Warcraft: Official Movie Novelization

The boy’s tight face had gone slack. The green eyes widened, as if seeing something that was not there. His mouth opened in a silent O of awe at whatever it was the fel was showing him.

No. Not Khadgar. Not the boy who had broken into the barracks in search of answers, who had issued the first warning of the very substance that was now threatening to destroy him. Lothar had seen what the fel could do. The thought of that happening to Khadgar, and the horrors that the mage could inflict on the world—

Khadgar closed his eyes. And when he opened them again, Lothar saw that they glowed not green… but blue. “From light comes darkness,” Khadgar said, his voice raspy, “and from darkness… light…!”

Khadgar flung his arms out and arched his back. He screamed, a raw, ragged, yet determined sound, and blasted the fel out of him, out of the font, out of Karazhan. The very air itself was rent with a horrible boom as a wave of chartreuse energy surged from the boy, washing over Lothar’s magical shield like water over a glass container.

Khadgar stood, weaving, then collapsed, coughing and retching.

The Guardian’s font was empty.

The shield around Lothar disappeared, and he raced over to Khadgar. He was propped up on his hands, his head bowed, still hacking as small bits of fel wafted up around him and then vanished

Would Lothar have to deal with Khadgar, or had the boy won his own battle? “Show me your eyes,” Lothar whispered intensely.

Khadgar took in a great gulp of air and turned his face up. His eyes were clear and brown. Lothar slapped him heartily on the back. Lothar sagged in relief, and for a moment the two simply grinned at one another, marveling that they were still here. Still alive.

A familiar cawing sound came from outside. Lothar looked at Khadgar quizzically. “I sent her here, when I came to get you,” Khadgar said, still panting. “I thought we might need her.”

“You were right,” Lothar said, sobering. They might have stopped Medivh, but they were far from done. “I have to go.”

Medivh. Lothar glanced at his old friend. He was pale, and still. But he was Medivh, again. Khadgar had given him that.

“I’m proud of you,” Lothar said to the young mage. Words he should have said to Callan. It was too late for Medivh, too late for his son. But not too late for Khadgar—or for him. The boy lit up, and Lothar touseled his hair. He rose, barefoot; his boots were still embedded in the golem. He raced across the sharp shards of stone heedlessly, seizing his sword and heading for one of the open windows. The gryphon saw him, and flew beneath him as, not breaking stride, he leaped with full trust atop her furred and feathered back, and went to the aid of his king.

Khadgar sat for a moment, collecting himself. He deeply regretted that he had been forced to kill the Guardian. It had not, ever, been what he had wanted. But he was glad he had stopped Medivh from opening the portal. Slowly, he got to his feet, hoping Lothar would be in time to make a difference. He shook his head, trying to focus on what he could do from here to help.

The font would be of no use. It was empty—of both true magic, and fel. He—

Khadgar blinked. A soft voice, murmuring an incantation. Medivh was alive—and still trying to open a portal to let the orcs—

No. No, Khadgar had been listening to that incantation repeating itself for what felt like forever. He had memorized the words, and these were slightly different. And there was one word that made his heart leap.

Llane had nothing to lose, and all to gain, and he made the most of it. Thanking Magni’s ingenuity and generosity, he rode among the men, cheering them on as they used the boomsticks against orcs seemingly as large as trees to, quite literally, stop them dead in their tracks. The numbers against them were vast, but with these weapons, these “mechanical marvels,” the odds were becoming less uneven with every cracking, echoing sound.

Those like him, who chose more traditional weapons, rode around those orcs who were injured but still a threat, spearing broad green chests, stabbing exposed throats, slicing off limbs with weapons that had been sharpened to perfect keenness. They were cutting a swathe through the tide of orcs, bearing straight for the portal and the human prisoners who were waiting for rescue—or a fate Llane would not wish upon anyone. Not even the orcs themselves.

When he could spare a glance, Llane had watched the image of the army in the portal’s interior grow clear, and fade, and clear to terrible purpose. He recalled his argument with Lothar, about how there were so many of the orcs. How he had argued for containment. Foolish, now. He had been so busy trying to stem a river, he had not fully appreciated that there was an ocean’s tidal wave behind him.