Warcraft: Official Movie Novelization

“The Guardian keeps mostly to himself now,” Moroes finished. “But he can’t refuse you. Nor King Llane. Not if he’s summoned.” Lothar had subtly, or so he thought, leaned casually against the center column of the tightly winding stair in an effort to catch his breath. Moroes eyed him. He breathed in deeply, moving his hands to indicate that Lothar do likewise, said “Chop chop,” and continued climbing briskly.

Lothar looked up at the seemingly countless stories yet to go, and in that moment would have liked nothing better than to hurl Moroes off the steps. Grunting softly, Lothar, looking daggers at the much older man’s back as he ascended, followed with legs made of rubber.

They finally reached the topmost chamber of the Tower of Karazhan. It was open and airy. Alcoves bearing the Eye of the Kirin Tor alternated with stained-glass windows. The colored light that filtered in mixed with the illumination provided by the room’s central focus—the Guardian’s Font. Like a gently roiling cauldron, the font bubbled and occasionally shot up a spray of pale blue mist; it was a pool of magical energy so powerful that Lothar didn’t even like to think about it. A platform ringed the room, reachable by two sets of stairs, and housed Medivh’s private sleeping area. This much, Lothar had seen on previous visits to Karazhan.

But the statue was new.

It was not a statue, not yet. At the moment, it was nothing more than a vaguely man-shaped hunk of clay towering fifteen to twenty feet over the glowing pool. The light cast shifting streams of white on its brown, lumpy shape. The thing was chunky, its limbs thick as tree trunks, with a featureless blob stuck on its enormous body. It was held up by scaffolding, against which was propped a staff with a carved raven.

Perched atop a ladder was its sculptor.

The Guardian of Azeroth was smaller than Lothar in height and bulk, and his power did not come from his ability to swing a sword, but he was still tall and well-formed. Sweat and clay decorated his bare torso as he worked, using tools as well as his hands to mold the earthen figure before him. His back was toward the newcomers, and muscles clenched and unclenched as he continued to work.

Without turning around, Medivh asked, “Did you send for him, Moroes?” His voice was clear and strong, the question seemingly idle, but there was a slight warning timbre to it.

“He did not,” Lothar answered, trying and failing not to pant from the insane climb. A lump of clay sat on the table, and, still catching his breath, Lothar poked at it. “So,” he said, to fill the silence, “you’ve become a sculptor?”

Now Medivh turned around. Lothar wasn’t sure what he’d been expecting. The disrepair of the once-magnificent Karazhan, Moroes’s story of solitude, six years of no contact whatsoever—but Medivh looked like… Medivh. His hair, long and loose and untidy, was the same shade of sandy brown, his beard the same hue. No sudden streaks of white, or deep lines on his brow, though the Guardian’s face, like Lothar’s, had a few more wrinkles than in years past. His eyes looked tired, but his body strong and fit as ever.

“Making a golem, actually,” Medivh said casually. He eyed his creation for a moment, then, using a strand of wire between two wooden handles, shaved off a curl of clay on the thing’s shoulder.

“A golem,” Lothar said, nodding as if he knew exactly what Medivh meant.

“A clay servant,” Medivh said. “Usually takes years for the magic to seep into the clay, but up here…” He gestured at the font of liquid white magic. “Much faster! Maybe Moroes can use it. Help around the house.”

“There’s no one else to help him,” Lothar said bluntly, even as he gratefully accepted a cup of watered wine from the servant.

Medivh shrugged, leaping lightly down from the ladder and reaching for a towel. He wiped at his clay-spattered torso ineffectively.

“I like the quiet.” The two old friends stood and regarded each other for a moment. Medivh’s face softened into a genuine smile, and his voice was warm. “It’s good to see you, Lothar.”

“You’ve been missed, old friend,” Lothar said, “but I’ve not come to reminisce and catch up. We need guidance now, Medivh.”

He removed the ring with the royal seal that Llane had given him. It was a heavy thing. He held it between thumb and forefinger, showing it to Medivh. “Our king summons you.”

A subtle mask of impassivity hardened the Guardian’s features as he took the ring for a moment, regarding it as it lay in his palm. He handed it back. Lothar noticed that there was a smudge of clay on it, and he wiped it off before putting it back on his finger.

“Who’s the boy downstairs?” Medivh asked.

The boy downstairs was presently happier than a pig in slop.