Chapter Ten: The Flame of Eldin
They were waiting for her but Yska was not there this time. Balka kept her face calm, her movements smooth and slow as she set the still oozing beef on the floor of their common room. It was the largest space, she had learned, connected by crisscrossing tunnels that led into the depths below the castle.
The uskers fell on the treat. It was gone in moments.
"More? More?"
"I will try," she promised. That did not satisfy them. They eyed her closely. She stood firm. Running would do nothing. She would rather face her death.
They hissed to each other, half speech, half sibilant grunts.
"If you kill me, you are no more than beasts!" she scolded them fiercely.
A few checked, heads cocked in that peculiar way. Others did not care, tongues flicking in and out.
"And no one will bring you more meat." That got their attention. "They hate you, revile you. Think you are worthless. They laugh at you."
Pride was universal, she was discovering. A failing of all man-like creatures? Priestess Kahlin would have a lecture on it. Balka swore to her goddess she would listen attentively when she returned home.
Now they hissed in anger. "Who laughs? Who?"
"Mistress' men. They laugh at you, call you stupid, ugly."
More anger. "Why? Why?"
"They are scared of you."
That pleased them. "Scared of usker?"
Balka swallowed and spoke the truth. "I am scared of you. You are large and strong. You could do anything you wanted to me."
This damp, echoing place was nothing like that quiet room in the castle. But the same fear rose up. Helplessness, confusion, the sharp taste of hate. She had hated Enon in those moments. And after, for many months, for his betrayal, the knowledge that if he had not stopped, she could not have protected herself.
She was weeping, longing for him, guilty about the kernel of fear she still felt when he touched her. He had stopped and acknowledged his error, had respected her, had proven he truly loved her. Would this fear ever leave her? Could she ever fully trust him? Was what he did unforgivable?
The uskers watched uncomprehending as she sobbed, suddenly overwhelmed by the weight of it, of all that hung over her.
One of the smarter ones, one who controlled the others, asked her, "Girl weeps?"
She wiped her nose, hating herself a little, too. What use were her tears? What had she done to aid him, other than survive?
"I miss Enon."
"Why?"
"I love him." She did, so much. It made no sense.
"Love?" It didn't understand.
"He is my mate."
It blinked at her. "Where girl's mate?"
"That witch took him!" she said angrily. "Your mistress!"
They cringed, muttering. She had been here too long.
"I have to go. I will be missed and they will beat me."
"Come here again?"
"I will try. I promise, I will try to bring more. If they catch me stealing food, they will kill me."
"Eat girl?" one asked hopefully.
The smarter one snapped at it, teeth clicking together as it scrambled back.
"Not eat girl! Who bring meat if eat girl?"
Balka gathered her basket and hurried off, still sniffing, but for the first time not feeling hungry eyes on her back.
The heat was physically oppressive. Several of the slaves fell, overwhelmed. They were left to be scavenged.
Aren's coarse humor was absent as they neared the Goron stronghold. He nervously sipped from a bottle, filled with supposed heat-resistant potion. Fool; there was no magic in this world. Only hunger and death.
A half dozen Goron stood guard outside the entrance to Baeark's dominion. Aren approached them cautiously.
"Lead me to your king!" he commanded. His voice echoed back from inside the cave.
The Goron stared at him. Then a low rumble, a voice so deep it was felt more than heard. They were allowed to pass. He disliked the heavy feel of the earth above him. It was dark and smelled of sulfur.
This Baeark was a mountain himself. He sat on a throne of silver and diamonds, their facets tinted orange by the glow of the fires.
"Aren," the Goron king said. "More worthless slaves to peddle?"
The man's voice was whining, cringing. "I bring you many strong slaves, mighty one. And a Hylian warrior, the likes you have never seen."
He frowned, remembering. "Ordonian."
One of Aren's guards whirled on him and struck with his whip. "Silence, worm!"
His palm stung as he caught the lash. The guard choked, face purple under his grip.
"I am of Ordon," he snarled.
The other guards attacked him. He had drawn his knife, ready to die here, when Baeark laughed.
They backed away as he stood. The bedrock trembled under his feet.
"For once, Aren, you speak truth." Baeark's eyes were completely black. "There is no match for the sons of Ordon. What is your price?"
He did not hear Aren's answer. A glint of red on Baeark's chest caught his attention. Deeper than the magma of the caldera, glowing with its own inner fire.
An answering fire rose in him.
"I will enjoy killing this one," Baeark said. "Will you stay to watch?"
"Sadly, I must continue my journey," Aren said mournfully. The chain around his neck was removed. "Farewell, friend Baeark."
He was thrown in a dark pit. A rock whistled, narrowly missing his head. The Gorons laughed meanly and slouched away.
The walls were too smooth to climb. He sat cross-legged on the stone floor and waited.
He woke from a dream of cool breezes over fields of green. A ladder hit the ground with a clang.
"Up!"
Once out of the pit, he was led to a wide space, lit by the sun filtering through clouds of ash and steam.
"Choose." He was shoved toward a weapon stand. He touched the hilt of a sword but drew back. What had happened to his sword?
Baeark arrived. His people cheered for him, perched on cliffs all around, jeering and mocking.
"It has been many years since I fought one of your kind," the king said. "Don't disappoint me."
The ruby still hung from his neck, a pendant of some sort.
"Nazus, they call you." Baeark went on. The Goron king held a club of stone "Apt. I have seen your kind in battle. Ruthless, hungry."
Those fires in him stirred restlessly, angry. Defensive. His people were honorable; they were not monsters.
He jumped aside, barely finding his feet before scrambling back as the club narrowly missed his head on the return swing. He fell back again and again, the power of this creature greater than any he had faced.
Baeark laughed, making the air shudder. The heat stole his breath, the coarse bellows of the others filling his ears. His knife would do little against the Goron's thick hide.
Baeark's flat black eyes watched him. He should try to escape; there was no honor in death here, murdered by this slavering beast.
The pendant swung, catching the light.
Baeark grew bored. "Is this the might of Ordon?" he taunted.
His pride had died with his people. Why else would he stoop to killing for food, tolerate being a slave? What purpose did his life have now?
He had been backed against a wall, distracted by useless philosophical musing. Baeark charged, club swinging. He sprinted to meet him, stupid and suicidal. He saw Baeark's sneer of triumph before throwing himself down. Stones cut his legs as he slid under the monstrous beast.
Baeark screamed in pain and fury. Goron blood was as black as their eyes. He twisted, landing in a crouch as Baeark stumbled, wounded in the leg.
"I will kill you slowly, human."
He wiped sweat from his face and grinned. He could not fight much longer. It was too hot, the air thick with volcanic gases, choking him. Already his limbs felt distant, numbed. His vision was narrowing.
He needed that pendant.
Baeark came forward more cautiously. Black ichor oozed down his leg.
The weapon stand was close. He rolled away from Baeark's strike, leaving the knife buried in the flesh of the beast's arm. Baeark bellowed.
The spear was unwieldy, poorly balanced. The Gorons no longer cheered.
This was his last chance. Baeark bore down on him, club raised. He sprinted to meet him.
Baeark dropped and swung low, sweeping across the ground. The spearpoint caught in a fissure in the floor, the thick shaft flexing under his weight.
The Goron's body was searing hot under his bare feet. The knife ripped free, the serrations catching on the hard Goron flesh.
Baeark's mighty hand closed around his leg. The pendant was warm in his hand. He was thrown. He hit the ground on his back, curling up to protect himself as he slid across the rough floor.
His vision was gray with pain, fatigue, heat. The ground rumbled. A shadow loomed over him, Baeark, club raised to end him.
The facets of the stone cut into his palm.
Death was supposed to be painless. It was what his father, his uncle, had promised him. It was the only comfort they had as they fell one by one, knowing that soon it would be their turn to rest.
This…this was agony. The fire chewing up his arm, wrapping him in searing coils. Burrowing into his chest to twine around his heart.
But with it came power. Strength. He pushed from the ground.
Baeark drew back. "Who are you?"
The hilt was slippery in his hand as the gold dripped to pool on the stones. "I am Enon of Ordon," he snarled. "Son of Enon, Last of the Dhatin."
The Goron king backed away, showing fear for the first time. He looked to the cliffs around, to his silent, watching people.
"Where is it?" Enon demanded. "Where is the Sword?"
Baeark did not answer but made a sharp call. Gates clanged open all around. Gorons menaced him from all sides, spears leveled.
Enon felt the power of the volcano under him, the very earth he stood on. The mighty serpent slumbering below. And there, behind a cluster of them, the way out.
Baeark continued to urge his people forward, demanding his death, the return of the ruby. As satisfying as it would be to kill the beast, Enon had what he came for.
They advanced on him. Enon clenched his fist, drawing on the rage of the fires, his own anger and hopelessness. His hands glowed brighter even than the living earth as he slammed them into the ground.
The Gorons screamed as the mountain bucked. The earth itself shrieked, tearing apart. He ran, the ground heaving under him, ignited by his fury.
The air in the canyon was cold on his skin. It was raining in the valley below. The drops hissed where they touched him.
The power of the mountain slowly calmed. He could hear its sullen murmurs, reluctantly returning to its rest. Like the hunger in him, knowing he could destroy everything, wanting to even as he feared such power.
He washed in a clear pool, the soot and blood, the stink of that hellish place. But his hands stayed golden, shimmering in the waters