Link's wanderings brought him far. Time stretched and skewed. He found himself scarred but healing as he left Hyrule behind. He traveled through great wastes, over black oceans. He met no one.
Epona is at a slow trot; the sun is strong and water is scarce. Link scans the horizon. Sand everywhere. Nothing like the dunes of the Gerudo Valley; water had dotted the valley in oases, and the landscape wasn't featureless like this. I'm going glare blind, he thinks, unconcerned. If blindness takes him, he'll simply stumble onward in darkness. He wanders no longer. Something is calling him; he knows this. Perhaps all along. A power unknown to Hyrule, something possibly stronger than the Triforce? No, unlikely. But strong enough to call him, yes. He pulls his fraying Kokiri hat down to shield his eyes from the blinding glare of the glassy sand. The heat is almost unbearable, searing his arms and face a deep tan. Sweat is soaking through his shirt and rusting his shield. He wipes it off his face, flicking his hand toward the hard pan, its deep cracks swallowing the salty liquid in seconds. He thirsts, as well, but not for water.
The day was harsh, and night's relief was a blessing. Carefully, Link inspects his rations. Low, and getting lower. Epona is exhausted; when Link dismounted she nearly collapsed to the ground. He allows her a generous amount of water and a helping of hay, and lays down beside her. The sky above them is strange, foreign. Link can see the dim outline of a small moon on the eastern horizon... And another one, slightly larger, orbiting closer to the south. Where am I? A brief thought, followed by Mido's taunting echo in his head. You're lost, idiot! You ran off like a dullard and now you're lost between hell and nowhere!
He did not resent Mido in the least. An enemy's voice is the voice clearest with truth. Hmm... Hearing voices. Am I going insane? The thought brings a dry smile to his face. If he's gone insane, it happened a long time ago. His eyes follow the hard pan path northward. Dunes. More dunes. Wait... He gets back up and squints into the distance. Hard to judge, especially in the purple dusklight, but... A building? He looks down at Epona, the horse gracelessly snoring on the dusty ground, in no condition for inspecting the curious structure. It can't be more than five or six miles away. Well, I'll find out tomorrow. He slumps back down beside his horse. He removes his equipment and lays them to his side, comfortably close, and lays his head against Epona's warm bulk. He falls asleep, and dreams of a deep forest he once called home, of a warm, optimistic green-haired girl, now rotting in her prison within the sacred realm.
He wakes a protesting Epona up a few hours before sunrise, and they eat a meager breakfast. It's much colder now, a pleasant change. He rounds Epona, and starts at a more vigorous pace toward the structures. He knows they are structures. He doesn't know how he knows, but he knows.
Closer now, he can see that the structures are indeed buildings, smaller than he had thought. Closer still, he can see a rough mud-brick wall surrounding the buildings, dissolving into the sand seamlessly. A trade post, perhaps? Nearing an opening in the walls, he slows Epona down to a trot. He realises the place is abandoned, has been for some time. Run down and macabre, he sees not a single light of human presence, Hylian or otherwise. It does not matter. If there are buildings, they will likely be resources, especially if Link's theory is correct. And perhaps suitable shelter to bunk down for the night. His hopes fall when he enters the encampment. The buildings themselves remind him of the Gerudo fortress.
Constructed of mud-bricks like the walls, in square design, they were little more than huts. The ones that still stood. Whoever had been here had left a long time ago. An old well stands opposite a wall to Link's right, bone dry. Closer inspection reveals some remaining water, murky and shallow, deep within the bottom of the well. Enough to fill Link's bottles, maybe.
Hopefully.
That night, they take shelter within the most intact looking of the buildings. The inside is musty, dusty and thoroughly looted. He once again lay at Epona's side. She is resting quietly, enjoying the comfort of the building's protective walls blocking out the harsh desert winds. Link remains awake, troubled. He had searched the cluster of buildings for anything of use, finding little. A dusty rope, an old oil lamp, a few crumbling papers. Nothing unusual... Except tracks. Recent activity, perhaps within a few days. The only ones he can imagine traveling in this desert are bandits or desert-folk, Gerudos. Perhaps his imagination, silent for so long, has decided to sabotage his chance at a quiet night's sleep.
Soon, his natural oblivion overtakes him and he wanders to the realm of grey dreams. He leaves his sword hanging on his shoulder-holster. Just in case.
He hears the man before he enters the hut. Alerted to immediate wakefulness, he sinks into a shadowy corner, awaiting the intruder's arrival, sword in hand. Epona is out cold, the heat exhausted young horse unmindful of the danger.
Good, thinks Link. A distraction.
The stranger's shadow flickers across the dim room and Link lunges. A man, taller than me. But not by much.He kicks the man hard in the small of the back. He screams, a shrill note piercing the silence, and crumples to the ground. A battered bronze dagger falls from his hand, clattering on the rocky floor. Link tucks his blade under the man's throat, silencing him quickly. The man's arm snakes toward his dagger. Link stomps on his outstretched hand. Another shrill scream shreds the night, and the man finally gives up. "I kill ya fer da', me cul," he manages to hiss through gritted teeth. His accent is heavy and implacable, his voice shrill and reedy. Link responds by pressing the blade deeper into his grungy throat. A small pearl of blood escapes a lacerated pore, running down his neck in a thin scarlet river. "Speak your name, or lose your head." Not a hint of malice. Link is cold and precise. He relaxes the sword pressed against the man's throat, and he breathes a deep sigh of relief.
"I be Copparman, ye cul. I's a wanted man in five provinces! Soon's I git out o' dis 'ere grip ye be dead!" Blood is rushing to Copparman's temples. Anger? No, a play-up. An attempt at intimidation? Fool. "You forget who's holding the sword, Mr. Copparman." To reinforce the point, Link presses the sword into the man's soft throat-flesh once again. A second droplet rolls down his neck, joining the stained first at his collarbone. Sweat washes the blood away. Copparman's pungent sweat is rolling down Link's sword, soaking his grip.
"Wait."
Link reaches across the immobilized man toward Epona for the old rope. Through all the noise, the horse still slept soundly. After a moment's groping his hand finds it. "Your hands behind your back. Now." He complies, and Link ties his hands together. This done, he moves to the window and scans the skies. Dawn will arrive, and very soon. Alright. "Mr. Copparman." He is struggling against his bonds weakly, tension-exhausted. "Where is the nearest settlement? Answer." Copparman answers by spitting blood laced mucous on Link's boot. Not one for patience, he kicks Copparman in the ribs, hard enough to wind him but not hard enough to break any bones. He howls, gasping for air, hissing a torrent of profanity and threats. "Answer!"
He says nothing.
Link raises a threatening boot- "Okee, okee ye tricksy, cully barstard, leave me achin' sides alone! Nearest towns ter de west o' 'ere, little shithole called Crun, borda' o' de Tavar province, on de edge o' de desert. No' two revs from dis ol' camp." Revs? "How long will it take on foot? How much time?" Copparman's brow furrows, his eyes turning upward, his pale and discoloured tongue lolling out of the side of his mouth. "Bou' half a day, mebbe les'." Half a day of walking... About fifteen miles. So a 'rev' must be about seven miles. Good to know. "Well, we're going there."
All the colour drains from his blotchy face.
"Wai', wai'! Let's us talk bou' dis, now! No need ter go 'ere." Sweat is pouring off the man's body now; his eyes are rolling in their sockets, bloodshot and terrified. "And why wouldn't I want to go there, Mr. Copparman?"
"Why, is nothin' but a haunt-town, is all. Nothin' 'ere but dust-toads and tumbleweed." Copparman, who had intended to rob and murder Link, would have done so without a second thought, is pleading for his life. A bounty. High enough to be dead-or-alive... Perhaps this scum is worth something after all.
Link rides Epona at a trot, slow enough to allow Copparman to pace him, brisk enough to keep him occupied. He had allowed the man to have his hands tied at the front, to relieve some stress to his back muscles, making a second knot in the bindings to tie to Epona's saddle. In the early morning light, he gets a proper look at his captive outlaw. Outlaw indeed, in most aspects of the word. He's lanky, with scraggly brown hair and beard. His eyes are wild and primitive, his teeth filthy and rotten as his sunburned skin. He is wearing a sack cloth shirt and battered dungarees, with huge brown boots that look old as sin.
Link almost pities him.
Almost.
"C'mon no' mate, dear-'eart! Spare me life, and I's make ye a rich lad, so I does! Please!" The man simply wouldn't shut up, going between gibbering threats and begging for release. Link ignores him and rides on.
It's late day before they reach the town, though they could see the smoke from miles away.
He hears nothing but the wind blowing sand off the ancient dunes to his sides and Copparman's hoarse breathing. The bandit gave up the ghost a ways back, lapsing into a laboured silence. Twice they had stopped to rest since then, Link allowing Copparman a small share of his rations. Both times he wolfed the hard bread and jerky down without a word, and guzzled the offered waterskin like a man dying of thirst.
But seeing the town, his silence breaks. A deep breath flows through his mouth in a long, windy whistle. Then he begins to giggle. Soon his snickering turns to unabashed laughing. He rolls down on his stomach, erupting peals of insane, roaring laughter.
Link is in shock.
The town is walled, much like the previous camp, though much larger. The walls are taller, as well, but it makes no difference; there are massive, gaping holes throughout the perimeter. But that's the least of the damage. Many of the mud-brick buildings are in ruins, some teetering on the edge of collapse; purple smoke issues from many holes in their foundations. A horrible odour wafts on the breeze, the sickening, sweet smell of decay, chokingly strong. "Somethin' hit 'ese fucka's hard! Smells li'e nuttin bu' new death up in 'ere. No' wha', Mr. 'ero?" Link stirs Epona, not taking his eyes off the burning town. There are scorch marks everywhere, black and sulfurous, scars of a firefight not days ago. Epona herself seems transfixed by the devastation, making only halting advances toward the town. Link gives a hard tug on the rope connecting Copparman's bindings to Epona's saddle, effectively ending his maddening laughter. Now only a few hundred feet from the first building, the smell of decay is so strong it forces a gag out of Link, making him cover his nose with his dusty tunic. Copparman seems unaffected; he simply follows, with a gap-tooth grin too wide to be even remotely sane.
The sun under the town is blocked by the smoke clouds; the largest one is near the center, a deep, black body bulging like a tumour against the white sky. The sun is a beady white circle set in the covered sky, like a beast's malignant eye. The hard pan has resolved to a rough dirt road, and now Link can see drag-lines of blood, dried to a murky brown, to his left and right. Save for Link, Epona and Copparman, nothing moves. They are walking down a corridor street, with buildings to his left and right; most of the doors are kicked in or burned, and he sees multiple streaks of dried blood leading out from them down the road. Catching a brief glimpse of something unspeakable nailed to a half-broken door, Link forces himself to look the other way until he's sure it has been passed. "Oy, looks like summun's rottin babby's nail'd ter dis 'ere door! 'E musta pist summun off, uh, Mr. 'ero?" More bouts of maniacal laughter gutter from behind Link.
He halts Epona, turns to his left, convulses, and pules his lunch on the dry ground. He spits once, and reassures Epona back into a trot.
"Mr. 'ero feelin bi' under de wedder? Poor widdle cul-"
Link suddenly kicks Epona into a bolt run. Copparman's face turns slowly from hysteria to horror, almost comically, when he's yanked abruptly from his laughing gait onto the ground. His chest splashes in the congealing vomit-puddle briefly, then he is pulled through the dirt, screaming obscenities and curses.
Link stops for a moment, letting Copparman get up, amid mutterings of culface and assmeat under his breath, before easing Epona once again into a generous trot. Now the streaks are collecting into a series of long ropy lines, leading around a corner to his left. Link looks up toward the massive cloud plume, only a few dozen feet away now, then back down to the blood streaks. It dawns on him.
No, no no.. not that..
His heart is a wild bird, fluttering rapidly. He's shaking, though not enough for Copparman to notice. He steadies himself, and prods Epona onwards.
She moves with great reluctance toward the corner.
Copparman may act a dullard, but his wild intuition tells him of a change in his captor, a change for the worse. He himself is naught but curious, the place where he was caught and nearly executed reduced to ash, rubble and dried blood within the few days he was on the run for.
Epona's head pokes out past the side of the wall for only a moment, then withdraws immediately, coughing. Link dismounts, and walks stiffly to the corner. He steps out to the opposing dirt road, his face slightly illuminated by a dim light; the deep blue-black cloud above them chokes off the sun, leaving them in a strange twilight.
He sways, and comes crashing down on his knees.
Seeing an opportunity, Copparman sneaks out behind Link, intending to dash him in the back of the head with his boot heel. Coming out to the crossroad, he stops dead.
Bodies.
Everywhere.
Burning.
A mountain of corpses towers above them both, the center of a bonfire. Burning pitches and shriveled faces greet them with oily black smears for eyes and skull-smiles. The ones on top are more intact. Horribly disfigured humanoids, their shrieks of pure agony still etched upon their blackened and blistered faces.