The Last Guardian

1 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 little too 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 heard that 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 Khadgar felt 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 showy, fearless in dabbling in secrets man was not meant to know, and usually dead, crippled, or damned from messing with powers and energies beyond their ken. Most of the lessons he had learned as a child about non-Dalaran mages always ended in the same fashion—without restraint, control, and thought, the wild, untrained, and self-taught wizards always came to a bad end (sometimes, though not often, destroying a large amount of the surrounding countryside with them).

The fact that Medivh had failed to bring a castle down on top of himself, or disperse his atoms across the Twisting Nether, or summon a dragon without knowing how to control that dragon, indicated either great restraint or great power. From the fuss that the scholars had made about his appointment, and the list of instructions he had received, Khadgar decided on the latter.

Yet for all his research, he could not figure out why. Nothing indicated any great research of this Medivh’s, any major discovery, nor any ground-shaking achievement, that would account for obvious awe in which the Kirin Tor held this independent mage. No huge wars, great conquests, or known mighty battles. The bards were noticeably sketchy when it came to the matters involving Medivh, and otherwise diligent heralds nodded when it came time to discuss his accomplishments.

And yet, realized Khadgar, there was something important here, something that created in the scholars a mixture of fear, respect, and envy. The Kirin Tor held no other spellcasters as their equals for magical knowledge, indeed often sought to hinder those wizards who did not hold allegiance to the Violet Citadel. And yet they kowtowed to Medivh. Why?

Khadgar had only the smallest bits—a bit on his parentage (Guzbah was particularly interested in Medivh’s mother), some margin notes in a grimoire invoking his name, and mention of the occasional visit to Dalaran. All these visits were within the past five years, and apparently Medivh met only with elder mages, such as the now-missing Arrexis.

To sum up, Khadgar knew previous little of this supposedly great mage he was assigned to work for. And as he considered knowledge to be his armor and sword, he felt woefully underequipped for the coming encounter.

Aloud, he said, “Not much.”

“Eh?” responded Moroes, half-turning on the staircase.

“I said I don’t know much,” said Khadgar, louder than he meant to. His voice bounced off the bare walls of the stairway. It was curved now, and Khadgar was wondering if the tower was truly as high as it seemed. Already his thighs were aching from the climb.

“Of course you don’t,” said Moroes. “Know, that is. Young people never know much. That’s what makes them young, I suppose.”

“I mean,” said Khadgar, irritated. He paused and took a deep breath. “I mean, I don’t know much about Medivh. You asked.”

Moroes held for a moment, his foot poised on the next step, “I suppose I did,” he said at last.

“What is he like?” asked Khadgar, his voice almost pleading.

“Like everyone else, I suppose,” said Moroes. “Has his druthers. Has his moods. Good days and bad. Like everybody else.”

“Puts his pants on one leg at a time,” said Khadgar, sighing.

“No. He levitates into them,” said Moroes. The old servant looked at Khadgar, and the youth caught the slightest tug of a smile along the old man’s face. “One more set of stairs.”

The final set of stairs curled tightly, and Khadgar guessed that they had to be near the tower’s highest spire. The old servant led the way.

The stairway opened up on a small circular room, surrounded by a wide parapet. As Khadgar had surmised, they were at the topmost tip of the tower, with a large observatory. The walls and ceilings were pierced by crystalline windows, clear and unfogged. In the time of their climb, night had fallen fully, and the sky was dark and strewn with stars.

The observatory itself was dim, lit by a few torches of the same, unwavering light as found elsewhere. Yet these were hooded, their lamps banked for observing the night sky. An unlit brazier sat in the middle of the room in preparation for later, as the temperature would drop toward morning.

Several large curved tables spread around the outer wall of the observatory, decked with all manner of devices. Silver levels and golden astrolabes acted as paperweights for foolscap, or as bookmarks keeping ancient texts open to certain pages. A half-disassembled model, showing planetary movement through the celestial vault, sat on one table, fine wires and additional beads laid out among the delicate tools next to it. Notebooks lay stacked against one wall, and others were in crates jammed beneath the tables. A map of the continent was stretched on a frame, showing the southern lands of Azeroth and Khadgar’s own Lordaeron, as well as the reclusive dwarven and elven kingdoms of Khaz Modan and Quel’Thalas. Numerous small pins bedecked the map, constellations that only Medivh could decipher.

And Medivh was there, for to Khadgar it could be no other. He was a man of middling years, his hair long and bound in a ponytail in the back. In his youth his hair had likely been ebon black, but now it was already turning gray at the temples and along the beard. Khadgar knew that this happened to many mages, from the stress of the magical energies they wielded.

Medivh was dressed in robes simple for a mage—well cut and fitted to his large frame. A short tabard, unadorned by decoration, hung to his waist, over trousers tucked into oversize boots. A heavy maroon cloak hung from his broad shoulders, the hood pulled back.

As Khadgar’s eyes adjusted to the darkness, he realized that he was wrong about the wizard’s clothing being unadorned. Instead, it was laced with silver filigree, of such a delicate nature that it was invisible at first blush. Looking at the mage’s back, Khadgar realized he was looking at the stylized face of some ancient demon-legend. He blinked, and in that time the tracery transformed itself into a coiled dragon, and then into a night sky.

Medivh had his back to the old servant and the young man, ignoring them entirely. He was standing at one of the tables, a golden astrolabe in one hand, a notebook in the other. He seemed lost in thought, and Khadgar wondered if this was one of the “things” that Moroes had warned him about.

Khadgar cleared his throat and took a step forward, but Moroes raised a hand. Khadgar froze in place, as surely as if transfixed with a magical spell.

Instead the old servant walked quietly to one side of the master mage, waiting for Medivh to recognize his presence. A minute passed. A second minute. Then a period that Khadgar swore was an eternity.

Finally, the robed figure set down his astrolabe, and made three quick jots in the notebook. He closed the book with sharp snap, and looked over at Moroes.

Seeing his face for the first time, Khadgar thought that Medivh was much older than his supposed forty-plus years. The face was deeply lined and worn. Khadgar wondered what magics Medivh wielded that wrote such a deep history on his face.

Moroes dipped into his vest and brought out the crumpled letter of introduction, the crimson seal now bloodred in the steady, unflickering torchlight. Medivh turned and regarded the youth.

The mage’s eyes were deeply set beneath his dark, heavy brows, but Khadgar was aware at once of the power within. Something danced and flickered within those deep green eyes, something powerful, and perhaps uncontrolled. Something dangerous. The master mage glanced at him, and in a moment Khadgar felt that the wizard had taken in his sum total of existence and found it no more intriguing than that of a beetle or flea.

Medivh looked away from Khadgar and at the still-sealed letter of introduction. Khadgar felt himself relax almost immediately, as if a large and hungry predator had stalked past him without giving him a second look.

His relief was short-lived. Medivh did not open the letter. Instead his brows furrowed only slightly, and the parchment burst into flames with an explosive rush of air. The flames clustered at the far end of the document from where Medivh held it, and flickered with an intense, blue flame.

When Medivh spoke his voice was both deep and amused.

“So,” said Medivh, oblivious to the fact he was holding Khadgar’s future burning in his hand. “It seems our young spy has arrived at last.”