Moroes looked even more intrigued. Lothar wasn’t ready to answer questions from the castellan until he’d asked a few of his own. “Where is he?” he inquired bluntly.
Moroes gave his old friend a knowing smile. He extended an index finger, and pointed it directly up.
Of course. “Wait here,” Lothar said to Khadgar, eyeing the winding staircase that went up… and up… and braced himself for the climb. He was certain the boy would obey this particular command. Mages. Ordinary youths Khadgar’s age would have been more excited about entering an armory. Lothar understood the value of books, but this boy was just as Medivh had been—hungering for knowledge as if it were meat and drink. For them, perhaps it was. He added, “Try not to touch anything,” but he harbored no illusions that this second instruction would be followed.
Moroes led the way. Lothar waited until they had made a few turns on the staircase and were safely out of Khadgar’s earshot. “He sees no one?”
Moroes shrugged. “The world’s been at peace.”
Again, an answer that wasn’t really one. “There were other obligations. The floods in Lordaeron. King Magni’s weddings.” He smiled a little. There had been a time when he, Medivh, and Llane would never have missed the opportunity for so much fine dwarven beer. The smile faded. “He was absent for all of them.”
“Yes,” Moroes confirmed. He was silent for a few steps, then, “I am glad you are here, Lothar. It will do the Guardian a world of good to see a friendly face beyond this old mug.”
“He could have seen it at any time over the last six years,” Lothar said.
“Yes,” Moroes said again, with that irritating avoidance of any information that could be of actual enlightenment.
Damn, Lothar had forgotten how high the tower was. “Tell me what you can, Moroes,” he said. “Let’s start with who left, and why.”
It was a good topic, and allowed Lothar to conserve his breath for the seemingly endless climb of the tight curve of the staircase. Moroes moved like a gnomish automaton, his pace regular, steady, and vexingly untiring.
The staff responsible for the care of guests were the first to be let go, Moroes informed Lothar; the maids, the footmen, much of the kitchen staff. Since he planned to have no more visitors, there was no need to have servants, Medivh had said. There was therefore also no need for extra steeds or hunting hounds. The master of Karazhan had let the grooms and kennel tenders have their pick of the beasts when they left, and the groundskeeping staff was cut to the bone. Even the animals were sent away; the inhabitants who remained relied on a few chickens for eggs and vegetables from the gardens.
And on it went. Lothar listened—he had to; he was becoming too winded to talk—with a growing sense of unease as Moroes continued the litany of those no longer present at the Tower of Karazhan. “The illustrators were the last to leave,” Moroes finished up. The illustrators. Not those who grew the food, or prepared it, or kept the tower in a state of repair. Lothar did not like the image of his old friend Moroes had created.
“The Guardian keeps mostly to himself now,” Moroes finished. “But he can’t refuse you. Nor King Llane. Not if he’s summoned.” Lothar had subtly, or so he thought, leaned casually against the center column of the tightly winding stair in an effort to catch his breath. Moroes eyed him. He breathed in deeply, moving his hands to indicate that Lothar do likewise, said “Chop chop,” and continued climbing briskly.
Lothar looked up at the seemingly countless stories yet to go, and in that moment would have liked nothing better than to hurl Moroes off the steps. Grunting softly, Lothar, looking daggers at the much older man’s back as he ascended, followed with legs made of rubber.
They finally reached the topmost chamber of the Tower of Karazhan. It was open and airy. Alcoves bearing the Eye of the Kirin Tor alternated with stained-glass windows. The colored light that filtered in mixed with the illumiation provided by the room’s central focus—the Guardian’s Font. Like a gently roiling cauldron, the font bubbled and occasionally shot up a spray of pale blue mist; it was a pool of magical energy so powerful that Lothar didn’t even like to think about it. A platform ringed the room, reachable by two sets of stairs, and housed Medivh’s private sleeping area. This much, Lothar had seen on previous visits to Karazhan.
But the statue was new.
It was not a statue, not yet. At the moment, it was nothing more than a vaguely man-shaped hunk of clay towering fifteen to twenty feet over the glowing pool. The light cast shifting streams of white on its brown, lumpy shape. The thing was chunky, its limbs thick as tree trunks, with a featureless blob stuck on its enormous body. It was held up by scaffolding, against which was propped a staff with a carved raven.
Perched atop a ladder was its sculptor.
The Guardian of Azeroth was smaller than Lothar in height and bulk, and his power did not come from his ability to swing a sword, but he was still tall and well-formed. Sweat and clay decorated his bare torso as he worked, using tools as well as his hands to mold the earthen figure before him. His back was toward the newcomers, and muscles clenched and unclenched as he continued to work.
Without turning around, Medivh asked, “Did you send for him, Moroes?” His voice was clear and strong, the question seemingly idle, but there was a slight warning timbre to it.
“He did not,” Lothar answered, trying and failing not to pant from the insane climb. A lump of clay sat on the table, and, still catching his breath, Lothar poked at it. “So,” he said, to fill the silence, “you’ve become a sculptor?”
Now Medivh turned around. Lothar wasn’t sure what he’d been expecting. The disrepair of the once-magnificent Karazhan, Moroes’s story of solitude, six years of no contact whatsoever—but Medivh looked like… Medivh. His hair, long and loose and untidy, was the same shade of sandy brown, his beard the same hue. No sudden streaks of white, or deep lines on his brow, though the Guardian’s face, like Lothar’s, had a few more wrinkles than in years past. His eyes looked tired, but his body strong and fit as ever.
“Making a golem, actually,” Medivh said casually. He eyed his creation for a moment, then, using a strand of wire between two wooden handles, shaved off a curl of clay on the thing’s shoulder.
“A golem,” Lothar said, nodding as if he knew exactly what Medivh meant.
“A clay servant,” Medivh said. “Usually takes years for the magic to seep into the clay, but up here…” He gestured at the font of liquid white magic. “Much faster! Maybe Moroes can use it. Help around the house.”
“There’s no one else to help him,” Lothar said bluntly, even as he gratefully accepted a cup of watered wine from the servant.
Medivh shrugged, leaping lightly down from the ladder and reaching for a towel. He wiped at his clay-spattered torso ineffectively.
“I like the quiet.” The two old friends stood and regarded each other for a moment. Medivh’s face softened into a genuine smile, and his voice was warm. “It’s good to see you, Lothar.”
“You’ve been missed, old friend,” Lothar said, “but I’ve not come to reminisce and catch up. We need guidance now, Medivh.”
He removed the ring with the royal seal that Llane had given him. It was a heavy thing. He held it between thumb and forefinger, showing it to Medivh. “Our king summons you.”
A subtle mask of impassivity hardened the Guardian’s features as he took the ring for a moment, regarding it as it lay in his palm. He handed it back. Lothar noticed that there was a smudge of clay on it, and he wiped it off before putting it back on his finger.
“Who’s the boy downstairs?” Medivh asked.
* * *
The boy downstairs was presently happier than a pig in slop.
Bathed in the light of magic, he had spent the time waiting gleefully ensconced in books. He was raptly perusing one, hands covered with dust, when he caught a flicker of motion out of the corner of his eye. Suddenly acutely aware that he was reading books that did not belong to him—books that did, in fact, belong t
o the Guardian of Azeroth, he snapped the tome shut and replaced it guiltily.
A shape loomed, silent, at the far end of the room, dark enough that it was almost a shadow itself.
Khadgar swallowed. “Hello?” he called. The figure didn’t move. He took a hesitant step forward. “Guardian?”
Now the shape did move, turning slightly to face a row of books and lifting a black hand. It extended a forefinger—pointing. It walked forward, one step, two—And vanished into the shelf.
Khadgar inhaled swiftly, striding forward, then breaking into a jog. What was the figure pointing at, and where had it gone? He skidded to a halt, his gaze flickering over the books. It had to be a doorway, unless the figure had been an illusion. What was the trick with books and doorways and secret rooms—ah, yes. A certain title was often a lever. Or so the old stories always said. Which one seemed likely?
Dreaming with Dragons: The True History of the Aspects of Azeroth? Unlikely… but interesting. He pulled it down. What the Titans Knew? Probably not… but still… Khadgar grabbed that one too. Walking Through Worlds—now that one had possibility.
He had just reached for it when he felt a tingling on the underside of his lower arm. Frowning, Khadgar returned the two books to their proper places and tugged down his sleeve. The brand that had once marked him as a future Guardian, the Eye of the Kirin Tor, was glowing!
Startled, Khadgar stepped back, and the glow and the warm, tingling sensation faded. He moved forward again—sure enough, it began to radiate once more. It… it was guiding him, somehow. The young mage moved his arm along the row of books, back and forth—cooler, warmer; by the Light, it was growing hot—
There.
The next-to-last volume on the shelf, squatter and thicker than most he had seen. Metal adorned its spine, and when he pulled it out, Khadgar saw the design on its cover had been inlaid with gems. But where was the title? He’d just started to flip through it when he heard footsteps.
Quickly, Khadgar shoved the book into one of the compartments sewn into his cloak. He took a deep breath, turned the corner and—
“Have a good look around?” demanded the Guardian of Azeroth. And his eyes blazed blue.
6
Khadgar was knocked off his feet, seized by an invisible grasp and tossed into the air. He cried out, squirming, and then was slammed against one of the bookcases with such force that the massive thing slid back several feet. “Taking measurements, perhaps?” Medivh accused. He strode toward Khadgar, eyes flashing with fury, his hands curled into fists. “Get some ideas what you might do with the place once it’s yours?”
Lothar must have told him. And of course he’d think that, Khadgar thought. He was terribly intelligent, he knew. But sometimes, Khadgar also knew, he could be terribly stupid.
“Guardian!” he yelped. “I renounced my vow!”
“So I’ve been told.” And, apparently, Medivh simply didn’t care. Casually, the Guardian moved his arm, and Khadgar now found himself with his back against the great central staircase. Pinned like an insect to a board, the young mage dangled several feet off the ground, his arms and legs flailing. Khadgar struggled against the unseen force, but it was merciless and held him fast.
Medivh snorted in contempt, watching him. “Feeble,” he said, his voice dripping scorn. He lifted a hand, almost casually, and the pressure against Khadgar’s chest increased. His fear escalated as he realized he could barely breathe.
And yet, he had to speak. “I didn’t want to come here! I swear, Guardian, I urged them to find you!”
He looked desperately to Lothar. The big man simply stood there, arms folded, watching. Why didn’t he say anything? “I told them you should be the one to explain—”
“Explain what?”
Khadgar felt his heart slamming against his chest. His sight was beginning to dim. He struggled for another mere sip of air and managed a single word:
“Fel!”
The pressure vanished. Khadgar dropped, hard, to the stone floor and gasped as air flooded his lungs.
“In Azeroth?” Medivh demanded, striding over to him. Khadgar moved carefully, wincing. Nothing was broken, though he’d have some glorious bruises. He looked up at the Guardian glowering down at him.
“In the barracks,” Khadgar panted, still catching his breath. “One of the bodies.”
“Guardian,” Lothar interjected, “what is the fel?”
Medivh did not take his eyes from Khadgar. “A magic unlike any other,” he said, softly. “It feeds on life itself. It pollutes the user, twisting everything it touches. It promises great power—but it exacts a terrible price. There is no place for the fel in Azeroth.”
He fell silent, and Khadgar had a very long moment in which to wonder if mentioning the fel had been the right tactic, and another in which to wonder if he’d be flung from the tower or simply turned into a small creature and fed to a cat.
Then Medivh nodded, once. “You’ve done the right thing.” To Lothar, he said, “I will go.” With a flurry of the folds of his crimson robe he moved past Khadgar, not sparing the younger man a second glance. Lothar stepped forward and extended a hand to Khadgar, but as the mage reached up to take it, Lothar withdrew it and followed the Guardian. Khadgar thought about all the spells he would like to summon at this moment and the things they would do to Lothar, and, wincing, got to his feet by himself.
* * *
Lothar carefully knotted the gryphon’s reins so they wouldn’t come loose, and adjusted them so they fit closely but comfortably around her feathered neck. He stroked her head and she cawed softly with pleasure. She’d been a reliable companion, and had helped him give Khadgar a good and proper scare, and he’d miss her.
He removed his hand and she opened her golden eyes in query. “Back home, you.” Lothar gently knocked her beak twice. The gryphon shook herself, fluffing her fur and feathers, gathered her body like a cat, and leaped skyward, her wings catching the wind and propelling her back toward her Stormwind aerie and a well-earned meal and nap.
He watched her for a moment, envying the simplicity of her life when his was being upended, then turned and went toward the three mages. Medivh, clad now in a hooded cloak trimmed with raven feathers, had etched symbols at each of the four compass points and was drawing a circle in the earth with the end of his staff. The pale blue light of arcane magic trailed after it, sparking the runes to glowing light as well. Khadgar eyed the Guardian uncertainly as he worked, while Moroes stood back a slight distance with his hands clasped behind his back. Medivh looked up from his task and grinned at the boy’s expression.
“They don’t teach this in Dalaran.”
“Teleportation?” Khadgar shook his head. “No.” His gaze drifted back to the symbols.
“They’re right to fear it,” Medivh continued. He stole another glance at Khadgar and his eyes twinkled. He’s enjoying this, Lothar thought. “It’s very dangerous.” He drew up the magic with delicate fingers, held his hand over his head, then brought his arm down with a swift, precise movement. The luminous strands he had gathered leaped up and joined, forming a dome of crackling illumination. From beneath it, his features thrown into sharp relief by the blue glow, Medivh gestured to the boy. “Go on. Step in.”
Khadgar hesitated. “Come now,” Medivh scoffed cheerfully. “Where’s all that rebel spirit?” The boy’s cheeks turned pink through the wisps of facial hair and he obeyed, though not without obvious trepidation.
Lothar smothered a smile himself as he stepped into the circle behind Khadgar. Mage though he was—nay, future Guardian, trained to be at least—it was almost too easy to rattle him.
As soon as both Lothar’s feet landed inside the circle, everything—stables, the tower, even the earth beneath them—disappeared. Khadgar barely had time to gasp before other images took their place: polished white stone instead of brown earth, the blue and gold of banners, the gleam of metallic armor—
“By the Light, what—Halt!”
The voice floate
d to them, faint at first, but growing louder. The extremely sharp points of pikestaffs came into view, along with gauntlets, and then, finally, the angry and then confused faces of the king’s guard.
“Commander?” The guard gaped first at Lothar in confused recognition, then his gaze went to Medivh. “Guardian!”
“Stand down,” Lothar ordered, but not unkindly. Immediately the guards stepped back, snapping to attention, the butts of their staffs firmly on the floor.
Llane had risen from his throne and now descended, his eyes warm and a broad smile parting his neatly trimmed brown beard. Medivh bowed deeply.
“Your Grace,” the Guardian said.
But Llane would have none of that. He reached out his arms to envelop Medivh in a bear hug. The Guardian handed his staff to a startled Khadgar, who stared at it almost reverently, in order to return the embrace, clapping his old friend on the back. When they parted, both were smiling.
“Medivh… it’s been too long!” Llane exclaimed. “Come. Help us get to the root of these troubles of ours.” The king and the Guardian strode out of the throne room, heads already bent toward one another and talking quickly and urgently.
Khadgar stepped forward to follow. Lothar clamped a hand on the boy’s narrow shoulder.
“Seen and not heard,” Lothar warned. “Understand?” Khadgar nodded. He and Lothar followed the king into another room. Lothar knew it well. The throne room was for formal occasions and petitions—for when Llane needed to be king. The war room was when the king needed to be a commander.
Compared to the size and the formality of the throne room, this chamber was almost intimate. Lothar had always thought that fitting. A soldier could distance himself from the strategies, the master plans, the vast numbers of legions and the complexities of distributing both men and materiel. He—or she, for women fought in Stormwind’s armies—could not, however, put distance from the fact that death would be dealt. Just as the act of creating life was intimate, so was the act that took it.
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