Warcraft: Official Movie Novelization

Lothar ground his teeth. What had happened to Medivh in the last six years? He, the Guardian, and the King had been friends—more than friends, brothers in all but blood. They had fought together, suffered together. Been there for him when he had lost—

“Well I need to see what we’re up against. You don’t think seeing the enemy force firsthand is useful?” He couldn’t quite shove back the anger, and the concern that fueled it.

Medivh didn’t meet his gaze. “I have things to attend to.”

Lothar gave up on subtlety. He marched up to his old friend and looked at him searchingly. “What happened to you today?” It was both true query and an accusation.

“I was studying our foe—firsthand,” the Guardian replied slowly and deliberately.

Lothar snorted angrily. “If the kid hadn’t been with you, you’d have been studying the edge of an axe.”

Medivh shrugged laconically. “He had it in hand.” An idea seemed to occur to him. “You should take him with you. He’s more powerful than you think.”

“Medivh—” Lothar began, but there was a flurry of motion and he found himself talking to a raven. The bird flicked its tail and took wing, soaring out of the window.

“I hate it when he does that,” Lothar muttered.

It was a room in one of Stormwind’s inns, not a cell this time, but as he nodded to the guard stationed outside his door, Khadgar accepted the reality that he was, after a fashion, still a prisoner. He did not mind. He was where he wanted to be. Lothar had asked—well, all right, told him to come to the Black Morass to investigate the lead that Garona had given them.

He quickly lit a lamp, his mind racing. Garona. Orcs. Fel. So much information. As he closed the door and bolted it, Khadgar had to admit, he had missed learning things. His life here in Stormwind as an ordinary person was better than being, essentially, the ultimate errand boy for the Kirin Tor, but it had been rather unstimulating until now.

The Black Morass—big enough to hide an army. A good guess for someone who wasn’t from this world. That is, if Garona was telling the truth. His thoughts lingered on her for a moment—so strange-looking, and yet he was drawn to her. She was so strong, so confident even though she was a prisoner.

But now, something else demanded his attention. He reached beneath his shirt and brought out the book he had stashed there what seemed like ages ago. Khadgar had been terrified that it would fall out at some point, but it had stayed secure. Remarkable.

He placed it on the rough table, took a breath, and opened it. It was a slim tome with an unprepossessing cover, but the first few pages took his breath away. Runes filled the pages, and as he turned them, carefully, his eyes widened as he beheld a lavish illustration.

It depicted a wave of creatures that greatly resembled the beasts he had fought today. They were clustered together, a tight, unified mass, holding weapons of all varieties. And this mass of warriors was pouring forth from an enormous stone structure like water from an upended jug.

“A ‘great gate,’” Khadgar whispered, his skin prickling with gooseflesh.

His eyes wandered from the sight of the roaring, maddened orcs to the runic text above the art. Two glyphs had been circled, and someone had scribbled in the margins, From light comes darkness, and from darkness, light. Ask Alodi.

Khadgar repeated the words to himself, unpacking his writing supplies and inking his quill. Taking a deep breath, he laid the thin parchment over the book, and began to trace the disturbing image.

It was the king’s private prison, they had told Garona. It was not a place of torture. There were even windows to the outside and above. The moon shone down, silvering the room, and Garona’s heart cracked to see it. It was still a cage, and she was still not free.

It was small, and it was barred on three sides. There was something called a “cot” that was intended for sleeping. It was covered with cloths that were strange to her, and she saw no sleeping furs at all. In the corner was a small pot, for what she did not know. There was a table and a pitcher of water along with a uselessly small receptacle. They had left food for her, also alien, but she had eaten every bite to keep her strength up. Now, she lifted the pitcher and drank the cool water.

As she placed it down and wiped her mouth, she said to the shadow in the room, “I see you.”

The one they had addressed as the Guardian stood there, his arms folded, his eyes, bright and curious as a bird’s, fastened on her. Now, he stepped forward into the light provided by a few torches, walking around her prison.

“This gate,” he said. “Who showed it to Gul’dan? Who led him to Azeroth?”

He cut straight to the heart of the matter. She liked that. Garona debated answering, then said, “Gul’dan called him a demon.”

The Guardian—“Medivh” someone had said at one point—did not react. “Did you see it?”