begin analyzing the situation.

  Lothar felt a stab of misplaced nostalgia. Until this very moment, the inn, located in the little village of Goldshire, had been a place where he, Llane, and Medivh had gathered to laugh, game, and drink. Now, it was a makeshift war room. Several of the inn’s tables had been pushed together and maps, letters, and inkwells covered them. Lothar had to smile as he noticed beer mugs anchoring the curling edges of the parchment.

  “What manner of beasts could do what you have reported?” Llane continued. He was visibly struggling to stay calm as he examined the shield of a Stormwind solider that bore a gash so enormous it had almost split the metal facing.

  One of the officers, with dark hair and darker eyes, shook his head. “Rumors, Your Majesty.”

  “From three different valleys.” Aloman, one of Lothar’s finest soldiers, pointed out. Her blue-gray eyes were hard.

  “I’ve heard a dozen conflicting descriptions,” a third officer said.

  “It’s a rebellion, sire,” a fourth chimed in.

  “Rebels, beasts,” the first offer said, exasperated, “we need more information.”

  Llane spotted Lothar, the furrow in his brow easing. “Lothar,” he called, “have you learned anything that can help?”

  “A little, perhaps,” Lothar said. Queen Taria, standing next to her husband, also looked up at the sound of her brother’s voice. Their eyes met, and she gave him a strained smile. Taria looked as regal as Llane, but Lothar well knew her doe eyes and demure demeanor hid a fierce intelligence and a stubborn streak as wide as—well, as his own.

  Lothar spoke quickly, avoiding supposition and sticking to facts, telling them about the young mage, and the peculiar wisp of green that had escaped the dead man’s lips. He finished with, “Also, my liege, I’ve been told to summon the Guardian. So, hop to it, man.”

  “I’ll get right on it,” Llane said wryly, then sobered.

  “Is there still no word from Grand Hamlet?” Taria asked softly. Grand Hamlet, a town as quaint and quiet as Goldshire, had been where both she and Lothar had grown up. It lay to the south of Elwynn Forest and had fallen mysteriously silent, and unfortunately Lothar had no reassurance for his sister. He shook his head.

  Llane gazed at him, utterly at a loss. “How does a garrison of thirty men disappear without a whisper?”

  “The fel,” came a young, strong voice, “or at least its influence.”

  The chatter faltered. Llane, along with everyone else in the room except for Lothar, looked to the door and the newcomer who stood there. The king raised an eyebrow. “Is this him?” he asked Lothar uncertainly.

  “Mm-hmm,” Lothar replied, distracted. His attention was drawn beyond the mage to the young soldier who had been chosen to escort him, now standing rigidly at attention.

  Dammit.

  Lothar pressed his lips together, nodding in answer to Llane’s query. “Sergeant Callan!” Taria said, pleasure warming her voice.

  Callan inclined his head. “Your Majesty.” His voice, tenor, just a little too formal. Was I ever that young? Lothar thought.

  “Thank you, Sergeant,” he said, sharply, reaching to take the young mage and steer him toward Llane. Callan saluted, and took up a position beside the door, awaiting further orders.

  “So,” Llane said, his voice hard, “who are you, mage?”

  “My name is Khadgar,” the boy answered. “I am the Guardian Novitiate.”

  If the room had quieted when Khadgar first spoke, now it was so silent that the crackle of the fire seemed loud. He looked around, uncomfortable with the attention, and continued.

  “I… well, I was. I renounced my vows.” More silence. “There’s, ah… not really a protocol in place officially, you understand. It was more of a—a personal decision. The ultimate result being my leaving Dalaran, and the Kirin Tor, and… I’m not Guardian material,” he finished, rather lamely.

  “You mean you’re a fugitive,” Lothar interpreted.

  The boy—Khadgar—turned to him, bridling at the accusation. “I’m not hiding.” Lothar redirected Khadgar’s attention to the king.

  “Your Majesty,” Khadgar said, stepping forward, “I may have left my training, but I didn’t leave my abilities behind. Any more than you could leave knowing how to swing a sword if you decided not to be a soldier. Look—” He ran a hand through his brown hair. “I’ve sensed something. Dark forces. When it’s strong, it almost has a smell.”

  A chill crept along Lothar’s skin and he knew the boy wasn’t lying.

  “Knowing that something so evil was so close… I couldn’t just ignore it. I think—”

  A sudden shriek from outside, followed by a babble of frightened voices, cut him off. Callan rushed to the door and opened it, calling for order.

  “What’s going on out there?” Lothar demanded of the youth.

  The boy turned his impossibly young face to his commanding officer. “Smoke, sir! To the southeast!”

  “Your Majesty,” Khadgar said, his whole body tense, “I urge you to engage the Guardian with all haste!”

  “They’ve reached Elwynn Forest!” one of the guards declared. “Grand Hamlet is burning!” Lothar and Llane locked gazes, then Lothar strode to the window. The guard had been right. In the pre-dawn darkness it was ease itself to spot a sullen but sinister orange-red glow surging just above tree line. The wind shifted, bringing the acrid scent to his nostrils.

  Taria was beside him, one hand on his arm. “An attack?” She was of noble birth, and royalty by marriage. She kept her voice steady. Only he, who knew her so well, could hear the slight tremor in it; feel her fear in the grip on his arm.

  He didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. She knew. Her experess
ion changed as she analyzed his. “What?” she asked.

  Lothar pitched low for her ears only, “Stop requesting Callan.”

  She looked at him, unable in this moment to feign confusion. He lowered his voice to a harsh whisper. “Stay out of my business.”

  Taria didn’t deny it, only saying, as if the words explained everything, “He wants to follow in his father’s footsteps.”

  There were ten thousand things wrong with that, and Lothar wanted to address at least three thousand of them, but there was no time. Instead, he said, “Stop helping him.”

  “Tread carefully,” Taria said. “You talk to your queen.”

  That coaxed a sly smile from Lothar, and he leaned in to her. “You are my sister first,” he reminded her. She couldn’t argue that. Llane came up behind them, regarding Lothar with grave brown eyes.

  “When was your last visit to Karazhan?” the king asked.

  “With you. I don’t know… six years?” Six years. A long time. How had they slipped by like this? The three of them had been so close, once…

  Llane looked surprised. “You’ve had no contact with Medivh since then?”

  “Not for lack of trying,” Lothar muttered. “I know my letters were received, but I might have saved myself the trouble of hiring a courier and simply lit them on fire after writing them. I gather you’ve not heard from him, either.”

  Llane shook his head. “Well,” he said grimly, looking at his hand, “he can’t hide from us now.” He pulled off a ring with a large, winking blue gem, and pressed it into Lothar’s outstretched palm.

  Their eyes met.

  “The Guardian,” said Llane, “is summoned.”

  5

  Durotan, Orgrim, and two dozen other Frostwolves stood on a rise, watching what was unfolding below them. Durotan slowly stroked the thick fur of Sharptooth, scarcely believing what he saw. Orcs—the mighty, enormous, proud warriors—were setting fire to huts with thatched roofs, slaughtering livestock, and chasing after smaller, unarmed, soft-looking creatures that fled, screaming, from them. Gul’dan had promised the orcs food and clean water. He had delivered. The fields below them were golden with grain, littered with gourd vegetables that were bright orange.

  The bellies of his people were full, but their spirits were still starved. Durotan’s lip curled in disgust as the rout—it could not be graced with the name “battle”—continued.

  Out of the chaos below, a wolf and rider separated from the others and surged up the hill toward them. Blackhand, the warchief, wore a thunderous expression. Tied down over his wolf’s powerful shoulders was a prisoner. One of the “humans”, as Gul’dan had called them.

  She looked young, and terrified. Her hair was the color of the thatch that crackled and burned below them, and her skin was a strange shade of pink-orange. Her eyes were as blue as those of Durotan’s son. Although she wept in terror, the infant she clutched close was too frightened even to cry. The female looked up at Durotan and pleaded silently, but he knew what she was saying without words. It was what any parent would say. Spare my child.

  Detish…

  “Frostwolves do not join the hunt?” Blackhand demanded.

  Durotan regarded the weeping female as he answered. “We prefer our enemies armed with an axe, not a child.”

  An emotion flickered over Blackhand’s face as he looked down at his prisoner. The expression was gone in an instant, but Durotan had glimpsed it. “We have been commanded, Durotan.” And the voice held the faintest tinge of shame. “Respect the old ways.” He resettled himself on his mount, gathering the reins of his wolf. So softly Durotan almost didn’t catch it, the warchief muttered, “There must be a worthy foe somewhere in this dung-heap.”

  Durotan did not reply. Blackhand growled, then jerked on the reins and wheeled his wolf around. “Find them!” he shouted to the rest of the war party. “Try not to kill too many. We need them alive!”

  Quietly, Orgrim said, almost apologetically, “This is war, my chieftain.”

  Durotan continued to watch the terrorizing below him unfold. He thought of the cages, and the draenei, and he shook his head. “No,” he said. “It isn’t.”

  * * *

  It was petty, Lothar knew, but dammit, at the moment, he was feeling angry and helpless, and yes, petty, so he did not tell the young mage where they were going. Khadgar had inquired, and Llane, obviously feeling similarly, said, “Wherever Lothar tells you to go.”

  He clung behind Lothar now as they flew atop the gryphon, this almost-Guardian mage boy not even as old as Callan. Lothar could feel him moving from side to side, peering down with the curiosity that marked his kind, asking questions which were, fortunately, snatched away by the wind. Lothar was in no mood to play tour guide.

  The gryphon had leaped almost vertically into the sky, as if she had sensed Lothar’s mood and she, too, felt like shaking Khadgar up. She had leveled out as they soared over the green treetops just now being touched by dawn. It was cold, this high in the air, and Lothar’s breath came in white puffs. He yearned to direct the gryphon to serve as an aerial spy, to head straight for the fire, but he had his orders and was forced to watch the evil glow recede as they continued almost due east.

  The rising sun spread a more benevolent glow over the awakening forests, until it it was fully daylight. A mountain crested ahead, a solitary giant among the lesser foothills and a gray smudge against the rosy hues of dawn. Something jutted upward even from this high peak. At that moment, the sun caught it, and light flashed off its windows. No, more than sunlight; there was light, blue-white and beautiful, emanating from inside the topmost chamber.

  “Karazhan!” Khadgar’s exclamation was not snatched by the wind, and all his enthusiasm, wonder, and trepidation was folded into the single word. Sour-feeling as he was, even Lothar could not begrudge him the moment. This, after all, would have been Khadgar’s home, had he accepted his charge.

  Lothar’s eyes narrowed as the sun continued to illuminate the scene before them. Daylight was cruel to the place. The gray stone of the famous Tower of Karazhan had cracks that were visible even from this distance, and the closer they flew, the more Lothar realized that it was in a state of considerable disrepair. Ivy grew along the walls. The gardens and pasture, necessary to feed the Guardian and those who served him in so isolated a place, were tangled and overgrown. Some of the stables were even missing part of their roofs. His lips thinned. If the tower itself was so disheveled, what would this mean for its master? Six years was a long time to be silent.

  As the gryphon wheeled gently, preparing to descend, Lothar saw a single, straight-backed figure, his face a pale smudge over the flowing tabard depicting the Eye of the Kirin Tor, awaiting them at the base of the tower. Despite his trepidation, he felt the tension in his chest ease a little.

  The gryphon landed gently, and a grin stretched across the soldier’s face as he slipped from its back and strode toward the awaiting figure. Tall, thin but ropy with muscle, the man’s skin and hair were both pale. Lines seamed his face, but his eyes were young, and they twinkled with pleasure as the castellan reached to embrace his old friend.

  Lothar pounded the ageless figure on the back. “Moroes, you ancient beast! Look at you! Unchanged!” It was no idle compliment. Moroes had looked old to him when he was but a youth. Now, he looked much younger. Lothar realized with a wry mental shrug it was because he had aged, and Moroes had not.

  “Would I could say the same for you, Anduin Lothar,” Moroes replied. “You’re an old man! What, is that gray in your hair?”

  “Perhaps there is,” Lothar allowed. There certainly would be, if his fears were confirmed. The thought sobered him. He turned to look at Khadgar. The boy’s eyes were as big as two eggs set in his young face.

  “Follow me, gentlemen,” Moroes said. His old-young eyes lingered on Khadgar, but he asked no questions.

  “Come on,” Lothar said to Khadgar, adding, almost reluctantly, “I think you’ll like this.” To Moroes, he said, �
��Where is everyone?” as they stepped inside.

  Sorrow flitted over those ageless features. Moroes didn’t answer the question as he replied, “Many things have changed.”

  One thing that had remained the same, though, was the room they entered—the library. As high as the walls rose, so it seemed did the rows of books that encircled a winding staircase in the middle of the large chamber. They lined what felt like every inch of the curving stone wall: shelf after shelf, tome upon tome, boxes innumerable filled with scrolls, every last one of them, Lothar knew, rare and precious and most likely unique. There were so many of them that ladders had been erected connecting to a reading terrace above them—which was also filled with books. And, as if books in shelves or on a terrace were not sufficiently excessive, there were stacks of books as tall as Lothar himself scattered about the floor. The knowledge that lay within them could never be absorbed by a single person in his or her lifetime.

  At least, no ordinary single person.

  More striking than the almost obscene glut of priceless knowledge, though, were the veins of magic that provided light to read them by.

  They flowed upward and along the shelves, bright, glowing white rivulets that seemed to burst into bloom across the ceiling high above their heads. Khadgar looked like a boy in a pastry shop, ready to devour everything, and Lothar supposed he could hardly blame him.

  “These lead to the Guardian’s font?” Khadgar asked, his gaze glued to the feathery tendrils of illumination. His voice shook ever so slightly.

  Moroes’s eyes widened a fraction and he threw Lothar an inquisitive look, as if to say what sort of interesting tidbit have you brought me? “Indeed,” he answered. “Karazhan was built at a point of confluence—”

  “—Where ley lines meet, I know,” Khadgar breathed. He shook his head, obviously almost overwhelmed. “The power that must be locked away here… the knowledge!” He laughed, a surprisingly innocent sound. “I didn’t know so many books even existed!”