Jeff Grubb - Warcraft - The Last Guardian

Contents

Prologue

The Lonely Tower

One

Karazhan

Two

Interview with the Magus

Three

Settling In

Four

Battle and Aftermath

Five

Sands in an Hourglass

Six

Aegwynn and Sargeras

Seven

Stormwind

Eight

Lessons

Nine

The Slumber of the Magus

Ten

The Emissary

Eleven

Garona

Twelve

Life in Wartime

Thirteen

The Second Shadow

Fourteen

Flight

Fifteen

Beneath Karazhan

Sixteen

The Breaking of a Mage

Epilogue

Full Circle

About the Author

There was a sluggishness to the magic in this room. It was a thick feeling, like stale air in a room that had

been shuttered for years. Khadgar tried to pull the energies together, but they seemed to resist, to follow

his desires with only the greatest reluctance.

Khadgar’s face grew stern as he tried to pull more of the power of the room, the energies, into himself.

This was a simple spell. If anything, it should be easier in this spellroom, where such castings would be

commonplace. Suddenly the young mage was swamped with the thick, fetid feel of the magic. It fell upon

him in a thick blanket, crushing the spell and driving him physically to his knees. Despite himself, he cried

out.

Medivh was at his side at once, helping the young mage to his feet. “There, there,” he said. “I didn’t

expect you to succeed even that well. Good try.”

“What is it?” managed Khadgar, suddenly able to breathe again. “It was like nothing I’ve felt before.”

“That’s good news for you, then,” said Medivh. “The magic has been twisted here, a result of what

happened earlier.”

“You mean like a haunting?” said Khadgar. “Even in Karazhan, I never…”

“No, not like that,” said Medivh. “Something much worse. The two dead mages here were summoning

demons. It’s that taint that you feel. A demon was here.”

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s

imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons living or dead

is entirely coincidental.

AnOriginal Publication of POCKET BOOKS

POCKET BOOKS, a division of Simon & Schuster, Inc. 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New

York, NY 10020

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To Chris Metzen,

Who Kept the Vision

THE LAST

GUARDIAN

Prologue

The Lonely Tower

The larger of the two moons had risen first this evening, and now hung pregnant and silver-white against

a clear, star-dappled sky. Beneath the lambent moon the peaks of the Redridge Mountains strained for

the sky. In the daylight the sun picked out hues of magenta and rust among the great granite peaks, but in

the moonlight they were reduced to tall, proud ghosts. To the west lay the Forest of Elwynn, its heavy

canopy of greatoaks and satinwoods running from the foothills to the sea. To the east, the bleak swamp

of the Black Morass spread out, a land of marshes and low hills, bayous and backwaters, failed

settlements and lurking danger. A shadow passed briefly across the moon, a raven-sized shadow,

bearing for a hole in the heart of the mountain.

Here a chunk had been pulled from the fastness of the Redridge Range, leaving behind a circular vale.

Once it might have been the site of some primeval celestial impact or the memory of an earth-shaking

explosion, but the aeons had worn the bowl-shaped crater into a series of steep-edged, rounded hillocks

which were now cradled by the steeped mountains surrounding them. None of the ancient trees of

Elwynn could reach its altitude, and the interior of the ringed hills was barren save for weeds and tangled

vines.

At the center of the ringed hills lay a bare tor, as bald as the pate of a Kul Tiras merchant lord. Indeed

the very way the hillock rose steeply, than gentled to a near-level slope at its apex, was similar in shape

to a human skull. Many had noted it over the years, though only a few had been sufficiently brave, or

powerful, or tactless to mention it to the property’s owner.

At the flattened peak of the tor rose an ancient tower, a thick, massive protrusion of white stone and

dark mortar, a man-made eruption that shot effortlessly into the sky, scaling higher than the surrounding

hills, lit like a beacon by the moonlight. There was a low wall at the base of the tower surrounding a

bailey, and within those walls the tumbledown remains of a stable and a smithy, but the tower itself

dominated all within the ringed hills.

Once this place was called Karazhan. Once it was home of the last of the mysterious and secretive

Guardians of Tirisfal. Once it was a living place. Now it was simply abandoned and timelost.

There was silence upon the tower but not a stillness. In the night’s embrace quiet shapes flitted from

window to window, and phantoms danced along the balconies and parapets. Less than ghosts, but more

than memories, these were nothing less than pieces of the past that had become unstuck from the flow of

time. These shadows of the past had been pried loose by the madness of the tower’s owner, and were

now condemned to play out their histories again and again, in the silence of the abandoned tower.

Condemned to play but denied of any audience to appreciate them.

Then in the silence, there was the soft scrape of a booted foot against stone, then another. A flash of

movement beneath the lambent moon, a shadow against the white stone, a flutter of a tattered, red-hued

cloak in the cool night air. A figure walked along the topmost parapet, on the crenellated uppermost spire

that years before had served as an observatory.

The parapet door into the observatory screeched open on ancient hinges, then stopped, frozen by rust

and the passage of time. The cloaked figure paused a moment, then placed a finger on the hinge, and

muttered a few choice words. The door swung open silently, the hinges made as if new. The trespasser

allowed himself a smile.

The observatory was empty now, what tools that remained smashed and abandoned. The trespassing

figure, almost as silent as a ghost himself, picked up a crushed astrolabe, its scale twisted in some

now-forgotten rage. Now it is merely a heavy piece of gold, inert and useless in his hands.

There was other movement in the observatory, and the trespasser looked up. Now a ghostly figure

stood nearby, near one of the many windows. The ghost/non-ghost was an broad-shouldered man, hair

and beard once dark but now going to a premature gray at the edges. The figure was one of the shards

of the past, unglued and now repeating its task, regardless of whether it had observers or not. For the

moment, the dark-haired man held the astrolabe, the unbroken twin to the one in the trespasser’s hands,

and fiddled with a small knob along one side. A moment, a check, and a twitch of the knob. His dark

brows furrowed over ghostly green eyes. A second moment, another check, and another twitch. Finally,

the tall, imposing figure sighed deeply and placed the astrolabe on a table that was no longer there, and

vanished.

The trespasser nodded. Such hauntings were common even in the days when Karazhan was inhabited,

though now, stripped of the control (and the madness) of their master, they had become more brazen.

Yet these shards of the past belonged here, while he did not. He was the interloper, not they.

The trespasser crossed the room to its staircase leading down, while behind him the older man flickered

back into the view and repeated his action, sighting his astrolabe on a planet that had long since moved to

other parts of the sky.

The trespasser moved down through the tower, crossing levels to reach other stairs and other hallways.

No door was shut to him, even those locked and bolted, or sealed by rust and age. A few words, a

touch, a gesture and the fetters flew loose, the rust dissolved into ruddy piles, the hinges restored. In one

or two places ancient wards still glowed, potent despite their age. He paused before them for a moment,

considering, reflecting, searching his memory for the correct counter-sign. He spoke the correct word,

made the correct motion with his hands, shattered the weak magic that remained, and passed on.

As he moved through the tower, the phantoms of the past grew more agitated and more active. Now

with a potential audience, it seemed that these pieces of the past wished to play themselves out, if only to

be made free of this place. Any sound they once possessed had long-since eroded away, leaving only

their images moving through the halls.

The interloper passed an ancient butler in dark livery, the frail old man shuffling slowly down the empty

hallway, carrying a silver tray and wearing a set of horse-blinders. The interloper passed through the

library, where a green-fleshed young woman stood with her back to him, pouring over an ancient tome.

He passed through a banquet hall, at one end a group of musicians playing soundlessly, dancers twirling

in a gavotte. At the other end a great city burned, its flames beating ineffectively against the stone walls

and rotting tapestries. The trespasser moved through the silent flames, but his face grew drawn and tense

as he witnessed once more the mighty city of Stormwind burn around him.

In one room three young men sat around a table and told now-unknown lies. Metal mugs were scattered

on the table’s surface as well as beneath it. The trespasser stood watching this image for a long time, until

a phantom taverness brought another round. Then he shook his head and pressed on.

He reached nearly the ground level, and stepped out on a low balcony that hung precariously to the wall,

like a wasps’ nest over the main entrance. There, in the wide space before the tower, between the main

entrance and a now-collapsed stables across the bailey, stood a single ghostly image, lonely and

separated. It did not move like the others, but rather stood there, waiting, tentative. A piece of the past

that had not been released. A piece that was waiting for him.

The immobile image was of a young man with a skunk stripe of white running through his dark, untidy

head of hair. The straggling fragments of a beard, newly grown, clung to his face. A battered rucksack

lay at the youth’s feet, and he held a red-sealed letter with a deathlike grip.

This was well and truly no ghost, the trespasser knew, though the owner of this image may yet be dead,

fallen in combat beneath a foreign sun. This was a memory, a shard of the past, trapped like an insect in

amber, waiting for its release. Waiting for his arrival.

The trespasser sat on the stonework ledge of the balcony and looked out, beyond the bailey, beyond the

hillock, and beyond the ringed hills. There was silence in the moonlight, as the mountains themselves

seemed to be holding their breath, waiting for him.

The trespasser lifted a hand and intoned a series of chanted words. Softly came the rhymes and rhythms

the first time, then louder, and finally louder still, shattering the calm. In the distance wolves picked up his

chant and cast it back in howling counterpoint.

And the image of the ghostly youth, its feet seemingly trapped in mud, took a deep breath, hoisted his

rucksack of secrets to his shoulder, and slogged his way toward the main entrance of Medivh’s Tower.

One

Karazhan

Khadgar clutched the crimson-sealed letter of introduction and desperately tried to remember his own

name. He had ridden for days, accompanying various caravans, and finally making the journey alone to

Karazhan through the vast, overgrown, woods of Elwynn. Then the long climb into the heights of the

mountains, to this serene, empty, lonely place. Even the air felt cold and apart. Now, sore and tired, the

scruffy-bearded young man stood in the gathering dusk of the courtyard, petrified of what he now must

do.

Introduce himself to the most powerful mage of Azeroth.

An honor, the scholars of the Kirin Tor had said. An opportunity, they insisted, that was not to be

missed. Khadgar’s sage mentors, a conclave of influential scholars and sorcerers, told him they had been

trying to insinuate a sympathetic ear in the tower of Karazhan for years. The Kirin Tor wanted to learn

what knowledge the most powerful wizard in the land had hidden away in his library. They wanted to

know what research he favored. And most of all they wanted this maverick mage to start planning for his

legacy, wanted to know when the great and powerful Medivh planned to train an heir.

The Great Medivh and the Kirin Tor had been at loggerheads on these and other matters for years,

apparently, and only now did he relent to some of their entreaties. Only now would he take on an

apprentice. Whether it was from a softening of the wizard’s reportedly hard heart, or mere diplomatic

concession, or a feeling of the mage’s own creeping mortality, it did not matter to Khadgar’s masters.

The simple truth was that this powerful independent (and to Khadgar, mysterious) wizard had asked for

an assistant, and the Kirin Tor, which ruled over the magical kingdom of Dalaran, were more than happy

to comply.

So the youth Khadgar was selected and shuttled off with a list of directions, orders, counter-orders,

requests, suggestions, advice, and other demands from his sorcerous masters. Ask Medivh about his

mother’s battles with demons, asked Guzbah, his first instructor. Find out all you can about elven history

from his library, requested Lady Delth. Check his volumes for any bestiaries, commanded Alonda, who

was convinced that there was a fifth species of troll as yet un-recorded in her own volumes. Be direct,

forthright, and honest, advised Norlan the Chief Artificer—the Great Magus Medivh seemed to value

those traits. Be diligent and do what you’re told. Don’t slouch. Always seem interested. Stand up

straight. And above all, keep your ears and eyes open.

The ambitions of the Kirin Tor did not bother Khadgar horribly—his upbringing in Dalaran and his early

apprenticeship to the conclave made it clear to him that his mentors were insatiably curious about magic

in all its forms. Their continual accumulation, cataloging, and definition of magic were imprinted on young

students at an early age, and Khadgar was no different than most.

Indeed, he realized, his own curiosity may have accounted for his current plight. His own nocturnal

wanderings through the halls of the Violet Citadel of Dalaran had uncovered more than a few secrets that

the conclave would rather not have noised about. The Chief Artificer’s fondness for flamewine, for

example, or Lady Delth’s preference for young cavaliers a slender fraction of her age, or Korrigan the

Librarian’s secret collection of pamphlets describing (in lurid fashion) the practices of historical

demon-worshipers.

And there was something about one of the great sages of Dalaran, venerable Arrexis, one of the gray

eminences that even the others respected. He had disappeared, or died, or something horrible had

happened, and the others chose to make no mention of it, even to the point of excising Arrexis’s name

from the volumes and not speaking of him again. But Khadgar had found out, nonetheless. Khadgar had

a way of finding the necessary reference, making the needed connection, or talking to the right person at

the right time. It was a gift and may yet prove to be a curse.

Any one of these discoveries could have resulted in his drawing this prestigious (and for all the planning

and warnings, potentially fatal) assignment. Perhaps they thought young Khadgar was a littletoo good at

ferreting out secrets—easier for the conclave to send him somewhere where his curiosity would do some

good for the Kirin Tor. Or at least put him far enough away so he wasn’t finding things out about the

other natives of the Violet Citadel.

And Khadgar, through his relentless eavesdropping, had heardthat theory as well.

So Khadgar set out with a rucksack filled with notes, a heart filled with secrets, and a head filled with

strong demands and useless advice. In the final week before leaving Dalaran, he had heard from nearly

every member of the conclave, each of whom was interested in something about Medivh. For a wizard

living on the butt-end of nowhere, surrounded by trees and ominous peaks, the members of the Kirin Tor

were extremely curious about him. Urgent, even.

Taking a deep breath (and in doing so reminding himself that he still was too close to the stables),

Khadgar strode forward toward the tower itself, his feet feeling like he was pulling his pack-pony along

by his ankles.

The main entrance yawned like a cavern’s mouth, without gate or portcullis. That made sense, for what

army would fight its way through the Forest of Elwynn to top the rounded walls of the crater, all to fight

the Magus Medivh himself? There was no record of anyone or anything even attempting to besiege

Karazhan.

The shadowed entrance was tall enough to let an elephant in full livery pass beneath. Overhanging it

slightly was a wide balcony with a balustrade of white stone. From that perch one would be level with the

surrounding hills and gain a view of the mountains beyond. There was a flicker of motion along the

balustrade, a bit of movement that Khadgarfelt more than actually witnessed. A robed figure, perhaps,

moving back along the balcony into the tower itself. Was he being watched even now? Was there no one

to greet him, or was he expected to brave the tower on his own?

“You are the New Young Man?” said a soft, almost sepulchral voice, and Khadgar, his head still craned

upward, nearly jumped out of his skin. He wheeled to see a stooped, thin figure emerge out of the

shadows of the entranceway.

The stooped thing looked marginally human, and for a moment Khadgar wondered if Medivh was

mutating forest animals to work as his servants. This one looked like a hairless weasel, its long face was

framed by what looked like a pair of black rectangles.

Khadgar didn’t remember making any response, but the weasel person stepped farther from the

shadows, and repeated itself.

“You are the New Young Man?” it said. Each word was enunciated with its own breath, encapsulated in

its own little box, capitalized and separate from the others. It stepped from the shadows fully and

revealed itself as nothing more or less threatening than a whip-slender elderly man in dark worsted livery.

A servant—human, but a servant. It, or rather he, was still wearing black rectangles on the sides of his

head, like a set of earmuffs, that extended forward to his most prominent nose.

The youth realized that he was staring at the old man, “Khadgar,” he said, then after a moment presented

the tightly held letter of introduction. “Of Dalaran. Khadgar of Dalaran, in the kingdom of Lordaeron. I

was sent by the Kirin Tor. From the Violet Citadel. I am Khadgar of the Kirin Tor. From the Violet

Citadel. Of Dalaran. In Lordaeron.” He felt like he was casting conversational stones into a great, empty

well, hoping that the old man would respond to any of them.

“Of course you are, Khadgar,” said the old man. “Of the Kirin Tor. Of the Violet Citadel. Of Dalaran.

Of Lordaeron.” The servant took the proffered letter as if the document were a live reptile and, after

smoothing out its crumpled edges, tucked it inside his livery vest without opening it. After carrying and

protecting it for so many miles, Khadgar felt a pain of loss. The letter of introduction represented his

future, and he was loath to see it disappear, even for a moment.

“The Kirin Tor sent me to assist Medivh. Lord Medivh. The Wizard Medivh. Medivh of Karazhan,”

Khadgar realized he was but a half-step from collapsing into a full-fledged babble, and with a definitive

effort tightly clamped his mouth shut.

“I’m sure they did,” said the servant. “Send you, that is.” He appraised the seal on the letter, and a thin

hand dipped into his waistcoat, pulling out a set of black rectangles bound by a thin band of metal.

“Blinders?”

Khadgar blinked. “No. I mean, no thank you.”

“Moroes,” said the servant.

Khadgar shook his head.

“I am Moroes,” the servant said. “Steward of the Tower. Castellan to Medivh. Blinders?” Again he

raised the black rectangles, twins to those that framed his narrow face.

“No thank you…Moroes,” said Khadgar, his face twisted in curiosity.

The servant turned and motioned that Khadgar follow with a weak wave of the arm.

Khadgar picked up his rucksack and had to lope forward to catch up with the servant. For all his

supposed fragility the steward moved at a good clip.

“Are you alone in the tower?” Khadgar ventured as they started climbing a curved set of wide, low

stairs. The stone dipped in the center, worn by myriad feet of passing servants and guests.

“Eh?” responded the servant.

“Are you alone?” repeated Khadgar, wondering if he would be reduced to speaking as Moroes spoke

in order to be understood. “Do you live here by yourself?”

“The Magus is here,” responded Moroes in a wheezing voice that sounded as faint and as fatal as grave

dust.

“Yes, of course,” said Khadgar.

“Wouldn’t be much point for you to be here if he wasn’t,” continued the steward. “Here, that is.”

Khadgar wondered if the old man’s voice sounded that way because it was not used that often.

“Of course,” agreed Khadgar. “Anyone else?”

“You, now,” continued Moroes. “More work to take care of two than one. Not that I was consulted.”

“So just you and the Wizard, then, normally?” said Khadgar, wondering if the steward had been hired

(or created) for his taciturn nature.

“And Cook,” said Moroes, “Though Cook doesn’t talk much. Thank you for asking, though.”

Khadgar tried to restrain himself from rolling his eyes, but failed. He hoped that the blinders on either

side of the steward’s face kept the servant from seeing his response.

They reached a level spot, a cross-hallway lit by torches. Moroes crossed immediately to another set of

saddle-worn, curving stairs opposite them. Khadgar paused for a moment to examine the torches. He

raised a hand mere inches from the flickering flame, but felt no heat. Khadgar wondered if the cold flame

was common throughout the tower. In Dalaran they used phosphorescent crystals, which beamed with a

steady, constant glow, though his research spoke of reflective mirrors, elemental spirits bound within

lanterns, and in one case, huge captive fireflies. Yet these flames seemed to be frozen in place.

Moroes, half-mounted up the next staircase, slowly turned and let out a gasping cough. Khadgar hurried

to catch up. Apparently the blinders did not limit the old steward that much.

“Why the blinders?” Khadgar asked.

“Eh?” replied Moroes.

Khadgar touched the side of his head. “The blinders. Why?”

Moroes twisted his face in what Khadgar could only assume was a smile. “Magic’s strong here. Strong,

and wrong, sometimes. You see…things…around here. Unless you’re careful. I’m careful. Other

visitors, the ones before you, they were less careful. They’re gone now.”

Khadgar thought of the phantom he may or may not have seen on the overhanging balcony, and nodded.

“Cook has a set of rose-quartz lenses,” added Moroes. “Swears by them.” He paused for a moment,

then added, “Cook is a bit foolish that way.”

Khadgar hoped that Moroes would be more chatty once he was warmed up. “So, you’ve been in the

Magus’s household for long?”

“Eh?” said Moroes again.

“You’ve been with Medivh long?” Khadgar said, hoping to keep the impatience out of his voice.

“Ayep,” said the steward. “Long enough. Too long. Seems like years. Time’s like that here.” The

weathered steward let his voice trail off and the two climbed in silence.

“What do you know about him?” ventured Khadgar, finally. “The Magus, I mean.”

“Question is,” said Moroes, pulling open yet another door to reveal yet another staircase up. “What do

you know?”

Khadgar’s own research in the matter was surprisingly unproductive, and his results were frustratingly

sparse. Despite access to the Violet Citadel’s Grand Library (and surreptitious access to a few private

libraries and secret collections), there was precious little on this great and powerful Medivh. This was

doubly odd, since every elder mage in Dalaran seemed to hold Medivh in awe, and wanted one thing or

another from him. Some favor, some boon, some bit of information.

Medivh was apparently a young man, as wizards went. He was merely in his forties, and for a grand

bulk of that time seemed to have made no impact whatsoever on his surroundings. This was a surprise to

Khadgar. Most of the tales he had heard and read described independent wizards as being extremely

Jeff Grubb - Warcraft - The Last Guardian

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