Warcraft: Official Movie Novelization

Carefully, moving as if drunk, Medivh stepped forward to the center of the pool. The white energies gently seeped into the Guardian’s body and spirit, soothing him, caressing him, washing away the demonic grip of the fel. His gaze became lucid, and he tried bravely to smile.

“Thank you, Moroes,” he said, his voice so very weak it cut at the old servant’s heart.

“You’ll recover, Guardian,” he said with a certainty he was far from feeling. “You always do.”

Medivh waved a too-thin hand. “No,” he said, “for Garona. Thank you for the time with my daughter.”

Moroes’s shrewd gaze softened. He started to speak, then froze. A thin wisp of green was starting to tinge the whiteness of the font. He blinked, hoping against hope that he had imagined it, but the hideous, glowing green hue bled into the pool.

“I’m sorry, old friend. It seems I have led the orcs into this world.”

Moroes shook his head, disbelieving. Medivh had wrestled with this for so long. He couldn’t fail, not now, not when—

“The fel… it’s twisted me, I… I don’t even know what else I may have done.” His voice cracked. “I just don’t remember.” Moroes, his heart breaking, moved around the circular pool, watching as the white magic struggled, then ceded to the green. “Everything I’ve thought to protect, I have destroyed.” Broken, he lurched to one side in the font, his head hanging in defeat.

“I can’t control the fel. No one can.”

Abruptly Medivh shot to his feet, his body strong once again. His body was bathed in green light from the polluted magic, but his eyes—whites and irises—were inky black. Moroes backed away. He wanted to urge his beloved master to fight it, to turn it back, as he always had before. But there was no trace of the Guardian he had tended to for so long in that face any more; no hint of friendly good humor, or pain at the thought of another’s suffering, or love for the young woman who—

It was gone. All of it. And the only thought Moroes—old beyond reckoning, who had taken care of so many Guardians of Azeroth—had, as the demonic figure before him began to draw out his life, was that he wished he had died ere this moment had ever come.

Llane had been worried about Lothar. His friend had watched his son die, right in front of his eyes, unable to do anything about it. Llane knew that if he had lost his own boy, Varian, something in him would have broken irreparably. And so, he had said nothing when Lothar had left afterward, saying only he was “going to Goldshire.” How often had he, Llane, and Medivh done so in years past? Except then, the drinking and carousing had been to celebrate the joys of life, not to drown its pain. And yet, this morning, when Llane had sent Karos to fetch Lothar from the Lion’s Pride Inn, deep as his agony ran, his old friend had honored his duty to the man who was both friend and king and come at that man’s command. Karos intimated that Garona had been with the commander. Llane could only assume that Medivh, having noticed the attraction between the two, had seen to it that they were together. Llane trusted Garona. He was certain that the ambush had not been of Durotan’s making, and if she and Anduin could comfort one another, Llane would not judge, so long as the commander was fit to carry out his duties. Lothar seemed able, but there was a hardness to him that had not been there before. A stubbornness and a determination, and they had been locking horns for an hour on strategies. Llane was exhausted. He had returned only to cleanse himself of the sweat and blood of battle, kiss his wife and son, seize a few hours of sleep, and had been in the map room for hours before Lothar’s arrival.

For what felt like the thousandth time, and might well have been, Llane, Varis, and a handful of others perused the model of Stormwind with red-rimmed eyes. “Five legions to block Deadwind Pass,” he said, plunking a marker into position. “Another ten here, here, and here, along Redridge Mountains. Supply lines here. While the Eastern Sea hems them in south and east.” He looked up at Lothar. “If we hold these positions, we will be at our strongest.”

“Containment,” Lothar said.

Llane sighed and rubbed his eyes. “Until there a better option, yes.”

“And when there are ten times as many?” Lothar challenged. “What then?”

Llane looked down at the board. “If there were easy answers—” he began, but Lothar cut him off.

“Our priority has to be to stop this gate from opening. Fail there, and it’s just a matter of time before they beat us with sheer numbers.”

Llane replied tightly, “What do you suggest?”

Lothar leaned against the table, his face close to Llane’s. “Send everything we’ve got. Destroy the gate, free our people, and end the immediate threat.”

“And what of the orcs that remain?”

“We’ll take care of them later.”

It was not good enough. “After they’ve ravaged the entire kingdom?” Llane shot back.

There was a sharp sound, a flash of blue-white light, and the Guardian of Azeroth appeared at the end of the table. “My lords.”