The latter changed within the more recent messages (they were not dated, but Khadgar began to determine where they fell within a timeline, both by the yellowing of the parchment and the increasing fever pitch of demands and advice). The tone became more consolatory with the sudden appearance of the orcs, particularly as they started raiding caravans. But the undercurrent of demands on Medivh’s time remained, and even increased.
Khadgar looked at the old man lying on the bed and wondered what would possess him to help these people and help them on a regular basis.
And then there were the mystery letters—the occasional thanks, the references to some arcane text, a response to an unknown question—“Yes,” “No,” and “The emu, of course.” During his vigil at Medivh’s bedside one mystery letter arrived, without signature. It read “Prepare quarters. The Emissary will arrive shortly.”
At the end of the third week two letters arrived one evening with a traveling merchant, one with the purple seal, the other red-sealed and addressed to Khadgar himself. Both were from the Violet Citadel of the Kirin Tor.
The letter to Khadgar began, in a spidery hand, “We regret to inform you of the sudden and unexpected death of the instructor mage Guzbah. We understand you have been in correspondence with the late mage and we share your emotion and sympathy at this time. If you have any correspondence, moneys, or information currently due to Guzbah, or are in possession of any of his property (in particular any of his books on loan), the return of that correspondence, money, information, or property would be appreciated, sent to the below address.” A set of numbers and a lazy, illegible scrawl marked the bottom of the letter.
Khadgar felt as if he had been struck in the gut. Guzbah, dead? He turned the letter over, but no further information fell out. Stunned, he reached for the purple-sealed letter. This was in the same spider-hand, but once it was decoded held more information.
Guzbah was found slain in the library on the eve of the Feast of Scribes, in the midst of a reviewing Denbrawn’s Treatise on the “Song of Aegwynn.” (Khadgar felt a pang of remorse for not sending his former instructor the scroll.) He was apparently taken by surprise from a beast (presumably summoned) which ripped him apart. The death was quick but painful, and the explanation of how the body was found detailed to the point of excess. From the description of the body and the shambles of the library, Khadgar could only conclude that the “summoned beast” was a demon of the type Medivh had fought in Stormwind.
The letter continued, the words maintaining a cold, analytical tone that Khadgar found excessive. The writer noted that this was the seventh death within the year of a mage of the Violet Citadel, including that of the archmage Arrexis. It went on further to note that this was the first death of this type where the victim was not a member of the Order itself. The writer wanted to know if Medivh had been in contact with Guzbah, either directly or through his apprentice (Khadgar had a moment of déjà vu looking at his own name in print). The unknown author went forward to speculate that since he was not a member of the Order, Guzbah might be responsible for the summoning of the beast for some other matter, and if this was the case, then Medivh should be aware that Khadgar had been Guzbah’s student at one point.
Khadgar felt a sharp pain of anger. How dare this mysterious writer (it had to be someone high within the Kirin Tor hierarchy, but Khadgar had no idea who) impinge both Guzbah and himself! Khadgar wasn’t even present when Guzbah was killed! Perhaps this writer was the one responsible, or someone like Korrigan—the librarian was always researching demon-worshipers. Casting accusations about like that!
Khadgar shook his head and took a deep breath. No, such speculation was futile and fueled only by personal indignation, like so much of the politics of the Kirin Tor. The anger faded to sadness and realization that the mighty mages of the Violet Citadel were unable to stop this, that seven wizards (six of them members of this supposedly secret and powerful Order) had died, and all this writer could do was cast about aspersions in the desperate hope that there would be no additional deaths. Khadgar thought of Medivh’s quick and decisive actions at Stormwind Keep, and marveled that there was no one of equal wit, drive, and intelligence within his own community.
The young mage picked up the encoded letter and examined it again in the wan candlelight. The Feast of Scribes was over a month and a half ago. It took this long for the message to cross the sea and reach them overland. A month and a half. Before Huglar and Hugarin were killed in Stormwind. If the same demon was involved, or even the same summoner, it would have to move between the two points very, very swiftly. Some of the demons in the vision had wings—was it possible for such a beast to move between the locations without anyone spotting it?
An errant and unexpected breeze wafted through. The hairs on the back of Khadgar’s neck began to bristle, and he looked up in time to see the figure manifest within the room.
First there was smoke, red as blood, bubbling out from some pinprick hole in the universe. It coiled and curdled upon itself like milk rising through water, quickly forming a swirling mass, through which stepped the looming form of a great demon.
Its form was reduced from when Khadgar had seen it before, on the field of snow in the timelost vision. It had shrunk itself to allow it to fit within the confines of the room. Still its flesh was of bronze, its armor of jet-black iron, and its beard and hair of animated fire, huge horns erupting from a massive brow. It was weaponless, but seemed to need no weapons, for it moved with the comfortable grace of a predator that fears nothing.
Sargeras.
Khadgar was stunned into silence and immobility. Surely the wards Medivh had maintained would keep such a beast at bay? Yet here it was, entering the tower, entering the Magus’s very room with the ease of a noble entering a commoner’s shack.
The Lord of the Burning Legion did not look around, instead glided to the foot of the bed. He stood there for a long moment, the flames of his beard and hair flickering without sound, as he regarded the unconscious form before him. The demon stood watching the sleeping mage.
Khadgar held his breath and looked around the worktable. A few tomes, the candle backlit by a mirror for greater illumination. A letter opener used to break the purple seals. The young mage slowly reached for the opener, trying to move without attracting the great demon’s attention. His fingers wrapped around it tightly, his knuckles white.
Still Sargeras stood at the foot of the bed. A long moment passed, and Khadgar tried to will himself to move. Either to flee or to attack. His muscles felt locked in position.
Medivh shifted in his bedding, mumbling something unheard. The demon lord raised a hand slowly, as if to pronounce a benediction on the Magus’s inert form.
Khadgar gave a strangled cry and thrust himself up from his chair, letter opener clutched in his hand. Only at this moment did he realize that he held the opener in his wrong hand.
The demon looked up, and it was a lazy, smooth motion, as if the demon himself was sleeping, or far underwater. It regarded the charging youth, hand raised in a clumsy attack with a short, sharp dagger.
The demon smiled. Medivh shifted and muttered in his sleep. Khadgar drove the letter opener into the demon’s chest.
And through the creature’s body entirely. The thrust of his blow carried him forward, through the form of Sargeras, and sent him spinning toward the opposite wall. Unable to stop, he slammed into the wall, and the letter opener jangled to the stone floor.
Medivh’s eyes popped open, and the Guardian sat up. “Moroes? Khadgar? Are you here?”