Warcraft: Official Movie Novelization

“Beasts, you say?” The voice was calm, quiet, but commanding, and cut cleanly through the cacophony of several other voices all talking at once. Of course, Lothar thought as the Royal Guards saluted smartly and allowed him entrance into the Lion’s Pride Inn, that might simply be how it seemed to him, considering how well he knew it.

King Llane Wrynn was tall, with dark hair, wise, kind eyes, and a neatly trimmed beard. He looked every inch the king even now, clad as he was in less formal clothing. The royal family had been enjoying a day’s outing in Elwynn Forest when Llane had received a similar missive to the one the dwarven courier had given King Magni. They had retreated to the inn to begin analyzing the situation.

Lothar felt a stab of misplaced nostalgia. Until this very moment, the inn, located in the little village of Goldshire, had been a place where he, Llane, and Medivh had gathered to laugh, game, and drink. Now, it was a makeshift war room. Several of the inn’s tables had been pushed together and maps, letters, and inkwells covered them. Lothar had to smile as he noticed beer mugs anchoring the curling edges of the parchment.

“What manner of beasts could do what you have reported?” Llane continued. He was visibly struggling to stay calm as he examined the shield of a Stormwind solider that bore a gash so enormous it had almost split the metal facing.

One of the officers, with dark hair and darker eyes, shook his head. “Rumors, Your Majesty.”

“From three different valleys.” Aloman, one of Lothar’s finest soldiers, pointed out. Her blue-gray eyes were hard.

“I’ve heard a dozen conflicting descriptions,” a third officer said.

“It’s a rebellion, sire,” a fourth chimed in.

“Rebels, beasts,” the first officer said, exasperated, “we need more information.”

Llane spotted Lothar, the furrow in his brow easing. “Lothar,” he called, “have you learned anything that can help?”

“A little, perhaps,” Lothar said. Queen Taria, standing next to her husband, also looked up at the sound of her brother’s voice. Their eyes met, and she gave him a strained smile. Taria looked as regal as Llane, but Lothar well knew her doe eyes and demure demeanor hid a fierce intelligence and a stubborn streak as wide as—well, as his own.

Lothar spoke quickly, avoiding supposition and sticking to facts, telling them about the young mage, and the peculiar wisp of green that had escaped the dead man’s lips. He finished with, “Also, my liege, I’ve been told to summon the Guardian. So, hop to it, man.”

“I’ll get right on it,” Llane said wryly, then sobered.

“Is there still no word from Grand Hamlet?” Taria asked softly. Grand Hamlet, a town as quaint and quiet as Goldshire, had been where both she and Lothar had grown up. It lay to the south of Elwynn Forest and had fallen mysteriously silent, and unfortunately Lothar had no reassurance for his sister. He shook his head.

Llane gazed at him, utterly at a loss. “How does a garrison of thirty men disappear without a whisper?”

“The fel,” came a young, strong voice, “or at least its influence.”

The chatter faltered. Llane, along with everyone else in the room except for Lothar, looked to the door and the newcomer who stood there. The king raised an eyebrow. “Is this him?” he asked Lothar uncertainly.

“Mm-hmm,” Lothar replied, distracted. His attention was drawn beyond the mage to the young soldier who had been chosen to escort him, now standing rigidly at attention.

Dammit.

Lothar pressed his lips together, nodding in answer to Llane’s query. “Sergeant Callan!” Taria said, pleasure warming her voice.

Callan inclined his head. “Your Majesty.” His voice, tenor, just a little too formal. Was I ever that young? Lothar thought.

“Thank you, Sergeant,” he said, sharply, reaching to take the young mage and steer him toward Llane. Callan saluted, and took up a position beside the door, awaiting further orders.

“So,” Llane said, his voice hard, “who are you, mage?”

“My name is Khadgar,” the boy answered. “I am the Guardian Novitiate.”

If the room had quieted when Khadgar first spoke, now it was so silent that the crackle of the fire seemed loud. He looked around, uncomfortable with the attention, and continued.

“I… well, I was. I renounced my vows.” More silence. “There’s, ah… not really a protocol in place officially, you understand. It was more of a—a personal decision. The ultimate result being my leaving Dalaran, and the Kirin Tor, and… I’m not Guardian material,” he finished, rather lamely.

“You mean you’re a fugitive,” Lothar interpreted.

The boy—Khadgar—turned to him, bridling at the accusation. “I’m not hiding.” Lothar redirected Khadgar’s attention to the king.