Chapter Text
The prison cell was bleak, but Khadgar had been in worse.
Surrounded by thick stone walls on three sides, the fourth wall of the cell consisted of a solid iron grating facing a dark corridor. There were no windows to mark the passing of time, but lamplight flickered dimly in the hall and he was grateful to not be moldering in complete darkness. Guards came with food; usually stew of some sort and a chunk of bread. He had water, a chamber pot, and a thin wool blanket. Compared to his recent living conditions in Elwynn Forest, the cell was almost cozy. Other than the chains.
There weren’t any prisoners nearby. At least, nobody responded when he’d called out – until the guard had put a stop to that. Prison guards didn’t use many words, he’d decided, but their leather-gloved fists had conveyed the point with remarkable eloquence.
Although iron shackles clanked at his wrists and ankles, he had enough chain to hobble across the cell and feed himself when the bowl was pushed through the grating. Shackles alone would have been useless to hold a mage, but the collar at his throat was another matter. Feeling the solid ring of metal, he’d determined it was inlaid with what felt like five large gems. The collar was most certainly enchanted to inhibit magic users. He could still feel his connection to the arcane, powerful and strong as a heartbeat, but he couldn’t reach it. It was like staring through a pane of glass at something tangible, but untouchable. He was powerless in the jail cell, more helpless than he’d been in years.
Stormwind was taking no chances with the scruffy, teenage, half-trained mage.
He thought that some days had passed in the prison, but couldn’t be sure. He’d come to consciousness face-first on the stone floor, scarcely finding time to orient himself before bile rose and he’d vomited – a reflex, he'd learned, from the collar when he tried to touch the arcane. There was no way to know how long he’d been unconscious. They’d taken his cloak, shoes, and outer clothing, leaving his lightweight tunic and pants that had started out filthy and were getting increasingly worse.
His head ached, half of his face still swollen and tender, presumably from the blow that had knocked him unconscious. Everything was hazy leading up to his arrest. He’d known that the guards would never have allowed him inside the royal barracks, so he hadn’t bothered asking for permission. Instead, he’d crept as close as he’d dared, cast a spell that afforded him twenty seconds of fairly reliable invisibility, and slipped inside. That was beginning to feel like a poor decision.
The corpses had been easy to find. A stench lingered in the streets of Stormwind, reeking of iron and refuse and old blood, and he followed it to the source. It wasn’t an actual smell – more like a sensation that oozed across his senses. It was magical, of course – something foul, unnatural, and like almost nothing he’d ever sensed before. He hadn’t known exactly what he was looking for, but he knew the corpses held answers.
Death didn’t normally bother him, but staring at the bodies, he’d been shaken and nauseated. Some had born deep slashes and wounds from battle, but he was certain that something else had killed the soldiers. Something magical. Some of the corpses were waxy and gray, faces and limbs twisted in agony, looking almost like melted candles. Swallowing down his nervousness, he’d approached the bodies, looking for something to indicate what manner of spell had been used. Many magics left distinct traces, if you knew what to look for – burn patterns, smells, arcane residues and the like. Misfortune struck when he was discovered only moments into his examination of the first body, elbows deep inside her blouse and looking up at the soldiers with an expression that he was sure was guilty as hell.
They’d shouted, outraged, and he’d hurriedly cast the invisibility spell again. Sprinting down the hall, he’d woven a shimmer spell that would transport him precisely twenty yards ahead, widening the distance from the pursuing soldiers. The spell blinked him forward, and he was already pivoting to the open door, too sudden to dodge the looming shape that materialized before him. That’s all he remembered – intense pain, crashing like white lightning through his skull, then blackness.
The shimmer spell was one that he had practiced over and over again for years. He knew the twenty-yard distance like he knew his own face. He thought tiredly that he must have misjudged his speed and transported into a wall. Or something. It didn’t really matter.
Khadgar curled on the cot and felt himself drifting in and out of consciousness – whether from exhaustion or from the pain in his head, he wasn’t sure. There were new voices nearby, but he couldn’t summon the energy to rise and face his visitors. Maybe they would go away and let him die in peace.
“On your feet, corpse-fucker.” Not a prison guard’s voice. His eyes cracked open, disoriented, and saw a pair of men come into view. One was carrying a lamp that hurt his eyes, and he struggled with the sudden wish to whimper like a child and beg for release. Pushing himself slowly upright on the cot, he hoped to appear calm and composed.
“My name is Khadgar,” he said, squinting into the light at the hard faces. And I wasn't fucking any corpses, he added to himself. Clearly, the name meant nothing to them. He tensed as the cell door swung open and the men stepped inside. Rough hands pulled him to his feet, one of the men pinning Khadgar’s left arm to the stone wall and pushing back his sleeve, pulling at the cloth wrapped there as if searching for something. He cried out, knees buckling suddenly as white sparks of pain danced across his vision. They couldn’t have known that the bandage would scrape across the twisted, still-blistered skin of his arm. From wrist to elbow, the skin was raw and angry from an unmistakable arcane burn.
Surprised and disgusted, the man threw him back onto the cot. Turning to his companion, he muttered, “That’s where it would be. Can’t say for sure.”
The other man nodded slowly and said, “Fugitive, probably.”
“Think he fucked some corpses in Dalaran, too? Might be a bounty.”
“For a dead mage? Could be.”
Khadgar knew what they were looking for and shivered. The eye of the Kirin Tor was a mark the size of his palm, branded by fiery magic onto the forearm of mages who took vows of apprenticeship with the renowned mages of Dalaran. He knew with grim satisfaction that they’d find no mark on his arm. Not since Kirin Tor had burned it off. Three months had passed, and the burn was scarcely healed. He thought that detail had been added as a touch of spite, because nobody left the Kirin Tor once initiated. Nobody, that is, until Khadgar had.
“I renounced my vows.” He struggled to speak slowly, clearly. His head still swam, and the urge to vomit was ever-present. “I must speak with your commander. I can explain –”
The bigger of the men squatted down, face level to Khadgar’s. “I am the commander,” he said, grabbing a fistful of hair and pulling Khadgar’s head backward, forcing him to stare into the light. Oh, thought Khadgar, sort of dimly. He had the strangest feeling that he'd seen the man somewhere before, but couldn't place it. Piercing blue eyes seemed to fill Khadgar’s world as the commander asked intensely, “What are you doing in my city, spell-chucker?”
He couldn’t explain, couldn’t seem to form the words. “Let me finish my examination of the bodies,” Khadgar insisted, feeling as though his mind was pushing through a fog. Why couldn’t these stupid men understand that he was trying to help them? “People are dying, I can help-,” he began. The room spun slowly and he reeled forward, collapsing onto the commander.
---
“-concussion is likely,” he heard the soldier say. “They said it look like he ported right into Dobby’s ass.”
“I always like that horse,” the commander chuckled. “Fully armored, was he?”
“Yes. Solid plate. Just fitted in new gear. Must have been an awesome crash. I think he stomped him for good measure.”
Khadgar didn’t like them chatting blithely about his near death. He hadn’t even seen a war-horse in the barracks. He groaned loudly to remind that he was still alive and miserable. Hands on his shoulders pulled him upright again, and he sat weakly against the wall, fighting another rising retch. “I’m not well,” he said quietly. He raised his manacled wrists slightly, looking at the commander. “Can you please…?”
“No.” The commander’s voice was like iron, and he nodded to the soldier. “Varis, the potion.”
Varis pulled a small, red bottle from a pouch his belt and held it to Khadgar’s lips. “Swallow, boy.” Seeing his distrustful look, the soldier laughed – a harsh, mean sound. “It’s not poison, although you’d deserve it. It’s a healing potion.”
Khadgar nodded and swallowed it down. The potion flooded through his body in a red rush, tingling briefly from head to toe. Relief from the throbbing pain in his head was almost instant, and even the burning in his arm subsided a little. Bless those alchemists, he thought fervently.
“Why should I let you paw at my soldiers’ bodies, mage?” The commander was relentless.
Feeling strengthened by the potion, Khadgar sat up straighter, breathing a huff of irritation through his nose. “Within those bodies is the secret to your attacks. Your men weren’t killed by swords. I have training in the arcane. I can help you.”
The commander stared at him for a long moment. Khadgar tried not to hold his breath, wondering how long he might rot in prison if the man did not believe him. Finally, he seemed to decide with a curt nod. Standing, the commander called to the guard and directed him to unshackle Khadgar’s ankles.
The trio moved briskly through the prison warren, the commander’s iron grip never leaving his shoulder. His legs were still wobbly, and he leaned on the commander for support more than was necessary. They weren’t making this easy for him, so he wouldn’t make it easy for them, either. He felt like people stared at him as he passed, perhaps aware of his reputation as an admirer of the dead. He was sorry for that misconception. Better to be thought a common thief than a violator of corpses.
With a final shove, the commander pushed him into the room with the bodies, and he was faced again with the horror of stretched, sagging, gray skin. Pushing his nausea aside, he moved for the closest body, the two soldiers watching closely as he worked. A man, middle aged and bearded. He worked to pull the clothing off to reveal the waxy skin, running his fingers lightly up and down. Probing, looking for a telltale mark. He even pushed his face close, inhaling deeply. Biting his lip unconsciously, he pulled the corpse’s stiffened jaw down and pushed two fingers carefully inside the mouth. The tongue was beginning to harden, but the teeth were still solid, maybe a hint of grit, which might be troll magic – Khadgar leaped backwards as a sudden jet of foul, green mist shot upward from the man’s throat into the room, hurriedly pulling his sleeve protectively over his mouth. The soldiers had jumped back too.
He faced the commander with horror, feeling his eyes widen as his heart pounded in his chest. No, it couldn’t be. Not here. Not in Azeroth. He had to be wrong.
“What was that?” The commander’s words were terse, biting, as he stabbed a finger towards the corpse.
Khadgar composed himself, looking around the room at the men as he shook his head in denial. “You must summon the Guardian Medivh.”
“What would you know of the Guardian Medivh?” Varis interjected, looking over at the commander for support. Frustration showing, he pounded his fist suddenly onto the table and said pleadingly, “Why are we listening to this criminal? His kind would say anything to save his own skin.”
“It should be he who explains,” Khadgar insisted. Chin up, he stared levelly at the commander. As if they were peers. As if he wasn’t standing barefoot, filthy, in chains.
“Only the king summons the Guardian.” The commander stared balefully at the young mage, moving slowly forward until their faces nearly met. “If you are wasting my time, boy, it’ll be worse than prison for you.” Turning to Varis, he snapped, “Get him to Goldshire.”
“Yes, sir.” Varis nodded curtly and jerked his head at Khadgar. “Let’s go.”
Khadgar tried to hide his sigh of relief. Not going back to the cell, he thought gratefully. Not yet.