The Last Guardian (17 page)

“The very one,” said Medivh. “This is why he can’t have it—we use it as cipher for Order communications. It is the master key. An identical scroll is with each of the members of the Order. If you take the standard alphabet, and move everything down, so the first letter is represented by the fourth, or the tenth, or the twentieth. It is a simple code. You understand?”

Khadgar started to say he did, but Medivh was already hurrying on, almost urgent in his need to explain.

“The scroll is the key,” he repeated. At the top of the message, you’ll see what looks like a date.

It’s not. It’s a reference to the stanza, line, and word you start at. The first letter of that word becomes the first letter of the alphabet in the code. From there it proceeds normally, the next letter in alphabetic progression would be the second letter of the alphabet, and so on.”

“I understand.”

“No, you don’t,” said Medivh, rushed now and tired. “That’s the cipher for the first sentence only.

When you hit a punctuation mark, you go to the second letter in the word. That becomes the equivalent for the first letter of the alphabet for the cipher of that sentence. Punctuation is normal. Numbers are as well, but they are supposed to write things out, not use numerals.

There’s something else, but I’m missing it.”

They were outside Medivh’s personal quarters now. Moroes was already present, with a robe slung over his arm and a covered bowl resting on an ornate table. From the doorway Khadgar could smell the rich broth rising from the bowl.

“What should I do once I decipher the message?” asked Khadgar.

“Right!” said Medivh, as if some vital connection had snapped closed in his mind. “Delay. Delay first.

Day or two, I may be up to it after that. Then equivocate. I am out on business, may return any time. Use the same cipher as you got, but make sure you mark it as the date. If all else fails, delegate. Tell whoever it is to use their own judgment, and I will lend what aid I can at the soonest moment. They always love that. Donot tell them I am indisposed—the last time I mentioned that, a horde of would-be clerics arrived to minister to my needs. I’m still missing silverware from that little visit.”

The old mage took a deep breath, and seemed to deflate, supporting himself against the door frame.

Moroes did not move, but Khadgar took a step forward.

“The fight with the demon,” said Khadgar. “It was bad, wasn’t it?”

“I’ve fought worse. Demons! Slope-shouldered, ram-headed brutes. Equal parts shadow and fire. More beast than human, more raw bile than both. Nasty claws. That’s what you watch out
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for, the claws.”

Khadgar nodded. “How did you defeat it?”

“Massive trauma usually will force out the life essence,” said Medivh, “In this case, I took its head off.”

Khadgar blinked. “You didn’t have a sword.”

Medivh smiled wearily. “Did I say I needed a sword? Enough. More questions when I am up to it.” And with that he stepped into the room, and the ever-faithful Moroes closed the door on Khadgar. The last sound the youth heard was the exhausted groan of an old man who had finally found a resting place.

A week passed, and Medivh had not emerged from his quarters. Moroes would shuffle upstairs with a daily bowl of broth. Finally, Khadgar summoned sufficient nerve to look in. The castellan made no move to protest, other than a monosyllabic recognition of his presence there.

In repose Medivh looked ghastly, the light gone out of his shuttered eyes, the tension of life gone from his visage. He was dressed in a long nightshirt, propped up against the headboard, supported by pillows, his mouth open, his face pale, his usually animate form thin and haggard.

Moroes would carefully spoon the broth into Medivh’s mouth, and he would swallow, but otherwise not awaken. The castellan would change the bedding as well, then retire for the day.

Khadgar got a frisson of recognition, and wondered if this was the same scene that played out in Medivh’s youth, when his powers first surfaced, and when Lothar tended to him. He wondered how long the Magus would truly be out. How much energy had the battle with the demon taken out of him?

Normal communications came in, written in common hand and clear language. Some were delivered by gryphon-rider, others by horseback, and more than a few came with the regular supply wagons of traders seeking to fill Moroes’s larders. They were for the most part mundane—ship movements and troop drills. Readiness reports. An occasional discovery of an ancient tomb or a forgotten artifact, or the recovery of a time-worn legend. The sighting of a waterspout, or a great sea turtle, or a crimson tide.

Sketches of fauna that may have been new to the observer, but were better duplicated in the bestiaries already in the library.

And mention of the orcs, in ever-increasing numbers, particularly from the east. Rising sightings of them in the vicinity of the Black Morass. Increased guards on the caravans, locations of temporary camps,

reports of raids, robberies, and mysterious disappearances. An increase in refugees heading for the protection of the larger walled towns and cities. And sketches from the survivors and the slant-browed, heavy-jawed creatures, including a detailed description of the powerful muscular systems that, Khadgar realized with a start, could only come from vivisecting the subject.

Khadgar began to read the mail to the wizard as he slept, reading aloud the more interesting or humorous bits. The Magus made no response to encourage the younger mage, but neither did he forbid it.

The first purple-sealed letter arrived and Khadgar was immediately lost. Some of the letters made sense, but others quickly descended into gibberish. At first the younger mage panicked, sure that he had misunderstood some basic instruction. After a day of littering the quarters with notes and failed attempts, Khadgar realized what he had been missing—that the space between the words was considered a letter in the Order’s cipher, shifting everything one more letter in the process. Once that realization dawned, the missive deciphered easily.

It was less impressive than it had seemed earlier when it was gibberish. A note from the far south, the peninsula of Ulmat Thondr, noting that all was quiet, there were no signs of orcs (though there was a rise in the number of jungle trolls of late) and that a new comet was visible
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along the southern horizon, with detailed notes (written out in words, not numbers). No response was requested, and Khadgar set it, and its translation, aside.

Khadgar wondered why the Order did not use a magical encoding or spell-based script. Perhaps not all members of the Order of Tirisfal were mages. Or that they were trying to hide it from other wizards, like

Guzbah, and putting it in a magical script would draw their curiosity like bees to nectar. Most likely, Khadgar decided, it was out of Medivh’s sheer cussedness to the point of making the other members of the Order use a poem praising his mother as the key.

A large package arrived from Lothar, distilling the previously-reported orc sightings and attacks and translating them onto a large map. Indeed, it seemed like armies of orcs were pouring out of the swampy territory of the Black Morass itself. Again, no response was asked. Khadgar considered sending Lothar a note regarding Medivh’s state, but thought better of it. What could the Champion do, in any event, other than to worry? He did send a note, over his own signature, thanking him for the information and asking to be kept apprised.

A second week passed and they moved into a third, the master comatose, the student searching.

Now armed with proper key, Khadgar started going through the older mail, some of it still held shut by violet dabs of sealing wax. Going through the old documents, Khadgar began to understand Medivh’s often ambivalent feelings toward the Order. Oftimes the letters were little more than demands—this enchantment, that bit of information, a summons to come at once because the cows are off their feed or their milk has gone sour. The more complementary of the missives usually held some sort of sting—a request for a desired spell or a lost tome, wrapped up within its florid praise. Many held nothing but pedantic advice, pointing out in detail how this candidate or that would be a perfect apprentice (these were mostly unopened, he noticed). And there were continual reports of no news, no changes, nothing out of the ordinary.

The latter changed within the more recent messages (they were not dated, but Khadgar began to determine where they fell within a timeline, both by the yellowing of the parchment and the increasing fever pitch of demands and advice). The tone became more consolatory with the sudden appearance of the orcs, particularly as they started raiding caravans. But the undercurrent of demands on Medivh’s time remained, and even increased.

Khadgar looked at the old man lying on the bed and wondered what would possess him to help these people and help them on a regular basis.

And then there were the mystery letters—the occasional thanks, the references to some arcane text, a response to an unknown question—“Yes,” “No,” and “The emu, of course.” During his vigil at Medivh’s bedside one mystery letter arrived, without signature. It read “Prepare quarters. The Emissary will arrive shortly.”

At the end of the third week two letters arrived one evening with a traveling merchant, one with the purple seal, the other red-sealed and addressed to Khadgar himself. Both were from the Violet Citadel of the Kirin Tor.

The letter to Khadgar began, in a spidery hand, “We regret to inform you of the sudden and unexpected death of the instructor mage Guzbah. We understand you have been in correspondence with the late mage and we share your emotion and sympathy at this time. If you have any correspondence, moneys, or information currently due to Guzbah, or are in possession of any of his property (in particular any of his books on loan), the return of that correspondence, money, information, or property would be appreciated, sent to the below address.” A set of numbers and a lazy, illegible scrawl marked the bottom of the letter.

Khadgar felt as if he had been struck in the gut. Guzbah, dead? He turned the letter over, but no further information fell out. Stunned, he reached for the purple-sealed letter. This was in the same spider-hand, but once it was decoded held more information.

Guzbah was found slain in the library on the eve of the Feast of Scribes, in the midst of a
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reviewing

Denbrawn’s Treatise on the “Song of Aegwynn.” (Khadgar felt a pang of remorse for not sending his former instructor the scroll.) He was apparently taken by surprise from a beast (presumably summoned)

which ripped him apart. The death was quick but painful, and the explanation of how the body was found detailed to the point of excess. From the description of the body and the shambles of the library, Khadgar could only conclude that the “summoned beast” was a demon of the type Medivh had fought in

Stormwind.

The letter continued, the words maintaining a cold, analytical tone that Khadgar found excessive. The writer noted that this was the seventh death within the year of a mage of the Violet Citadel, including that of the archmage Arrexis. It went on further to note that this was the first death of this type where the victim was not a member of the Order itself. The writer wanted to know if Medivh had been in contact with Guzbah, either directly or through his apprentice (Khadgar had a moment of déjà vu looking at his own name in print). The unknown author went forward to speculate that since he was not a member of the Order, Guzbah might be responsible for the summoning of the beast for some other matter, and if this was the case, then Medivh should be aware that Khadgar had been Guzbah’s student at one point.

Khadgar felt a sharp pain of anger. How dare this mysterious writer (it had to be someone high within the Kirin Tor hierarchy, but Khadgar had no idea who) impinge both Guzbah and himself! Khadgar wasn’t even present when Guzbah was killed! Perhaps this writer was the one responsible, or someone like Korrigan—the librarian was always researching demon-worshipers. Casting accusations about like that!

Khadgar shook his head and took a deep breath. No, such speculation was futile and fueled only by personal indignation, like so much of the politics of the Kirin Tor. The anger faded to sadness and realization that the mighty mages of the Violet Citadel were unable to stop this, that seven wizards (six of

them members of this supposedly secret and powerful Order) had died, and all this writer could do was cast about aspersions in the desperate hope that there would be no additional deaths.

Khadgar thought of

Medivh’s quick and decisive actions at Stormwind Keep, and marveled that there was no one of equal wit, drive, and intelligence within his own community.

The young mage picked up the encoded letter and examined it again in the wan candlelight. The Feast of

Scribes was over a month and a half ago. It took this long for the message to cross the sea and reach them overland. A month and a half. Before Huglar and Hugarin were killed in Stormwind.

If the same demon was involved, or even the same summoner, it would have to move between the two points very, very swiftly. Some of the demons in the vision had wings—was it possible for such a beast to move between the locations without anyone spotting it?

An errant and unexpected breeze wafted through. The hairs on the back of Khadgar’s neck began to bristle, and he looked up in time to see the figure manifest within the room.

First there was smoke, red as blood, bubbling out from some pinprick hole in the universe. It coiled and curdled upon itself like milk rising through water, quickly forming a swirling mass, through which stepped the looming form of a great demon.

Its form was reduced from when Khadgar had seen it before, on the field of snow in the timelost vision.

It had shrunk itself to allow it to fit within the confines of the room. Still its flesh was of bronze, its armor of jet-black iron, and its beard and hair of animated fire, huge horns erupting from a massive brow. It was weaponless, but seemed to need no weapons, for it moved with the
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