Aaron Rosenberg: Tides of Darkness

"It will take you time to reach Capital City," Marcus pointed out. "I will send someone ahead on a fast horse to warn them of your approach. What would you have them say?"

Lothar frowned. "Tell the king that Stormwind has fallen," he said softly after a moment's pause. "The prince is here, as are as many of its people as I could save. We will need supplies and quickly. And we bring him grave and urgent news."

Marcus's eyes had widened at the list of troubles, and his gaze had gone quickly to the youth standing beside the big warrior, then moved away before his stare could become rude. "It will be done," he assured them, and turned away to speak to one of the villagers, who nodded and leaped onto a nearby horse, galloping away before the headman had taken two steps back to the church.

"Willem is our finest rider, and his horse the fastest in the village," Marcus assured the two men. "He will reach Capital City well ahead of you and deliver your message. We will gather horses and what food we can for you and your companions to take on your own journey."

Lothar nodded. "Thank you." He turned to the violet—robed man. "Gather those who would come with us, Khadgar, and make ready. We leave as soon as possible." The wizard nodded and turned away, heading for the nearest cluster of refugees.

A few short hours later, Lothar and Khadgar left Southshore, the prince Varian Wrynn beside them, leading threescore men. Most had chosen to remain behind, either from illness or fatigue or simply out of fear and shock and a desire to cling to those few survivors from their own land. Lothar did not begrudge them. A part of him wished he could remain in the small fishing village as well. But he had a duty to perform. As always.

"How far to Capital City?" he asked Khadgar, riding beside him. The villagers had offered them the use of what few mounts and carts they had, which had proven just enough to manage. Lothar had hesitated about taking any more from the generous villagers but had finally accepted, knowing it would speed their process immeasurably. And time was of the essence.

"A few days, perhaps a week," the wizard replied. "I don't know this part of the country that well but I remember it on the maps. We should see the city's spires in five days at the most. Then we will have to pass through Silverpine Forest, one of the great wonders of Lordaeron, to skirt Lordamere Lake. The city stands along its north shore."

Khadgar fell silent again and Lothar studied his companion. He worried about the young man. When first they'd met he'd been impressed by the wizard's composure and easy self—confidence, and astonished at his youth. He had been only seventeen, little more than a boy, and already a wizard in his own right—and the first Medivh had ever deigned to accept as an apprentice! Subsequent encounters had shown him that Khadgar was bright, stubborn, focused, and friendly. He'd found himself liking the boy, the first time that he'd felt such friendship toward a wizard since—well, since Medivh himself. But after the events at Karazhan…

Lothar shuddered, remembering the ugly, nightmarish conflict. He had found himself, with Khadgar, the half—orc Garona, and a handful of men, against Medivh himself. Khadgar had administered a lethal blow to his master out of necessity but it had been Lothar who had removed his old friend's head, a head he had protected many times in their youth. Back when he and Medivh and Llane had been friends and companions.

Lothar shook his head to drive away the tears. He had grieved many times on their long sea voyage, but still it felt as if the pain and rage and sorrow would overwhelm him. Llane! His best friend, his companion, his king. Llane, with the bright smile and the laughing eyes and the quick wit. Llane, who had carried Stormwind into a golden age—only to see it torn apart by the orcs, their Horde sweeping across the land and destroying everything in their path. And then to discover that Medivh had been responsible for it all! That his magic had aided the orcs in reaching this world, had given them access to Stormwind! And thus had led to not only the kingdom's destruction but Llane's death! Lothar bit back a cry at the thought of all he had lost, all his people had lost. Then he hardened himself to it, as he had so many times during their journey. He could not let himself succumb to such emotion. His people needed him. And so did the people of this land, though they did not know it yet.

And so did Khadgar. Lothar still did not understand everything that had happened in Karazhan that night. Perhaps he never would. But somehow, during the battle with Medivh, Khadgar had changed. His youth had been stripped away, his body aged unnaturally. Now he appeared an old man, far older than Lothar himself though Khadgar was the younger of them by almost four decades. And he worried what else it had done to the young wizard.

Khadgar, for his part, was too lost in his own thoughts to notice his companion's concerned gaze. The young—old wizard's thoughts were turned inward, though they ran along the same lines as his companion's. He was reliving the battle in Karazhan, and experiencing again that horrible wrenching sensation as Medivh drew from him his magic and his youth. The magic had returned—indeed, in many ways it was far stronger now than before—but his youth was gone, torn from him long before its time. He was an old man now, at least in appearance. He still felt hale and hearty, and had as much endurance and strength and agility as ever, but his face was lined, his eyes deep—set, and his hair and fledgling beard a stark white. Though only nineteen, Khadgar knew he looked three times that and more. He looked like the man in his vision, the older version of himself he had seen in battle through the magic of Medivh's tower. The older man who would someday die beneath a strange red sun, far from home.

Khadgar also studied the emotions within him, the ones that came from Medivh's death. The man had been evil incarnate, singlehandedly responsible for loosing the orc Horde upon the world. Yet it had not been the man, not truly. For Medivh had been subsumed by the titan Sargeras, who his mother had defeated millennia before. Sargeras had not died, only his body, and he had hidden away within Aegwynn's womb, infesting her unborn son. Medivh had not been responsible for his own actions, and his dying words to Khadgar had revealed that the Magus had been fighting the evil within himself for years, perhaps all his life. Khadgar had even encountered a strange phantom version of his dead master, shortly after burying the body, and that Medivh had claimed to be from the future and to be free of Sargeras's taint at last. Thanks to Khadgar himself.

So what should he feel, Khadgar wondered? Should he be sad that his master had died? At times he had liked Medivh a great deal, and certainly the world had lost much when the Magus died. Should he be proud of the role he had played in freeing the man and driving Sargeras from this world again, perhaps for good? Should he be enraged at what Medivh had done, both to him and to others? Or awed that one man could resist the influence of a titan for so long?

He could not tell. Khadgar's mind was awhirl, as was his heart. And added to all the thoughts of Medivh were more. For he was home. At least, he was back in his homeland, back in Lordaeron. And not in the way he had expected. When he had left to become Medivh's apprentice, at the behest of his previous masters in Dalaran, Khadgar had not expected to return until he was a master mage himself. He had thought to fly back on a gryphon, as Medivh had taught him, and land atop the Violet Citadel so that all his former teachers and fellows could marvel at his prowess. Instead he was riding a plow horse beside Stormwind's former Champion, leading a ragtag band of men to speak to the king about saving the world. Khadgar bit back a chuckle. Well, at least they would make a dramatic entrance, he thought. That was something his old teachers and friends would appreciate.