Christie Golden - Warcraft - Official Movie Novelization

The youth moved forward, kneeling beside Medivh’s enormous, horned head. He reached out a trembling hand and clamped it down on the demon’s forehead.

“You’re stronger than he is,” Lothar said, and realized that he believed every word. Khadgar had not faltered, and was not doing so now. “Get rid of it, kid!”

But Khadgar wasn’t getting rid of it. He was harvesting it. The fel whipped around Khadgar and Medivh, a storm of livid, sickly green. He was siphoning it from Medivh, pinned under the broken golem and bellowing as he tossed his horned head. He was pulling it from the font, draining it dry. All of it was funneling directly into Khadgar. Green energy roiled off Medivh in waves. Lothar realized that Khadgar, that wet-eared boy, was using himself as a living conduit to expel the fel taint from Medivh.

And it was working.

As Lothar stared, riveted, both horrified and hopeful, Medivh’s demonic form began to shrink, slowly returning to its original size and shape. The tossing head lost its horns, and Medivh’s long hair once again flowed from his scalp. Khadgar released him and turned his attention to the font itself, plunging his hands in it, his face, drawn and tight, screwed up in concentration.

Lothar felt the very walls of Karazhan itself groaning from the strain.

The boy’s tight face had gone slack. The green eyes widened, as if seeing something that was not there. His mouth opened in a silent O of awe at whatever it was the fel was showing him.

No. Not Khadgar. Not the boy who had broken into the barracks in search of answers, who had issued the first warning of the very substance that was now threatening to destroy him. Lothar had seen what the fel could do. The thought of that happening to Khadgar, and the horrors that the mage could inflict on the world—

Khadgar closed his eyes. And when he opened them again, Lothar saw that they glowed not green… but blue . “From light comes darkness,” Khadgar said, his voice raspy, “and from darkness… light …!”

Khadgar flung his arms out and arched his back. He screamed, a raw, ragged, yet determined sound, and blasted the fel out of him, out of the font, out of Karazhan. The very air itself was rent with a horrible boom as a wave of chartreuse energy surged from the boy, washing over Lothar’s magical shield like water over a glass container.

Khadgar stood, weaving, then collapsed, coughing and retching.

The Guardian’s font was empty.

The shield around Lothar disappeared, and he raced over to Khadgar. He was propped up on his hands, his head bowed, still hacking as small bits of fel wafted up around him and then vanished

Would Lothar have to deal with Khadgar, or had the boy won his own battle? “Show me your eyes,” Lothar whispered intensely.

Khadgar took in a great gulp of air and turned his face up. His eyes were clear and brown. Lothar slapped him heartily on the back. Lothar sagged in relief, and for a moment the two simply grinned at one another, marveling that they were still here. Still alive.

A familiar cawing sound came from outside. Lothar looked at Khadgar quizzically. “I sent her here, when I came to get you,” Khadgar said, still panting. “I thought we might need her.”

“You were right,” Lothar said, sobering. They might have stopped Medivh, but they were far from done. “I have to go.”

Medivh. Lothar glanced at his old friend. He was pale, and still. But he was Medivh, again. Khadgar had given him that.

“I’m proud of you,” Lothar said to the young mage. Words he should have said to Callan. It was too late for Medivh, too late for his son. But not too late for Khadgar—or for him. The boy lit up, and Lothar touseled his hair. He rose, barefoot; his boots were still embedded in the golem. He raced across the sharp shards of stone heedlessly, seizing his sword and heading for one of the open windows. The gryphon saw him, and flew beneath him as, not breaking stride, he leaped with full trust atop her furred and feathered back, and went to the aid of his king.

Khadgar sat for a moment, collecting himself. He deeply regretted that he had been forced to kill the Guardian. It had not, ever, been what he had wanted. But he was glad he had stopped Medivh from opening the portal. Slowly, he got to his feet, hoping Lothar would be in time to make a difference. He shook his head, trying to focus on what he could do from here to help.

The font would be of no use. It was empty—of both true magic, and fel. He—

Khadgar blinked. A soft voice, murmuring an incantation. Medivh was alive—and still trying to open a portal to let the orcs—

No. No, Khadgar had been listening to that incantation repeating itself for what felt like forever. He had memorized the words, and these were slightly different. And there was one word that made his heart leap.

Llane had nothing to lose, and all to gain, and he made the most of it. Thanking Magni’s ingenuity and generosity, he rode among the men, cheering them on as they used the boomsticks against orcs seemingly as large as trees to, quite literally, stop them dead in their tracks. The numbers against them were vast, but with these weapons, these “mechanical marvels,” the odds were becoming less uneven with every cracking, echoing sound.

Those like him, who chose more traditional weapons, rode around those orcs who were injured but still a threat, spearing broad green chests, stabbing exposed throats, slicing off limbs with weapons that had been sharpened to perfect keenness. They were cutting a swathe through the tide of orcs, bearing straight for the portal and the human prisoners who were waiting for rescue—or a fate Llane would not wish upon anyone. Not even the orcs themselves.

When he could spare a glance, Llane had watched the image of the army in the portal’s interior grow clear, and fade, and clear to terrible purpose. He recalled his argument with Lothar, about how there were so many of the orcs. How he had argued for containment. Foolish, now. He had been so busy trying to stem a river, he had not fully appreciated that there was an ocean’s tidal wave behind him.

He brought his charger forward toward a savage orc female who was locked in combat with one of his men. Llane bore down on the enemy with three feet of steel, slicing a long, bloody slash through the leather armor she wore. She threw him a furious glance. Her teeth snapped ferally and she launched herself at him, hands extended, and grabbed his leg to pull him off his mount. Then her head toppled from her shoulders, and Llane met the eyes of the man who had saved him. He nodded, then turned to find another opponent.

Sucking in air, Llane looked again at the gate, and his eyes widened.

There was no more sign of the Horde gathered on the other side, shouldering for which one would pass through first to Azeroth. There was only a view of the Black Morass. Then, even as he felt gratitude bubbling up inside him, the center of the portal began to move. Except this time, the light limning it was not sickly green, but a fresh, clean blue, and Llane was not looking at Draenor.

He was looking at Stormwind.

A shout of laughter, genuine and joyful, burst from him. His old friend had not forsaken them! “Thank you, Guardian!”

Llane looked around and spied Karos, his armor spattered with dark brown blood. “Karos!” he shouted, and when the soldier acknowledged him, Llane looked for Varis, crying out his name as well.

Varis had lost his helm at some point in the battle. His brown face brightened as he turned and saw the glimmering image of the Stormwind Cathedral which had replaced the grim ugliness of Draenor.

“Forward!” he shouted, and his troops rushed to obey, revitalized by the sight.