Varis had been right. Branded on the youth’s arm was the image of an eye.
“Sha’la ros!” yelped the boy, his eyes glowing with blue light. Lothar’s free hand covered the mage’s mouth, muffling the incantation. Bright cerulean magic swirled in the boy’s right fingers, fading without the power of words to feed it. Lothar pushed his face in close to the mage’s.
“That’s the mark of the Kirin Tor. What are you doing in my city, spell chucker?”
The young mage sagged, and lowered his hand. The magic he had summoned disappeared. Cautiously, Lothar removed his hand and let him speak. “Let me complete my examination of the body across the hall,” he said calmly, as if his words were actually reasonable.
Lothar grinned ferally. “Now… why would I do that?”
The boy’s dark brows drew together—frustration? Concern? “Within that body is the secret to your attacks.” He licked his lips, suddenly looking like a teenage boy again. “I can help you.”
Lothar’s eyes narrowed as he searched the boy’s face. He hadn’t got to where he was without being a good judge of people, and there was something about the boy that was genuine. Lothar escorted the young mage to the room he’d requested—keeping a firm grip on the eye-marked arm as he did so.
Karos pushed back the curtain, revealing the corpse the mage had been caught examining. Lothar stopped so quickly that Varis, bringing up the rear, almost bumped into him.
Hardened soldier that he was, Lothar had witnessed myriad deaths, from the civilized to the brutal. But this…
Both eyes and mouth were open. The skin was gray and striated with darker threads, like gangrene but nothing so familiar. The cheeks were sunken and the eyes, encrusted with what looked like a rim of salt, were hard and glassy. Nothing about this… thing, if it could even be called a body, was natural.
The young mage didn’t answer. He, too, looked repelled by what he saw, but resolute to continue with his investigation. He analyzed the body, observing everything, then his gaze wandered inexorably to the barely human face. Steeling himself, the boy leaned over and gingerly inserted two fingers into the open mouth, pulling the jaw down. Lothar leaned in to watch, disgusted and fascinated, as the mage’s fingers probed.
A faint tendril of green mist spouted upward, then vanished. The soldiers—Lothar among them—gasped. The mage leaped back, covering his mouth and nose with his sleeve, clearly not wanting the strange green steam to touch him. His face was pale, and he swallowed hard before turning to face Lothar.
“What was that?” Lothar demanded.
The youth took a deep breath, trying to calm himself. “You must summon the Guardian. It should be he who explains it.”
It was a statement, not a request. Lothar blinked. “Medivh?” asked Karos, eyeing his commander.
“We’re wasting time!” the boy insisted.
Lothar regarded him with narrowed eyes. “Only the King summons the Guardian. Not I, and certainly not some scruffy puppy who barely has his first whiskers.” To Karos, he said, “Get him to Goldshire.”
The night was old, and dawn was not far away as Lothar’s gryphon landed gracefully near the cozy Lion’s Pride Inn. The air was damp and chill, the forest sounds that of the night creatures going about their business rather than the song of birds. A few yards distant, some of the locals had gathered despite the hour, making an outing of their own to ogle the king, his guard, and the flurry of activity.
“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 offer 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?”