The Last Guardian (4 page)

Medivh’s eyes lit up for a moment, and he said, “You sailed here from Lordaeron? What type of boat?”

Khadgar felt thrown for a moment by the sudden change of discussion. “Yes. Um…A Tirassian wind-runner, theGracious Breeze,” he replied.

“Out of Kul Tiras,” concluded Medivh. “Human crew?”

“Yes.”

“You spoke with the crew at all?” Again, Khadgar felt himself sliding once more from conversation to interrogation.

“A little,” said Khadgar. “I think I amused them with my accent.”

“The crews of the Kul Tiras ships are easily amused,” said Medivh. “Any nonhumans in the crew?”

“No, sir,” said Khadgar. “The Tirassians told stories of fish men. They called them Murlocs.

Are they real?”

“They are,” said the Magus. “What other races have you encountered? Other than variations of humans.”

“Some gnomes were at Dalaran once,” said Khadgar. “And I’ve met dwarven artificers at the Violet

Citadel. I know dragons from the legends; I saw the dragon’s skull in one of the academies once.”

“What about trolls, or goblins?” said Medivh.

“Trolls,” said Khadgar. “Four known varieties of trolls. There may be a fifth.”

“That would be the bushwah Alonda teaches,” muttered Medivh, but motioned for Khadgar to continue.

“Trolls are savage, larger than humans. Very tall and wiry, with elongated features. Um…” He thought for a moment. “Tribal organization. Almost completely removed from civilized lands, almost extinct in

Lordaeron.”

“Goblins?”

“Much smaller, more the size of dwarves. Just as inventive, but in a destructive fashion. Fearless.

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I have read that as a race they are insane.”

“Only the smart ones,” said Medivh. “You know about demons?”

“Of course, sir,” said Khadgar quickly. “I mean from the legends, sir. And I know the proper abjurations and protections. All mages of Dalaran are taught so from our first day of training.”

“But you’ve never summoned one,” said Medivh. “Or been present when someone else did so.”

Khadgar blinked, wondering if this was a trick question. “No sir. I wouldn’t even think of it.”

“I do not doubt that you wouldn’t,” said the Magus, and there was the faintest edge in his voice.

“Think of it, that is. Do you know what a Guardian is?”

“A Guardian?” Khadgar suddenly felt the conversation take yet another left-hand turn. “A watchman? A

guard? Perhaps another race? Is it a type of monster? Perhaps a protector against monsters?”

Medivh smiled, now, and shook his head. “Don’t worry. You’re notsupposed to know. It’s part of the trick.” Then he looked up and said, “So. What do you know aboutme?”

Khadgar shot a glance toward Moroes the Castellan, and suddenly realized that the servant has vanished, fading back into the shadows. The young man stammered for a moment. “The mages of the

Kirin Tor hold you in high regard,” he managed at last, diplomatically.

“Obviously,” said Medivh brusquely.

“You are a powerful independent mage, supposedly an advisor to King Llane of Azeroth.”

“We go back,” said Medivh, nodding at the youth.

“Beyond that…” Khadgar hesitated, wondering if the mage truly could read his mind.

“Yes?”

“Nothing specific to justify the high esteem…” said Khadgar.

“And fear,” put in Medivh.

“Andenvy,” finished Khadgar, feeling suddenly put upon by the questions, unsure about how to answer.

He quickly added, “Nothing specific to explain directly the highrespect the Kirin Tor holds you in.”

“It’s supposed to be that way,” snapped Medivh peevishly, rubbing his hands over the brazier.

“It’s supposed to be that way.” Khadgar could not believe how the master mage could possibly be cold. He himself felt nervous sweat drip down his back.

At length, Medivh looked up, and the brewing storm was in his eyes again. “But what do you know aboutme?”

“Nothing, sir,” said Khadgar.

“Nothing?” Medivh’s voice raised and seemed to reverberate across the observatory. “Nothing?

You came all this way for nothing? You didn’t even bother to check? Perhaps I was just an excuse for your masters to get you out of their hair, hoping you’d die en route. It wouldn’t be the first time someone tried that.”

“There wasn’t that much to check. You haven’t done that much,” responded Khadgar hotly, then took a deep breath, realizing whom he was speaking with, and what he was saying. “I mean, not much that I

could find out, I mean…”

He expected an outburst from the older mage, but Medivh just chuckled. “And whatdid you find out?”

he asked.

Khadgar sighed, and said, “You come from a spellcaster heritage. Your father was a mage of Azeroth, one Nielas Aran. You mother was Aegwynn, which may be a title as opposed to a name, one that goes back at least eight hundred years. You grew up in Azeroth and know King Llane and Lord Lothar from your childhood. Beyond that…” Khadgar let his voice trail off.

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“Nothing.”

Medivh looked into the brazier and nodded, “Well, thatis something. More than most people can find out.”

“And your name means ‘Keeper of Secrets’,” Khadgar added. “In High Elven. I found that out as well.”

“All too true,” said Medivh, looking suddenly tired. He stared into the brazier for a while.

“Aegwynn is not a title,” he said at length. “It is merely my mother’s name.”

“Then there were several Aegwynns, probably a family name,” suggested Khadgar.

“Only one,” said Medivh, somberly.

Khadgar gave a nervous laugh. “But that would make her…”

“Over seven hundred fifty years old when I was born,” said Medivh, with a surprising snort.

“She is much older than that. I was a late child in her life. Which may be one reason the Kirin Tor is interested in what I keep in my library. Which is why they sent you to find out.”

“Sir,” said Khadgar, as sternly as he could manage. “To be honest, every mage save the highest in the

Kirin Tor wants me to find outsomething from you. I will accommodate them as best as I am able, but if there is material that you want to keep restricted or hidden, I will fully understand….”

“If I thought that, you would not have gotten through the forest to reach here,” said Medivh, suddenly serious. “I need someone to sort and organize the library, for starters, then we work on the alchemical laboratories. Yes, you’ll do nicely. You see, I know the meaning of your name just as you know mine.

Moroes!”

“Here, sir,” said the servant, suddenly manifesting out of the shadows. Despite himself, Khadgar jumped.

“Take the lad down to his quarters and make sure he eats something. It’s been a long day for him.”

“Of course, sir,” said Moroes.

“One question, Master,” said Khadgar, catching himself. “I mean, Lord Magus, sir.”

“Call me Medivh for now. I also answer to Keeper of Secrets and a few other names, not all of them known.”

“What do you mean when you say you know my name?” asked Khadgar.

Medivh smiled, and the rooms suddenly seemed warm and cozy again. “You don’t speak dwarven,” he observed.

Khadgar shook his head.

“My name means ‘Keeper of Secrets’ in High Elven. Your name means ‘Trust’ in the old dwarven language. So I will hold you to your name, young Khadgar. Young Trust.”

Moroes saw the young man to his quarters halfway down the tower, explaining in that ghostly, definitive voice as he shuffled down the stairs. Meals in Medivh’s Tower were simple fare—porridge and sausages for breakfast, a cold lunch, and a large, hearty dinner, usually a stew or a roast served with vegetables.

Cook would retire after the evening meals, but there were always leftovers in the cold room.

Medivh kept hours that could be charitably described as “erratic” and Moroes and Cook had long since learned how to accommodate him with a minimal amount of hardship on their parts.

Moroes informed young Khadgar that, as an assistant instead of a servant, he would not have that luxury. He would be expected to be available to help the master mage whenever he deemed necessary.

“I’d expect that, as an apprentice,” said Khadgar.

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Moroes turned in midstep (they were walking along an upper gallery overlooking what seemed to be a reception hall or ballroom). “Not an apprentice yet, Lad,” wheezed Moroes. “Not by half.”

“But Medivh said…”

“You could sort out the library,” said Moroes. “Assistant work, not apprentice’s. Others have been assistants. None became apprentices.”

Khadgar’s brow furrowed, and he felt the warmth of a blush on his face. He had not expected there to be a levelbefore apprentice in the mage’s hierarchy. “How long before…”

“Couldn’t say, really,” gasped the servant. “None have ever made it that far.”

Khadgar thought of two questions at once, hesitated, then asked, “How many other ‘assistants’

have there been?”

Moroes looked out over the gallery railing, and his eyes grew unfocused. Khadgar wondered if the servant was thinking or had been derailed by the question. The gallery below was sparsely furnished with a heavy central table and chairs. It was surprisingly uncluttered, and Khadgar surmised that Medivh did not hold many banquets.

“Dozens,” said Moroes at last. “At least. Most of them from Azeroth. An elfling. No, two elflings.

You’re the first from the Kirin Tor.”

“Dozens,” repeated Khadgar, his heart sinking as he wondered how many times Medivh had welcomed a young would-be mage into his service.

He asked the other question. “How long did they last?”

Moroes snorted this time, and said, “Days. Sometimes hours. One elf didn’t even make it up the tower stairs.” He tapped the blinders at the side of his wizened head. “Theysee things, you know.”

Khadgar thought of the figure at the main gate and just nodded.

At last they arrived at Khadgar’s quarters, in a side passage not far from the banquet hall. “Tidy yourself up,” said Moroes, handing Khadgar the lantern. “The jakes is at the end of the hall.

There’s a pot beneath the bed. Come down to the kitchen. Cook will have something warm for you.”

Khadgar’s room was a narrow wedge of the tower, more suitable to the contemplations of a cloistered monk than a mage. A narrow bed along one wall, and an equally narrow desk along the other with a bare shelf above. A standing closet for clothes. Khadgar tossed his rucksack into the closet without opening it, and walked over to the thin window.

The window was a slim slice of leaded glass, mounted vertically on a pivot in the center.

Khadgar pushed on one half and it slowly pushed open, the solidifying oil in the bottom mount oozing as the window rotated.

The view was from still high up the tower’s side, and the rounded hills that surrounded the tower were gray and bare in the light of the twin moons. From this height it was obvious to Khadgar that the hills had once been a crater, worn and weathered by the passage of the years. Had some mountain been pulled from this spot, like a rotted tooth? Or maybe the ring of hills had not risen at all, but rather the rest of the surrounding mountains had risen faster, leaving only this place of power rooted in its spot.

Khadgar wondered if Medivh’s mother was here when the land rose, or sank, or was struck by a piece of the sky. Eight hundred years was long even by the standards of a wizard. After two hundred years, most of the old object lessons taught, most human mages were deathly thin and frail. To be seven hundred fifty years old and bear a child! Khadgar shook his head, and wondered if Medivh was having him on.

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Khadgar shed his traveling cloak and visited the facilities at the hall’s end. They were spartan, but included a pitcher of cold water and a washbasin and a good, untarnished mirror. Khadgar thought of using a minor spell to heat the water, then decided merely to tough it out.

The water was bracing, and Khadgar felt better as he changed into less-dusty togs—a comfortable shirt that reached nearly to his knees and a set of sturdy pants. His working gear.

He pulled a narrow eating knife from his sack and, after a moment’s thought, slid it into the inside sleeve of one boot.

He stepped back out into the hallway, and realized that he had no clear idea where the kitchen was.

There had been no cooking shed out by the stables, so whatever arrangements were likely within the tower. Probably on or near the ground level, with a pump from the well. With a clear path to the banquet hall, whether or not the hall was commonly used.

Khadgar found the gallery above the banquet hall easily enough, but had to search to find the staircase, narrow and twisting in on itself, leading to it. From the banquet hall itself he had a choice of exits.

Khadgar chose the most likely one and ended up in dead-end hallway with empty rooms on all sides, similar to his own. A second choice brought a similar result.

The third led the young man into the heart of a battle.

He did not expect it. One moment he was striding down a set of low flagstone steps, wondering if he needed a map or a bell or a hunting horn to navigate the tower. The next moment the roof above him opened up into a brilliant sky the color of fresh blood, and he was surrounded by men in armor, armed for battle.

Khadgar stepped back, but the hallway had vanished behind him, only leaving an uneven, barren landscape unlike any he was familiar with. The men were shouting and pointing, but their voices, despite the fact that they were right next to Khadgar, were indistinct and muddied, like they were talking to him from underwater.

A dream? thought Khadgar. Perhaps he had laid down for a moment and fallen asleep, and all this was some night terror brought on by his own concerns. But no, he could almost feel the heat of the dying, corpulent sun on his flesh, and the breeze and shouting men moved around him.

It was as if he had become unstuck from the rest of the world, occupied his own small island, with only the most tenuous of connections to the reality around him. As if he had become a ghost.

Indeed, the soldiers ignored him as if he were a spirit. Khadgar reached out to grab one on the shoulder, and to his own relief his hand did not pass through the battered shoulder plate. There was resistance, but only of the most amorphous sort—he could feel the solidity of the armor, and if he concentrated, feel the rough ridges of the dimpled metal.