Warcraft: Official Movie Novelization

The doors swung open. Lothar marched in, Varis following a step behind. Everyone turned at the interruption. Both men were dirty and sweaty, and Lothar had a wild but determined look in his blue eyes that Llane recognized. Whatever this was, it was bad.

“The orcs are building a portal,” Lothar stated bluntly, “through which they plan to bring an army. If we do not stop them now, we may never get another opportunity.”

The two old friends locked eyes. Unspoken was the question that the elven representative had no trouble articulating.

“Where is he?” he demanded, his musical voice rising with his anger—and, likely, his fear. His robes whirled about him as he turned back to Llane. “Where’s the protector of Azeroth?”

“Aye!” the Kul Tiras representative chimed in. “Where is the Guardian?”

Taria leaned over and whispered to her husband, “Where is Medivh?” Llane’s jaw clenched and he took a deep breath, forcing calm upon himself as he turned to address the gathering.

“I suggest we take a recess—”

“Take as long as you like,” the Lordaeron representative interrupted as he and his companions rose. “We’re done.” A courier shoved his way through the departing Lordaeron group, handing a missive to Varis. Varis read it quickly, then approached Lothar.

“Commander,” Varis said quietly, “what’s left of the Fourth has retreated from Stonewatch.”

“What’s left?” Lothar echoed. His face had paled beneath its layer of sweat and grime.

Varis hesitated, then said, “Callan is among the injured.”

Llane had overheard, and despite the disaster unfolding in front of him, he did not hesitate. “Take the gryphon. Go.”

Lothar flung open the canvas door of the makeshift field hospital tent, heading straight to the figure on a bed. His boy’s eyes were closed, but as if sensing his father’s presence, Callan turned and managed to partially sit up.

His boy. His, and Cally’s.

Light, but the boy looked so much like his mother, it cut Lothar every time he laid eyes on him. The sandy brown hair, the gentle hazel eyes. Seeing him lying here reminded Lothar of the last time he’d seen his wife. The beloved face had been pale as milk, circles of pain underneath her eyes like bruises. She’d always been so fragile, his little Cally. Too fragile.

There were no bandages wrapped around his son’s slender body, no white saturated with red, and he remembered a day when there had been red, too much red. Callan had only a gash on his forehead. It did not look too bad, but Lothar took his son’s head in his hand and turned it this way and that, checking. Callan regarded him almost sheepishly, with his mother’s hazel eyes.

“Dad,” he said. “I’m fine. It’s fine.”

Lothar forced a smile. Those eyes had nothing of him in them, they were all hers.

“You had me worried,” Lothar admitted. There was an awkward silence, then he added, trying for a little levity, “You should have been a baker, like I wanted.”

“Too dangerous,” Callan deadpanned. “All those oven burns.”

Lothar found himself chuckling. When he was very young, Callan had stated that he wanted to be a soldier. Lothar had replied, “Wouldn’t you like to be a baker instead? Think of all the cakes you could eat!” Callan had thought about it for a moment, head cocked to the side in a gesture so much like Cally that Lothar’s heart had felt like lead. And the child answered, “Well, I bet lots of people would be happy to bake cakes for soldiers, ’cause they’re so brave.” When Lothar had mock-complained that no one made cakes for him, Callan had suggested that Lothar himself become a baker.

He was surprised, and moved, that Callan remembered the moment. He ruffled his son’s hair, his hand not quite knowing how to do so, and looked around. He’d been so focused on his son that he hadn’t realized that Callan was the infirmary’s sole occupant. A chill settled over him.

“Where’s the rest of your troop?” Callan shook his head. “They can’t all be dead!”

“They took most of us alive,” Callan answered. “They—people are saying that they eat us—”

“Fear-mongering,” Lothar said, though the reality facing the prisoners was possibly even worse. Callan winced slightly at the harshness of his father’s voice, and Lothar gentled his tone. “You hear the same stories about every enemy, every war. Don’t worry, son. We’ll get them back.” Callan immediately sat up, as if he was about to head out right now. Lothar placed a hand on his chest. “Don’t be in such a hurry.” He played with Callan’s rumpled uniform, smoothing it, as he had done when the boy was small. “You’re all I have,” he said, softly.

Callan endured it for a moment, then squeezed his father’s arm—a gesture of appreciation, but also of rejection. Lothar removed his hand.

Callan’s face looked strangely old on such a young man; the expression of one who had seen too much. “Dad. I can do this. I’m a soldier.”