The Last Guardian (13 page)

He woke as the sun crested the horizon behind him, and panicked momentarily, causing the great flier to bank slightly, dragging it away from following in Medivh’s wake. Ahead of him, sudden and brilliant in the morning sun, was Stormwind.

It was a citadel of gold and silver. The walls in the morning light seemed to glow with their own radiance, burnished like a chalice under a castellan’s cleaning. The roofs glittered as if crafted from silver, and for a moment Khadgar thought they were set with innumerable small gems.

The young mage blinked and shook his head. The golden walls became mere stone, though polished to a fine luster in some places, intricately carved in others. The roofs of silver were merely dark slate, and what he thought were gemstones merely collected dew rainbowing back the dawn.

And yet Khadgar was still astounded by the city’s size. As great if not greater than anything in Lordaeron, and seen from this great height, it spread out before him. He counted three full sets of walls ribboned around the central keep, and lesser barriers separating different wards.

Everywhere he looked, there was more city beneath him.

Even now, in the dawn hours, there was activity. Smoke rose from morning fires, and already people were clotting in the open marketplaces and commons. Great wains were lumbered out of the main gates, loaded with farmers heading for the neat, ordered fields that spread out from the city’s walls like skirts, stretching almost to the horizon.

Khadgar could not identify half the buildings. Great towers could have been universities or granaries, as far as he could tell. A surging river cascade had been harnessed by massive waterwheels, but to what purpose he could not guess. There was a sudden flame far to his right, though whether from a foundry, a captive dragon, or some great accident was a mystery.

It was the greatest city he had ever seen, and at its heart was Llane’s castle.

It could be no other. Here the walls seemed to be truly made of gold, set with silver around the windows. The royal roof was shod with blue slate, as deep and luxurious as a sapphire’s, and from its myriad towers Khadgar could see pennants with the lion’s head of Azeroth, the sigil of King Llane’s household and symbol of the land.

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The castle complex seemed to be a small city in itself, with innumerable side buildings, towers, and halls.

Arching galleries spanned between buildings, at lengths that Khadgar thought impossible without magical aide.

Perhaps such a structure could only be crafted with magic, thought Khadgar, and realized that perhaps this was one reason Medivh was so valued here.

The older mage raised a hand and circled over one particular tower, its topmost floor a level parapet.

Medivh pointed down—once, twice, a third time. He wanted Khadgar to land first.

Pulling from the scabbed-over memories, Khadgar brought the great gryphon down neatly. The great eagle-headed beast churned its wings backward like a great sail, slowing to a delicate landing.

There was a delegation already waiting for him. A group of retainers in blue livery surged forward to take the reins and fit the gryphon’s head with a heavy hood. The alien memories told Khadgar that this was similar to a falconer’s snood, restricting the raptor’s vision. Another had a bucket of warm cow guts, which were carefully presented before the gryphon’s snapping beak.

Khadgar slid from the gryphon’s back and was greeted warmly by Lord Lothar himself. The huge man seemed even larger in an ornate robe and cape, topped with a inscribed breastplate and filigreed mantle hanging on his shoulder.

“Apprentice!” said Lothar, swallowing Khadgar’s hand in his huge meaty paw. “Good to see you’re still employed!”

“My lord,” said Khadgar, trying not to wince from the pressure of the larger man’s grip. “We flew through the night to get here. I don’t…”

The rest of Khadgar’s statement was swept away in a flurry of wings and the panicked squawk of a gryphon. Medivh’s mount tumbled out of the sky, and the Magus was less graceful in his landing. The huge flier slid across the width of the turret and almost fell off the other side, and Medivh pulled hard on the reins. As it was, the gryphon’s great foreclaws clutched at the crenellated wall, and almost tipped the older mage over the side.

Khadgar did not wait for comment from Lord Lothar, but bolted forward, followed by the host of blue-clad retainers, and Lothar lumbering up behind them.

Medivh had already dismounted by the time they had reached him, and handed the reigns to the first of the retainers. “Blasted crosswind!” said the older mage irritably. “I told you this was the precisely wrong spot for an aviary, but no one listens to the mage around here. Good landing, lad,” he added as an afterthought, as the servants swarmed over his gryphon, trying to calm it down.

“Med,” said Lothar, holding out a hand in greeting. “It is good you could come.”

Medivh just scowled. “I came as soon as I could,” the wizard snapped, responding to some affront that passed Khadgar by entirely. “You have to get along without me sometimes, you know.”

If Lothar was surprised by Medivh’s attitude, he said nothing of it. “Good to see you anyway.

His

Majesty…”

“Will have to wait,” finished Medivh. “Take me to the chamber in question, now. No, I know the way myself. You said it was Huglar and Hugarin. This way, then.” And with that the Magus was off, toward the side stairs that spiraled into the tower proper. “Five levels down, then a cross bridge, then three levels up! Horrible place for an aviary!”

Khadgar looked at Lothar. The larger man rubbed his beefy hand up over his balding pate, and shook his head. Then he started after the man, Khadgar in tow.

Medivh was gone by the time they reached the bottom of the spiral, though a litany of
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complaints and the occasional curse could be heard up ahead, diminishing fast.

“He’s in a fine mood,” said Lothar, “Let me walk you to the mage-chambers. We’ll find him there.”

“He was very agitated last night,” said Khadgar, by way of apology. “He had been gone, and apparently your summons reached Karazhan shortly after he had returned.”

“Has he told you what all this is about, Apprentice?” asked Lothar. Khadgar had to shake his head.

Champion Anduin Lothar frowned deeply. “Two of the great sorcerers of Azeroth are dead, their bodies burned almost beyond recognition, their heart pulled from their very chests. Dead in their chambers. And there is evidence—” Lord Lothar hesitated for a moment, as if trying to choose the right words. “There is evidence of demonic activity. Which is why I sent the fastest messenger to fetch the

Magus. Perhaps he can tell us what happened.”

“Where are the bodies?” shouted Medivh, as Lothar and Khadgar finally caught up with him.

They were near the top of another of the spires of the castle, the city spread out before them in a great open bay window opposite the door.

The room was a shambles, and looked like it had been searched by orcs, and sloppy orcs at that.

Every book had been pulled from the shelves, and every scroll unrolled, and in many cases shredded. Alchemic devices were smashed, powders and poultices scattered about in a fine dusting, and even the furniture broken.

In the center of the room was a ring of power, an inscription carved into the floor itself. The ring was two concentric circles, incised with words of power between them. The incisions in the floor were deep and filled with a sticky dark liquid. There were two scorch marks on the floor, each man-sized, situated between the circle and the window.

Such incised rings had only one purpose to them, as far as Khadgar knew. The librarian in the Violet

Citadel was always warning about them.

“Whereare the bodies?” repeated Medivh, and Khadgar was glad that he was not expected to provide the answers. “Where are the remains of Huglar and Hugarin?”

“They were removed soon after they were found,” said Lothar calmly. “It was unseemly to leave them here. We didn’t know when you would arrive.”

“You didn’t knowif I would arrive, you mean,” snapped Medivh. “All right. All right. We can still salvage something. Who has come into this room?”

“The Conjurer-Lords Huglar and Hugarin,” began Lothar.

“Well, ofcourse,” said Medivh sharply. “They had to be here if they died here. Who else?”

“One of their servants found them,” continued Lothar. “And I was called. And I brought several guardsmen to move the bodies. They have not been interred yet, if you wish to examine them.”

Medivh was already deeply in thought. “Hmmm? The bodies, or the guardsmen? No matter, we can take care of that later. So that’s a servant, yourself, and about four guards, would you say?

And now myself and my apprentice. No one else?”

“No one I can think of,” said Lothar.

The Magus closed his eyes and muttered a few words under his breath. It might have been either a curse or a spell. His eyes flew open. “Interesting. Young Trust!”

Khadgar took a deep breath. “Lord Magus.”

“I need your youth and inexperience. My jaded eyes may see what I’m expecting to see. I need fresh eyes. Don’t be afraid to ask questions, now. Come here and stand in the center of the room. No, don’t cross the circle itself. We don’t know if it has any lingering enchantments on it.

Stand here. Now. What

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do you sense?”

“I see the wrecked room,” started Khadgar.

“I didn’t say see,” said Medivh sharply. “I said sense.”

Khadgar took a deep breath and cast a minor spell, one that sharpened the senses and helped find lost articles. It was a simple divination, one he had used hundreds of times in the Violet Citadel. It was particularly good for finding things that others wanted to keep hidden.

But even upon the first intoned words, Khadgar could feel it was different. There was a sluggishness to the magic in this room. Often magic had a feel of lightness and energy, but this felt more viscous, almost liquid in nature. Khadgar had never felt it before, and wondered if it was because of the circles of power, or powers and cantrips of the late mages themselves.

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, of the magical energies, into himself. This was a simple spell. If anything, it should be easier in a place where such castings would be commonplace.

And suddenly the young mage was inundated with the thick fetid feel of the magic. It was suddenly upon him and surrounding him, as if he had pulled the bottom-most stone out and brought down a wall upon himself. The force of the dark, heavy magic fell upon him in a thick blanket, crushing the spell beneath him 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,” said the Magus, “I

didn’t expect you to succeed even that well. Good try. Excellent work.”

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

Heavy. Resistant. Smothering.”

“That’s good news for you, then,” said Medivh. “Good that you sensed it. Good that you carried through. The magic has been particularly twisted here, a remnant of what occurred 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 here, that heaviness of magic. A demon was here. That is what killed

Huglar and Hugarin, the poor, powerful idiots.”

There was a silence of a moment, then Lothar said, “Demons? In the king’s towers? I cannot believe…”

“Oh, believe,” said Medivh. “No matter how learned and knowledgeable, how wise and wonderful, how powerful and puissant, there is always one more sliver of power, one more bit of knowledge, one more secret to be learned by any mage. I think these two fell into that trap, and called upon forces from beyond the Great Dark Beyond, and paid the price for it. Idiots.

They were friends and colleagues, and they were idiots.”

“But how?” said Lothar. “Surely there were to be protections. Wards. This is a mystic circle of power.”

“Easily breached, easy broken,” said Medivh, leaning over the ring the glimmered with the dried blood of the two mages. He reached down and produced a thin straw that had laid over the
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cooling stones.

“A-hah! A simple broom straw. If this was here when they began their summonings, all the adjurations and phylacteries in the world would not protect them. The demon would consider the circle to be no more than an arch, a gateway into this world. He would come out, hellfire blazing, and attack the poor fools who brought him into this world. I’ve seen it before.”

Khadgar shook his head. The thick darkness that seemed to press in on all sides of him seemed to lift somewhat, and he gathered his wits about him. He looked around the room. It was already a disaster area—the demon had torn everything apart in its assault. If there was a broom straw breaking the circle, then it surely should have been moved elsewhere during the battle.

“How were the bodies found?” asked Khadgar.

“What?” said Medivh, with a sharpness that almost made Khadgar jump.

“I’m sorry,” Khadgar responded quickly. “You said I should ask questions.”

“Yes, yes, of course,” said Medivh, cooling his harsh tone only a notch. To the King’s Champion he said, “Well, Anduin Lothar, how were the bodies found?”

“When I came in, they were on the ground. The servant had not moved them,” said Lothar.

“Faceup or facedown, sir?” said Khadgar, as calmly as he could. He could feel the icy stare of the elder mage. “Heads toward the circle or toward the window?”

Lothar’s face clouded in memory. “Toward the circle. And facedown. Yes, definitely. They were badly scorched all over, and we had to turn them over to make sure it was Huglar and Hugarin.”