Warcraft: Official Movie Novelization

One thing that had remained the same, though, was the room they entered—the library. As high as the walls rose, so it seemed did the rows of books that encircled a winding staircase in the middle of the large chamber. They lined what felt like every inch of the curving stone wall: shelf after shelf, tome upon tome, boxes innumerable filled with scrolls, every last one of them, Lothar knew, rare and precious and most likely unique. There were so many of them that ladders had been erected connecting to a reading terrace above them—which was also filled with books. And, as if books in shelves or on a terrace were not sufficiently excessive, there were stacks of books as tall as Lothar himself scattered about the floor. The knowledge that lay within them could never be absorbed by a single person in his or her lifetime.

At least, no ordinary single person.

More striking than the almost obscene glut of priceless knowledge, though, were the veins of magic that provided light to read them by.

They flowed upward and along the shelves, bright, glowing white rivulets that seemed to burst into bloom across the ceiling high above their heads. Khadgar looked like a boy in a pastry shop, ready to devour everything, and Lothar supposed he could hardly blame him.

“These lead to the Guardian’s font?” Khadgar asked, his gaze glued to the feathery tendrils of illumination. His voice shook ever so slightly.

Moroes’s eyes widened a fraction and he threw Lothar an inquisitive look, as if to say what sort of interesting tidbit have you brought me? “Indeed,” he answered. “Karazhan was built at a point of confluence—”

“—Where ley lines meet, I know,” Khadgar breathed. He shook his head, obviously almost overwhelmed. “The power that must be locked away here… the knowledge!” He laughed, a surprisingly innocent sound. “I didn’t know so many books even existed!”

Moroes looked even more intrigued. Lothar wasn’t ready to answer questions from the castellan until he’d asked a few of his own. “Where is he?” he inquired bluntly.

Moroes gave his old friend a knowing smile. He extended an index finger, and pointed it directly up.

Of course. “Wait here,” Lothar said to Khadgar, eyeing the winding staircase that went up… and up… and braced himself for the climb. He was certain the boy would obey this particular command. Mages. Ordinary youths Khadgar’s age would have been more excited about entering an armory. Lothar understood the value of books, but this boy was just as Medivh had been—hungering for knowledge as if it were meat and drink. For them, perhaps it was. He added, “Try not to touch anything,” but he harbored no illusions that this second instruction would be followed.

Moroes led the way. Lothar waited until they had made a few turns on the staircase and were safely out of Khadgar’s earshot. “He sees no one?”

Moroes shrugged. “The world’s been at peace.”

Again, an answer that wasn’t really one. “There were other obligations. The floods in Lordaeron. King Magni’s weddings.” He smiled a little. There had been a time when he, Medivh, and Llane would never have missed the opportunity for so much fine dwarven beer. The smile faded. “He was absent for all of them.”

“Yes,” Moroes confirmed. He was silent for a few steps, then, “I am glad you are here, Lothar. It will do the Guardian a world of good to see a friendly face beyond this old mug.”

“He could have seen it at any time over the last six years,” Lothar said.

“Yes,” Moroes said again, with that irritating avoidance of any information that could be of actual enlightenment.

Damn, Lothar had forgotten how high the tower was. “Tell me what you can, Moroes,” he said. “Let’s start with who left, and why.”

It was a good topic, and allowed Lothar to conserve his breath for the seemingly endless climb of the tight curve of the staircase. Moroes moved like a gnomish automaton, his pace regular, steady, and vexingly untiring.

The staff responsible for the care of guests were the first to be let go, Moroes informed Lothar; the maids, the footmen, much of the kitchen staff. Since he planned to have no more visitors, there was no need to have servants, Medivh had said. There was therefore also no need for extra steeds or hunting hounds. The master of Karazhan had let the grooms and kennel tenders have their pick of the beasts when they left, and the groundskeeping staff was cut to the bone. Even the animals were sent away; the inhabitants who remained relied on a few chickens for eggs and vegetables from the gardens.

And on it went. Lothar listened—he had to; he was becoming too winded to talk—with a growing sense of unease as Moroes continued the litany of those no longer present at the Tower of Karazhan. “The illustrators were the last to leave,” Moroes finished up. The illustrators. Not those who grew the food, or prepared it, or kept the tower in a state of repair. Lothar did not like the image of his old friend Moroes had created.