The Last Guardian

2 Interview with the Magus

“Is something wrong?” asked Medivh, and Khadgar suddenly felt himself under the master mage’s gaze again. He felt like a beetle again, but this time one that had inadvertently crawled across a bug-collector’s work desk. The flames had already consumed half the letter of introduction, and the wax seal was already melting, dripping onto the observatory’s flagstones.

Khadgar was aware that his eyes were wide, his face bloodless and pale, and his mouth hanging open. He tried to force the air out of his body, but all his managed was a strangled, hissing sound.

The dark, heavy brows pursed in a bemused glance. “Are you ill? Moroes, is this lad ill?”

“Winded, perhaps,” said Moroes in a level tone. “Was a long climb up.”

Finally Khadgar managed to gather his senses about him sufficiently to say, “The letter!”

“Ah,” said Medivh. “Yes. Thank you, I had almost forgotten.” He walked over to the brazier and dropped the burning parchment on top of the coals. The blue ball of flame rose spectacularly to about shoulder height, and them diminished into a normal-looking flame, filling the room with a warm, reddish glow. Of the letter of introduction, with its parchment and crimson seal inscribed with the symbol of the Kirin Tor, there was no sign.

“But you didn’t read it!” said Khadgar, then caught himself, “I mean, sir, with respect…”

The master mage chuckled and settled himself into a large chair made of canvas and dark carved wood. The brazier lit his face, pulling out the deep lines formed into a smile. Despite this, Khadgar could not relax.

Medivh leaned forward in his chair and said, “‘Oh Great and Respected Magus Medivh, Master Mage of Karazhan, I bring you the greetings of the Kirin Tor, most learned and puissant of the magical academies, guilds, and societies, advisors to the kings, teachers of the learned, revealers of secrets.’ They continue on in that fashion for some ways, puffing themselves up more with every sentence. How am I doing so far?”

“I couldn’t say,” said Khadgar, “I was instructed—”

“Not to open the letter,” finished Medivh. “But you did, anyway.”

The master mage raised his eyes to regard the young man, and Khadgar’s breath caught in his throat. Something flickered in Medivh’s eyes, and Khadgar wondered if the master mage had the power to cast spells without anyone noticing.

Khadgar slowly nodded, steeling himself for the response.

Medivh chuckled loudly, “When?”

“On the…on the voyage from Lordaeron to Kul Tiras,” said Khadgar, unsure if what he said would amuse or irritate his potential mentor. “We were becalmed for two days and…”

“Curiosity got the better of you,” finished Medivh again. He smiled, and it was a clean white smile beneath the graying beard. “I probably would have opened it the moment I got out of sight of Dalaran’s Violet Citadel.”

Khadgar took a deep breath and said, “I considered that, but I believed they had divination spells in operation, at least at that range.”

“And you wanted to be far from any spell or message recalling you for opening the letter. And you patched it back together well enough to fool a cursory examination, sure that I would likely break the seal straightaway and not notice your tampering.” Medivh allowed himself a chuckle, but drew his face into a tight, focused knot. “How did I do that?” he asked.

Khadgar blinked. “Do what, sir?”

“Know what was in the letter?” said Medivh, the sides of his mouth tugging down. “The letter I just burned says that I will find the young man Khadgar most impressive in his deduction and intelligence. Impress me.”

Khadgar looked at Medivh, and the jovial smile of a few seconds before had evaporated. The smiling face was now that of some primitive stone god, judgmental and unforgiving. The eyes that had been tinged with mirth earlier now seemed to be barely concealing some hidden fury. The brows knitted together like the rising thunderhead of a storm.

Khadgar stammered for a moment, then said, “You read my mind.”

“Possible,” said Medivh. “But incorrect. You’re a stew of nerves right now, and that gets in the way of mind reading. One wrong.”

“You’ve gotten this sort of letter before,” said Khadgar. “From the Kirin Tor. You know what kind of letters are written.”

“Also possible,” said the master mage. “As I have received such letters and they do tend to be overweening in their self-congratulatory tone. But you know the exact wording as well as I do. A good try, and the most obvious, but also incorrect. Two wrong.”

Khadgar’s mouth formed into a tight line. His mind raised and his heart thundered in his chest. “Sympathy,” he said at last.

Medivh’s eyes remained unreadable, and his voice level. “Explain.”

Khadgar took a deep breath. “One of the magical laws. When someone handles an item, they leave a part of their own magical aura or vibration attached to the item. As auras vary with individuals, it is possible to connect to one by affecting the other. In this way a lock of hair may be used in a love charm, or a coin may be tracked back to its original owner.”

Medivh’s eyes narrowed slightly, and he dragged a finger across his bearded chin. “Continue.”

Khadgar stopped for a moment, feeling the weight of Medivh’s eyes pressing in on him. That was what he knew from lectures. He was halfway there. But how did Medivh use it to figure out….

“The more someone uses an item, the stronger the resonance,” said Khadgar quickly. “So therefore an item that experiences a lot of handling or attention will have a stronger sympathy.” The words were coming together tighter and more rapidly now. “So a document which someone had written has more aura to it than a blank piece of parchment, and the person is concentrating on what they are writing, so…” Khadgar let his thoughts catch up for a moment. “You were mind reading, but not my mind—the mind of the scribe who wrote the letter at the time he was writing it—you picked up his thoughts reinforcing the words.”

“Without having to physically open the document,” said Medivh, and the light danced within his eyes again. “So how would this trick be useful to a scholar?”

Khadgar blinked for a moment, and looked away from the master mage, seeking to avoid his piercing glance. “You could read books without having to read books.”

“Very valuable for a researcher,” said Medivh. “You belong to a community of scholars. Why don’t you do that?”

“Because…because…” Khadgar thought of old Korrigan, who could find anything in the library, even the smallest marginal notation. “I think we do, but for older members of the conclave.”

Medivh nodded. “And that is because…”

Khadgar thought for a moment, then shook his head.

“Who would write if all the knowledge could be sucked out with a mental twist and a burst of magic?” suggested Medivh. He smiled, and Khadgar realized he had been holding his breath. “You’re not bad. Not bad at all. You know your counterspells?”

“To the fifth roster,” said Khadgar.

“Can you power a mystic bolt?” asked Medivh, quickly.

“One or two, but it’s draining,” answered the younger man, suddenly feeling that the conversation had taken a serious turn once more.

“And your primary elementals?”

“Strongest in flame, but I know them all.”

“Nature magic?” asked Medivh. “Ripening, culling, harvesting? Can you take a seed and pull the youth from it until it becomes a flower?”

“No, sir. I was trained in a city.”

“Can you make a homunculus?”

“Doctrine frowns on it, but I understand the principles involved,” said Khadgar, “If you’re curious…”

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, the Gracious 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. 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 not supposed to know. It’s part of the trick.” Then he looked up and said, “So. What do you know about me?”

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.

“And envy,” finished Khadgar, feeling suddenly put upon by the questions, unsure about how to answer. He quickly added, “Nothing specific to explain directly the high respect 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 about me?”

“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 what did 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. “Nothing.”

Medivh looked into the brazier and nodded, “Well, that is 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 out something 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.

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 level before 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. “They see 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.

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.

These men had fought, Khadgar realized, both hard and recently. Only one man in three was without some form of rude bandage, bloodstained badges of war sticking out from beneath dirty armor and damaged helms. Their weapons were notched as well, and spattered with dried crimson. He had fallen into a battlefield.

Khadgar examined their position. They were atop a small hillock, a mere fold in the undulating plains that seemed to surround them. What vegetation existed had been chopped down and formed into crude battlements, now guarded by grim-faced men. This was no safe redoubt, no castle or fort. They had chosen this spot to fight only because there was no other available to them.

The soldiers parted as their apparent leader, a great, white-bearded man with broad shoulders, pushed his way through. His armor was a battered as any, but consisted of a breastplate bolted over a crimson set of scholar’s robes, of the type that would not have been out of place in the halls of the Kirin Tor. The hem, sleeves, and vest of these crimson robes were inscribed with runes of power—some of which Khadgar recognized, but others which seemed alien to him. The leader’s snowy beard reached almost to his waist, obscuring the armor beneath, and he wore a red skullcap with a single golden gem on the brow. He held a gem-tipped staff in one hand, and a dark red sword in the other.

The leader was bellowing at the soldiers, in a voice that sounded to Khadgar like the raging sea itself. The warriors seemed to know what he was saying, though, for they formed themselves up neatly along the barricades, others filling gaps along the line.

The snow-bearded commander brushed past Khadgar, and despite himself the youth stumbled back, out of the way. The commander should not have noticed him, no more than any of the blood-spattered warriors had.

Yet the commander did. His voice dropped for a moment, he stammered, his foot landed badly on the uneven soil of the rocky hilltop and he almost stumbled. Yet instead he turned and regarded Khadgar.

Yes, he looked at Khadgar, and it was clear to the would-be apprentice that the ancient mage-warrior saw him and saw him clearly. The commander’s eyes looked deeply into Khadgar’s own, and for a moment Khadgar felt as he had under Medivh’s own withering glare earlier. Yet, if anything, this was more intense. Khadgar looked into the eyes of the commander.

And what he saw there made him gasp. Despite himself, he turned away, breaking the locked gaze with the mage-warrior.

When Khadgar looked up again, the commander was nodding at him. It was a brief, almost dismissive nod, and the old man’s mouth was a tight frown. Then the snow-bearded leader was off again, bellowing at the warriors, entreating them to defend themselves.

Khadgar wanted to go after him, to chase him down and find out how he could see him when others did not, and what he could tell him, but there was a cry around him, a muddy cry of tired men called into duty one last time. Swords and spears were raised to a sky the shade of curdled blood, and arms pointed toward the nearby ridges, where flooding had stripped out patterns of purple against the rust-colored soil.

Khadgar looked where the men were pointing, and a wave of green and black topped the nearest ridge. Khadgar thought it was some river, or an arcane and colorful mudflow, but he realized that the wave was an advancing army. Black was the color of their armor, and green was the color of their flesh.

They were nightmare creatures, mockeries of human form. Their jade-fleshed faces were dominated by heavy underslung jaws lined with fanged teeth, their noses flat and snuffling like a dog’s, and their eyes small, bloody, and filled with hate. Their ebon weapons and ornate armor shone in the eternally dying sun of this world, and as they topped the rise they let out a bellow that rocked the ground beneath them.

The soldiers around him let out a cry of their own, and as the green creatures closed the distance between the hill they let out volley after volley of red-fletched arrows. The front line of the monstrous creatures stumbled and fell, and were immediately trampled by those who came behind. Another volley and another rank of the inhuman monsters toppled, yet their failing was subsumed by the advancing tide of the mass that followed.

To Khadgar’s right there were flashes as lightning danced along the surface of the earth, and the monstrosities screamed as the flesh was boiled from their bones. Khadgar thought of the warrior-mage commander, but also realized that these bolts only thinned the charging hordes by the merest fraction.

And then the green-fleshed monstrosities were on top of them, the wave of ebon and jade smashing against the rude palisade. The felled timbers were no more than twigs in the path of this storm, and Khadgar could feel the line buckle. One of the soldiers nearest him toppled, impaled by a great dark spear. In the warrior’s place there was a nightmare of green flesh and black armor, howling as it swept down upon him.

Despite himself, Khadgar backed two steps, then turned to run.

And almost slammed into Moroes, who was standing in the archway.

“You,” wheezed Moroes calmly, “were late. Might have gotten lost.”

Khadgar wheeled again in place, and saw that behind him was not a world of crimson skies and green monstrosities, but an abandoned sitting room, its fireplace empty and its chairs covered with drop cloths. The air smelled of dust only recently disturbed.

“I was…” gasped Khadgar. “I saw…I was…”

“Misplaced?” suggested Moroes.

Khadgar gulped, looked about, then nodded mutely.

“Late supper is ready,” groaned Moroes. “Don’t get misplaced, again, now.”

And the dark-clad servant turned and glided quietly out of the room.

Khadgar took one last look at the dead-end passage he had stumbled into. There were no mystic archways or magical doorways. The vision (if vision it was) had ended with a suddenness only to be equaled by its beginning.

There were no soldiers. No creatures with green flesh. No army about to collapse. There was only a memory that scared Khadgar to his core. It was real. It had felt real. It had felt true.

It was not the monsters or the bloodshed that had frightened him. It was the mage-warrior, the snow-haired commander that seemed to be able to see him. That seemed to have looked into the heart of him, and found him wanting.

And worst of all, the white-bearded figure in armor and robes had Khadgar’s eyes. The face was aged, the hair snow-white, the manner powerful, yet the commander had the same eyes that Khadgar had seen in the untarnished mirror just moments (lifetimes?) before.

Khadgar left the sitting room, and wondered if it would not be too late to get a set of blinders.