Christie Golden - Warcraft

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.

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 floated 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.