An Interlude

I was really worried about her.

I could hear her scribbling away at her desk, no doubt either sketching monsters to show to the swordsmen or making blueprints for some new building project. She had said that, hadn't she? She wanted the swordsmen to ask around for builders so that she could start a project.

I winced, audibly and visibly, when it occurred to me what some of her last projects were. Some of them were amazing of course, like the massive obsidian generator and chandelier, but some of them were just ridiculous and unnecessary, like the beanstalk and skybridge or fallen star farm. But what would she want to build here? This land was in dire need of her help, so what could she build to help herself and the swordsmen along?

Perhaps a couple of lookout towers, in case of goblin invasions – after all, she was more than likely to smash a few shadow orbs in the process of ridding this place of the corruption. They made a good vantage point, and were also handy for shooting down one or two of the goblins before they attacked.

Damn goblins . . . I had helped her face an army of them once, at least one-hundred, and it had nearly killed the both of us, even with the help of the Demolitionist and Arms Dealer. But after that she had faced army after army, at least four of them, all by herself, and she had won.

But I knew, as did she, that although the goblins were weakened they were still out there. There was at least fifty left of them, hiding in caves and underground. She had encountered a scout or two, even in peacetime, and with the death of each one she had taken a piece of tattered cloth, a symbol of a goblin's rank, to prove her victory.

But she had actually wanted the goblins to stay alive, to keep gathering forces because she knew she had killed far too many of them, and also because they weren't too different from humans. Stupider and easier to kill, but most certainly humanoid.

I had my own interest in them as well – I wanted to know what language they spoke. All I had ever heard from them was the odd guttural grunt or squeal from them in battle, but if they were civilised enough to form an army, complete with mages, then surely they had to speak a language . . . They had to be able to communicate!

And what good was an army without a leader? Zelda68 was something of a leader in Terraria, (being hero and all) but she never acted like it and neither did anybody else. In fact, everybody made sure not to – she was smug enough when she wanted to be already! But I refuse to believe that an army 200 members strong could function without a leader, or without sufficient means of communication.

I paused in mid-thought and frowned. How had being worried about Zelda68 lead to my thinking about goblins and their means of communication? Sometimes my mind did strange things . . .

I sighed, listening to the scribble of pen on paper. Zelda68 had been going for a few hours, it really wasn't healthy . . . Had she even had any dinner? After fainting twice in a day? She seriously needed to keep her health up if she was going to help this place out. She needed to be in her prime, like before all of that rubbish happened with the Eye. Seriously. This place was absolutely covered with the corruption with the exception of Leaf's forest and this village, and they would've been buried by it as well if she hadn't been there.

I clutched the sides of my head, trying to concentrate. It was so hard . . . Zelda68 was still scribbling away, and judging by the amount of noise she was making her pen was as good as ripping right through the paper. Stressed as always . . . I could practically picture her looming over a piece of paper, ignoring the pain from her recently-stabbed back, feverishly scribbling blueprints and diagrams until she lost consciousness. There was a time when the very idea of Zelda68 at a desk, let alone writing something, was absolutely ludicrous. I had to teach her how to write word by word, and although she didn't take to it as well as I might've hoped she had been forced to adapt when Terraria had been put in danger. She ended up as an expert in every kind of non-educational field imaginable, but had mastered the basics of reading, writing and drawing.

She was particularly good at writing (not that she'd ever let her read anything she had written, but I had on occasion seen her pouring over a diary that was well over 100 pages!) and loved drawing, but only did anything to do with them if it was strictly necessary. But then again, where did the diary fit into that? Maybe she was more articulate than I suspected . . .

I closed my eyes, trying to picture what she was drawing. I could judge from the sound of the long strokes that she made with her pen that she was drawing (obviously), but it was an uneven pattern as she, every now and then, would draw in the odd lone detail. I could tell that she was using something straight to draw completely straight lines, so whatever she was drawing was no doubt important . . .

Suddenly finding it hard to think, I raised my head and frowned. Why was it so quiet? I couldn't hear Zelda68's pen against rough paper or the tearing of pages that were deemed terrible, nor her grunting with dissatisfaction at her absent-minded scribbles.

Just as I was getting used to it . . .

What had happened?

I stood up and walked slowly towards the door. Was she okay? Had she fainted again?

Three times a day . . . A new record, to be sure, and something she would no doubt be proud of.

I crept along the hallway, trying not to make a sound as I knew that the mayor was asleep just down the corridor, and I also knew that he tends to get angry when you wake him up . . .

. . . And he can get scary when he's angry.

I found her door closed, which was a rare enough occurrence. Often she couldn't be bothered after a hard day's work . . . But today had hardly been a hard day's work, she had fainted twice . . .

I frowned. But what had she said?

"You OK?" I asked nervously. Zelda68 grinned.

"O'course." she lied. "You just can't keep me down, can you?"

"Zelda68, this is serious! This is the second time in a day you've fainted!"

"For your information, I didn't faint. You did." I blushed. "And I really am fine, whether you like it or not." I frowned and tilted my head to the side slightly, trying to read her face.

"What do you mean you didn't faint twice?" she groaned, trying to hide her face from mine by covering it with a pillow. For a second I forgot that it was impossible for her to suffocate and almost tore it from her.

What had she meant? It made no sense . . . The first time she had fainted it was no doubt because of her back (and the stab wound that rested on it), and the second she had been with Leaf, talking about the demon . . . or whatever it was. She had called it a demon, hadn't she? The demon that controlled the shadows, she had said . . .

That terrible thing . . . it had laughed after stabbing her. Practically giggled! If ever Zelda68 let me get my hands dirty, then it would be that demon which I would kill. On her behalf.

Nothing hurts her and gets away with it.

Snapping back to reality, I placed my hand on the doorknob and gently pushed it inward.

Zelda68 was at her desk, most definitely unconscious. My heart-rate escalated and I began to run at her desk, but then I realised something.

She seemed perfectly comfortable, not like she had suddenly fainted. The many papers on her desk were neatly tucked away in a pile, and her pen was out of her hand. And, unless my brain was playing tricks on me, there was a pillow between her head and the hard wood of the desk.

She was just asleep, thank god!

. . . But a pillow!

Zelda68 had never been one for pillows, not even when she had spent all day fighting off the demons of the corruption and all night fighting off the zombies outside of it. The hero that I knew would never have used a pillow . . .

I grinned.

But the Zelda68 that I had known years ago most certainly would have.

I took a blanket off the hero's bed, unable to stop smiling as I placed it over her sleeping form.

Zelda68 was coming back . . .

Thank god!

X X X

I woke up and found that the sun was shining. Why was the sun shining? The sun never shines when I get up . . .

I raised my head and let out a startled noise when a blanket fell off my shoulders.

What was it doing there? Where had it come from? What time was it? What had happened yesterday? Why was I at my desk?

I rubbed my eyes and stretched, letting out a huge yawn. My shoulders sagged as I felt my memories return and settle back into the correct positions.

Yesterday had been quite a day . . . No wonder I had fallen asleep.

And, to be honest, thank god I had . . . I had actually really needed it. Stretching again I looked down at the desk and at the many blueprints I had sketched, and my eyes fell on my burnt hand. For a second I felt terrible, diseased, corrupted, but then I frowned when I spotted something next to it . . . something white . . .

A pillow?

. . . Wow. Just . . . wow.

I hadn't even been conscious of putting it there! Had finding out the truth about myself changed me on a biological level?

I groaned and crashed my head back onto the pillow.

. . . I like pillows now . . . But that's only natural, really. So much has happened in the past week . . . No more than ten days ago I was underneath an apple tree with a rabbit sniffing at my feet while I watched the Arms Dealer trying to show the Guide how to shoot "properly".

Things have changed so drastically, and I have changed with them . . . Or rather, new parts of me have woken up from the deep sleep I had put them in years ago.

I raised my head and narrowed my eyes at the bright light coming through my window. What time was it? Usually I was up with (or preferably before) the sun . . . As my eyes adjusted to the glare of the sun I could see the barrier of sunflowers in the distance, and the last of the hills that wasn't corrupted in the distance was slowly decaying to the death and disease that threatened everything in this world.

I wished I could help that hill fight it's last battle . . . But I knew that to reach it would be to cross an entire corrupted wasteland, and it would take me at least a day to walk there . . . And by then the corruption would already have won.

I let out a sigh and looked back at the hill. Those surrounding it were already long since dead, and it was amazing that the one which was dying had held onto life long enough for me to watch it die. According to the mayor the corruption had appeared here years ago, even though it had not started spreading until around four years ago, at around the same time that the corruption had started spreading in Terraria. I had no idea why, but had a feeling it was something to do with the Eye . . . It was more than just any demon, I felt sure of it.

The death and disease that was to consume the last living hill . . . Somehow I felt sure that it all lead back to the Eye of Cthulhu. There was something about it . . . it wasn't just the demon that kept the corruption growing, it was more like a manifest of the corruption itself. I had been brought into the world to try and kill that demon and the corruption that surrounded it, and I had failed. I had faced so many unspeakable monsters before the Eye, but it had been that demon which had ended me. But I took the demon into the abyss with me, and the corruption had dissolved with the demon.

I had paid the ultimate price, and then the corruption had vanished. My purpose fulfilled . . . or so I thought. Maybe I had been made to walk around again because this land was still in need of my help . . .

But then again, if there is some great power out there, maybe some kind of God, and it had the power to bring people back from the dead . . .

Well, it'd probably have a more sophisticated way to do it than turn the hero in question into a zombie. In fact, that could be considered rather crude to an entity . . . Or so one would hope.

I looked back up at the sun, trying to judge it's place in the sky. I had always been rubbish at it, but the Guide wasn't there to help out. After spending a few minutes glancing from compass to sky trying to work out where exactly the middle of the sky was without going outside, I decided that it must have been about nine in the morning.

. . . Nine. Seriously?

I repeated the process five times, but time continued to pass until it was half past the unfathomably late hour in question. I pulled on some gloves and left my bedroom, dazed at having wasted so much of the day, and made my way to the mayor's room with some of my blueprints in hand. I knew that he had long since woken up, but also knew that he would no doubt be working on the infinity of papers that it seemed necessary for him to sign.

I knocked on the mayor's door and walked in without waiting for a reply, smiling as I saw him trying to hide the chisel that had been in his hand and disappear behind the mass of papers that were towering over his desk.

"I'm doing them!" he blurted out, and I laughed.

"I really don't care about them, y'know." I said with a smirk. "I just don't get what exactly all of these papers are for."

"Oh, it's you." The mayor sighed in relief. "Sorry, I thought you were my secretary."

"Yeah, I guessed that." I said, walking around the desk so that I could look at the man I was speaking to. "I almost feel sorry for her – it's her job to help you out with all this stuff and give you more work to do once you've finished, but you're too obsessed with carving things to care about any of the work that she gives you!"

"Hey, don't forget that it's because I can carve things that I'm mayor! It only seems fair that I should be allowed to carve things after becoming mayor. And besides, it's your story that I'm setting in stone so it's your fault technically."

"Indirectly maybe, but you're the one who's neglecting his duties as leader."

"I'm not neglecting my –"

"Forget it! Look, I came here to ask you about these." I said, shoving the blueprints in his face.

"Not more papers . . ." he grumbled. "And where were you at breakfast, anyway?"

"I . . . fell asleep." I admitted, sitting down on a chair facing his.

The mayor frowned. "That's not like you."

"Don't rub it in, okay?" I glared, rubbing a sore shoulder with the opposite hand.

That's what you get for sleeping at a desk! I cursed myself.

"What are these anyway?" he asked with an eyebrow raised, putting my papers down on his already covered desk.

"Blueprints, obviously." I answered, crossing my arms. "This village needs to be able to defend itself, it needs some kind of shield."

"It already has that. You."

"Maybe, but I won't always be here! I'll be off in the corruption, most likely with the swordsmen and the Guide. Who's gonna protect you then?"

The mayor mumbled an agreement and sat back on his chair. "What's your idea?"

"We need to look for people willing to fight the corruption, people who can fight. Anybody who can use a sword or shoot an arrow, so that we have a way of fighting off any armies when I'm not here. The swordsmen are only the best, and there are plenty of people out there who have the skill to take their place when they're gone. A back-up so that we are never left unprepared."

". . . A back-up army . . ." the mayor said, considering my suggestion. "We might need one if we are to survive when you're away . . . But there aren't that many able-bodied volunteers out there. We'd need a proper tactical advantage if we'll ever be able to defend ourselves from, say, goblins."

"Exactly!" I smiled. "And that's these." I indicated towards the papers. The mayor frowned and began leafing through the sheets of paper.

"A lookout tower which archers can shoot from . . . A protective fence around the village . . . And what's this?"

"What?" I asked, and the mayor pointed at a drawing. "Oh. That's a . . ."

"A what?"

"A . . . thing."

"A thing?"

"Don't ask me what it's called, that's the Guide's territory. But look, I have one back in Terraria and I know that it works."

"What's all this?" he asked, pointing to the yellow scribbles that took up most of the drawing.

"Sand. When one of the zombies steps on the plate then the sand is released and –"

"I get the idea. Look, Zelda68 . . . These are all great ideas and they might just work, but they would take more time than we have to turn into a reality. "

"That's where you're wrong." I said with a grin. "I built almost every one of these in under a year months in Terraria, and that was just me alone. With the help of the builders and some volunteers, we could do this in a matter of months, maybe even weeks."

"This is a ridiculous amount of work." The mayor argued. "And where are you going to get all of the materials necessary to build all of this? I simply don't think it's possible."

"I've done it before, I can do it again."

"But you don't have the materials or the time to go looking for them! Over the centuries this place has been practically mined out, just like Terraria."

"Then where did they go?"

"Sorry?"

"If all the materials have gone, then where did they go? They can't just have disappeared."

"True, but I really have no idea where they went. Into building houses and weapons, I suppose. It was a simpler time."

"Well, then how did people mine back then? They must've known better than to just go leaping into a cavern like me, so what technique did they use?"

"Well . . . gold panning, digging out shafts, breaking the top layer so they could go down . . ."

"So there are bound to be things that they missed, right? They wouldn't have gone beyond the cavern layer, if they even reached it. And this land is absolutely huge with only one village, so they wouldn't have strayed that far from home."

"Maybe so, but you can't go as far as they would've, the corruption is blocking you."

"Then what about hell?" The mayor sighed.

"What about hell?"

"They wouldn't have gone down to hell, and I could do with some hellstone. Plus, the small layer just above it is full of ore and gemstones."

"Yes, but you could spring a lake of magma down there with any turn!"

"Trust me, okay?" I said, sitting back on my chair. "I've done this before, remember? I know what I'm doing. I know what this village needs to survive, and, with your permission, I will put it into action."

For a moment the mayor continued to look annoyed, but then he seemed to catch on to what I was saying and he stared into my eyes, transfixed.

". . . You really believe that this is going to work?" he asked.

"I do. It will take a while, I'll have to spend a while longer than I intended here before heading into the corruption, but I can't leave this place with no way of defending itself. All of these people with no way of defending themselves. That'd go against everything I stand for, everything I've done." I leaned back on my chair. "If I'm going to help this place, then I need materials. And if I'm going to get materials, then I need to go mining for them.

"And I'll have to smash a couple of shadow orbs, which means I am going to have to jump into an ebonstone abyss and just hope that it leads into a tunnel system, and I can't take the swordsmen with me to do that. I agreed that they could help me fight the corruption, but right now I am doing nothing to fight the corruption but to stop this village from falling prey to it's armies while we're gone. When this village is protected and has an army to defend invaders from it when the true ones are off fighting the darkness, then we will leave and finally fight the corruption."

". . . Wow." The mayor said with a nod. "I don't think I've ever heard you say that many words."

"You'd be surprised." The mayor nodded, and put his fingers in the steeple shape that he had when he had met – he does it when he's thinking, I suppose.

". . . Okay." The mayor concluded. I raised my eyebrows in disbelief.

"Okay? Just like that?"

"Well, not just like that for me – you've no idea the amount of paperwork I'll have to fill in, but . . . Yeah, basically, just like that."

"So I can go mining soon?"

"Just like old times, eh?" asked the mayor with a smile. "Must be exciting for you. But first, you have to tell the public about this."

"What? Me?"

"Yes, you. You get funny looks about town, because nobody really understands who you are, why you are here, or where you have come from. You need to tell them, and you need to announce that you need volunteers if this village is to defend itself."

"Can't you do all that?"

"You just proved to me that you're good at making up speeches of the highest calibre on the spot."

"I don't even know what that means, and I'm rubbish at speaking to a bunch of people at once! Why can't I ask the Guide to do it?" The mayor sighed.

"Because the Guide is a very shy person, and you can't ask him to do everything to do with people."

"Hey, I don't! But I don't even know most of the people I'm going to be speaking to, and I don't know what'll encourage them to volunteer!"

"You'll figure something out." The mayor said calmly, turning to the mass of paperwork that his secretary had left him.

"But . . . But I –"

"Listen," the mayor began, a strict note in his voice. "I've tried everything to get these people to stop bickering among themselves and fight the corruption that surrounds them, but when they kept killing themselves then I turned to you."

"Me?" I asked, eyebrows raised.

"I knew that I was seeing you because you were coming, and I also knew that you were a hero and that this land needed one. And so I waited. The corruption killed my people and they drove themselves into the wasteland, but I waited. We had no power, no way of fighting it as it took us one by one, and our religion killed our children, but I waited. We waited for years, and in what might've been their last hours the people refused to believe that the God that they so adamantly believed would save them had abandoned them. They waited for him, and I waited for you." The mayor smiled. "And then you came.

"You came, and then everything started turning around. You managed to get your hands on some purification powder during your second day here, and soon you had all of the swordsmen, save Vincent, at your back. The demons reacted too, and when I saw you being carried to the village by Leaf and the Guide, limp and bleeding from a deep wound in the back, I thought we were all done for. While you were unconscious, likely dying yet again, the sunflowers had almost no effect. The corruption almost passed them, but then you woke up. You woke up and the tide has kept turning since then. You built a ladder up to the floating island – a ladder, for goodness' sake! And then you came in here, and I knew from the look in your eyes that something was about to happen. And now you have to put it into action, all your mad schemes. You have to protect this place, like you did your home. And speaking out to them is a part of that." I looked down, trying to avoid truth in what he was saying.

"I tried everything." The mayor continued. "You name it and I did it, and in the end I just had to keep waiting. Waiting for you. But now I am willing to believe that you are more than capable of making them change their minds, making them stand up for themselves and fight instead of just sitting here and praying. You can do what I would've died to do, without even trying."

"But I can't!" I cried.

"But you can." The mayor said firmly. "You just convinced me that it's okay for you, the hero, to leave this village for what might be months, after we've waited years for your arrival and you've stayed here no longer than a fortnight. You convinced me that that's okay, even though my instincts were screaming at me. You calmed them, just by saying a few words. A few words which you thought up on the spot. You can change their minds if no-one else can, I know it."

"But I –"

"You're unique. You were born to save Terraria, and in dying you can save this place. You're an eighteen-year-old, and you're up against the demons of the world. You're Zelda68, Hero of Terraria. You're the Saviour of the Light. You will always fight the corruption, and you will always win. You will have to make sacrifices on the way, and I am truly sorry for the ones that you have had to make so far. Really, it's just not fair on you. But I can't argue with destiny." The mayor lowered his head and I raised my eyes. "You have to do this."

I sighed. He was right, obviously. ". . . You're not such a bad public speaker yourself, you know that?" The mayor grinned and laughed.

"You should go and talk to the Guide and the others, they'll want to know about this." The mayor said, starting on his paperwork. "A lot has happened through nothing but words."

"True." I said with a smile, walking towards the door. ". . . Maybe language isn't such a waste of time after all."

I heard the mayor chuckle, and instinctively reached out to the doorknob with my left hand so that I could shoot the old man a smile.

I cringed as the cold metal of the doorknob touched my burnt flesh, and winced as I reached for it with the other hand.

I couldn't tell him . . . I couldn't tell anyone . . . Not yet.

But . . . Wasn't that what I had thought when I found out that I was a zombie?

"Zelda68?" asked the mayor, concerned. "Are you alright? What's wrong with your hand? Zelda68!" I closed the door.

"It's nothing!" I called back uselessly.

". . . You can tell me anything, you know. I'm here to help you, as you're here to help me."

He was right, as always . . . but I just wasn't ready yet.

". . . I suppose you'll find out soon enough." I said, walking away from the inevitable confrontation.

Everything is always so complicated . . . is that part of being a hero?

. . . Or is that just part of being me?

X X X

I sat at the café table across from Sarita, a cold cup of hot chocolate before me. I was slouched, almost touching the table, and Sarita was more than upright, looking directly at the ceiling.

"I don't want to keep any more secrets from anybody, Sarita . . ." I mumbled, crossing my hands before me. "But this one is just too big."

"Bigger than the last one?" Sarita asked, lowering her eyes so that they met mine.

"Almost. Well, as big as it can be without being as big as the last one."

"Why can't you tell me?" she asked, sipping her hot chocolate. "I won't tell anybody, and someone has to know other than you or what happened last time will happen again."

If I told her, then would the demon pluck my soul out of my body again? It wanted me to keep it secret, I know . . .

". . . What did happen last time?" I asked, my chin banging on the table with every word.

"You kept it for too long. It changed you, forced you to grow up. You can't keep a secret that big again. This place is on your back, and keeping secrets while trying to save lives is as good as killing yourself all over again."

"Ssh!" I insisted as the waiter walked by, but thankfully didn't overhear our conversation. "How do you think the people here will react if they find out that the girl encouraging them to abandon their religion is a zombie?"

"You're not asking them to abandon their religion, you're asking them to stop killing themselves and start fighting the corruption which surrounds them. It's a fair ask."

"Mm . . ." I mumbled in response.

"Can I suggest something?"

"What?"

"How about we stop acting like depressed hormone-ridden teenagers and actually talk?" I laughed.

"Good idea." I sat up and Sarita sat down, and we picked up our hot chocolates and each took a long gulp, trying to reach the hot stuff at the bottom. "What do you wanna talk about?" I asked.

"I don't know." She admitted. "What do you normally talk about?"

". . . Devourers, mining, weapons . . . But you wouldn't find any of that interesting, would you?"

"I suppose not. What do normal people talk about, then?"

"Normal people? You mean like the people who aimlessly walk around town all the time?"

"I suppose, but they're hardly aimless. People who aren't heroes or mayors or guides." I made a face at my mug.

"You were a normal person a few days ago, until you met me. You must know what they talk about."

"Well . . . Books, stuff at home . . . Corruption . . ."

"Hang on – corruption? Normal people, talking about the corruption? I thought that everybody here was stupid enough to ignore it and just pray. No offence."

"None taken. Well, when you're surrounded by the corruption, you can't help but have some depressing thoughts. And some of my friends at school talk about them sometimes, it's only natural."

"I suppose . . . So even the people who think that God is going to leap in and save them if they go to church every day have doubts?"

"Everybody has doubts. Except my mother, naturally. We just keep them to ourselves most of the time."

"But what about the corruption do you talk about? You haven't been in the corruption, so you don't really know what's out there. What is there to talk about?"

"Don't forget, more than half of the children who were in the village last year have since been fed to an Eater of Souls for doing something wrong. Of course the remaining ones are nervous and want to talk to each-other, but that's only because we're scared that it'll be one of us next. None of the others are really serious about being atheist."

"But you are?"

"Of course! Who can have their father banished and almost all of their friends killed and not doubt that God is just taking his time saving us?"

"Fair point." I said with a sad smile. ". . . I just hope that nobody else falls to the corruption while I'm here."

"Don't worry, I know you won't let them." Sarita said with a grin. "Although you did take your time getting here. Another week and I may have converted." I laughed, but Sarita only raised an eyebrow. "And don't forget, if you hadn't been up there on the floating island then I would be dead right now. If you'd just spent another day up there then I would've been sent up the path just for speaking out when that harpey was about to rip our necks open."

". . . If I hadn't found that featherfall potion," I said, realisation dawning upon me. "If that featherfall potion hadn't been on the island, then you would be dead . . . If I hadn't climbed to the summit of that hill on time then the harpey would've killed everyone in the village and not bothered about me . . ."

"Apparently," said Sarita, only one eyebrow still raised. "Why, does it matter?"

"I think so . . ." I mumbled, covering my face with my hands so that I could concentrate.

I hadn't kept a featherfall potion in my pouch, but if the Guide hadn't found it then we would've walked back down the summit, oblivious to the threat to the villagers. And then everyone here would've died. Simple as that.

But if the demon had left me the potion . . . Why? Why would it let everyone here live when it had this one chance to kill them all with nothing but a harpey?

Maybe . . . maybe so I had something to fight it for. Motivation. I looked up and around at all of the people walking through the village square. All of them . . . I turned back to Sarita, who was frowning.

Was that all these people were to the demon? Motivation? I clenched my fists and gritted my teeth.

Maybe I would have to change it's perspective.

"Hey!" Sarita called, snapping me back into reality. "What are you thinking?"

I stared at her. Was she alive simply because the demon wanted me to fight it?

. . . Because it wanted me to play with it?

"Zelda68?" asked Sarita, concerned. "Seriously, what is it?"

". . . Nothing," I managed, dispelling my dark realisation. "Sorry, I'm fine."

"No, you're not. What's the matter? Did you realise something, what?"

"No, I just . . . No, sorry, I have to . . . I need to go, sorry. Bye."

Without another word I left, unmindful of the bemused state I had left the poor girl in. That demon . . . it was just sick. It was just evil. I knew of course not to expect common courtesy from a demon, but this was just . . . All of the people around me, little more than an afterthought to that damn thing!

But it had made a grave mistake. The people in this place are still alive because of it, and they would strike back! They would fight, with me as their leader!

I had to tell the Guide about this, and the mayor. They needed to know what they were dealing with, and what the demon was willing to do simply to have a worthy opposition. But where was the Guide? I hadn't seen him all day . . . Perhaps he was at the library, trying to apologise to the librarian on my behalf. That sounded like him.

I walked away from the village square, trying to avoid the questioning gazes of all the townsfolk. They would have their answers soon enough, and then they would just have to get used to me.

I walked down a narrow, dark alley in taking a shortcut to the library. I noticed that there were doorways and windows built into what I had thought to be walls, and then realised that they were not walls at all, but tiny houses. Their owners had no doubt fallen to the corruption years ago, perhaps even before it started spreading. But why would people build such small houses, in such a dank and dreary alley? Were they running out of space, long ago? Before more than half of the once grand houses stood empty and unkempt?

I turned back to the village square, looking at the people busily walking around, each with their own purpose, their own destination. Even though when I had first walked into this village the sheer amount of people startled me, now I realised that the population was far too small for such a big village.

Too many empty houses . . . Too many forgotten stories, too many lives lead alone. How many people were there left? A hundred, hadn't Sarita said?

Was I asking them to sacrifice even more of themselves?

. . . No. If anybody died in the effort that I had started, it would be to put an end to the corruption, not to die needlessly in it's clutches.

Nobody else would be forgotten.

I turned back into the dark alleyway (or street?) and realised that there were unlit torches along the walls. Because there was nobody to light them or because there was no reason for them to be lit? I reached into my pouch and brought out a match, striking it against one of the bricks of the houses. I lit the torches one by one, careful not to let the match go out. I knew that they were something of a rarity as they were so fragile and hard to make, but I also knew that I could substitute them easily with a stick with gel on its end. I wasn't entirely sure why I was lighting them, but I thought that it was simply rude not to – as if leaving them off was a way of ignoring the people who had once lived here, to ignore their sacrifices.

I took a look into one of the small windows and was surprised at how comfortable-looking such a small place could seem. I could see an armchair and table, as well as a number of chairs and some dusted-over paintings on the wall. I could see the remains of a kitchen and a cooking pot and a set of stairs that lead into an upstairs room, all of which were too covered by a thick layer of dust. Empty for years, no doubt.

I tried the door and realised that the doorknob had been broken off long ago, and there were splinters of wood that had broken off from the rest, perhaps from the door being forced open. Had someone tried to steal from this place, with the owners dead? Surely nobody in this village would sink to such a low level . . .

I walked in, looking at the floorboards at my feet. There were places in the dust that covered the floor that were almost clear, as if someone else had walked in and disturbed the dust. But why would anybody come in here? A robber, come to steal from the long dead? It didn't seem fair . . .

Something about the place made me uneasy, as if there was a monster around the corner waiting to pounce . . . Like I often had felt after coming across one of the Demolitionist's explosive-created mineshafts before I realised what they were. Paranoid, I placed a hand on one of the daggers around my waist. Who had lived here? Why would anybody want something from someone who lived here?

I turned to the house's mantelpiece, over which was a painting. There was a piece of cloth draped over it, as if to hide the identity of the person in it. I removed the old piece of cloth and saw a picture of a young girl, no more than twelve. She was sitting on the armchair behind me, back when it's silk still had colour. She wore a blue dress of simple fabric, and had slightly wild dark brown hair. She also wore a strange pendant on her neck, a kind of T shape with gemstones built into it. There was something familiar about her, but I just couldn't place it.

Given that she lived in such a small house and that everything in it was so plain it was safe to assume that the family who lived in it were poor, but the cross on the girl's neck contradicted that. Maybe it was a family heirloom from times when they had been wealthier, maybe during the mining craze a few centuries ago that Sarita had mentioned.

I frowned at the girl. Why did she look so familiar? What was it about her? I squinted at the painting, trying to put my brain into gear. Where had I seen her before? If the family that had lived in this house had died ages ago, then the girl would certainly look different now.

That's when I realised – the girl looked extremely similar to Sarita. She had sharper features, thinner lips and her skin was paler, but otherwise she was the same. If it weren't for her hair being brown rather than fiery red, I honestly would've believed that it was her at a younger age.

But then who was it . . .?

After a moment I cursed myself for being so stupid. It was so obvious! This was a painting of a young Christina! This must've been where she'd grown up . . . perhaps she had only moved into the house that I knew when she married Sarita's father.

But then what had happened to her parents? This house hadn't just been moved out of, it had been abandoned. Had they died? Had they fallen to the corruption, like her husband?

I sighed and took another look around. It was hard to believe that such a quiet, dusty house was once home to a family. They had once filled this house with light and laughter and love, but now it sat quiet, abandoned and alone in an alleyway that had once been a street. Peaceful, but still full of ghosts and echoes of a life long since dead.

I looked down at the footprints of the intruder. For a moment I hoped they had been Christina's, come to say hello to this long since forgotten place, but no. They were larger, the size of a man's, and they were recent. They were almost clumsy, as if the person that had made them was not in full control of himself. Perhaps a drunk looking for a place to sleep?

Or perhaps something not so innocent . . .

I bent down and noticed that there was another set of prints in the dust – older, almost covered by dust. Made more than a year ago, easily. They lead towards the other end of the mantelpiece and then back to the door . . . Why?

I looked up at the mantelpiece and spotted something – it was uneven. In the centre there was a shabby clock that had long since stopped ticking, and on one side was the painting of Christina. But on the other side there was an empty space that looked as if it had once been filled by a picture the same size as the other.

Who would break into a place like this and take only a painting? They must've had a reason, there was no way that this was random . . .

I walked over to the other end of the mantelpiece. I stopped where the tracks stopped and stood where the intruder stood, wondering what they had been doing there. I felt sure, even more so looking at the uneven layers of dust before me, that someone had taken a painting that matched the one of Christina from the opposite end of the mantelpiece. I felt around in the dust, looking for something – a hair, anything.

What I found I most certainly did not expect.

An old piece of paper yellowed by age, coiled into a cylinder. Written on it, in neat, careful handwriting, was the name "Christina". A note to her, left by the robber . . . Or were they a robber at all if they left a note? I turned the piece of paper over in my hand, resisting the urge to open it. It was addressed to her, not me . . .

But still, who was it from? My curiosity gets the better of me sometimes, and perhaps that's for the better.

But just as I was to uncoil the note, I heard a noise from upstairs.

A footfall . . .

Whoever had broken in recently, they were still here . . . And they were not friendly, I felt sure of it.

I reached over my shoulder and grabbed the hilt of my sword.

. . . But what if I was just being paranoid? What if that footfall was just something falling over, disturbed by my presence in this long since empty house? But my instincts were screaming at me, shouting to me . . .

There's something up there! Get out, now!

But . . . how could I be sure that my instincts weren't just the demon trying to stop me from figuring out something significant? There was something up there . . . The hunter inside of me was sure if it.

What if it was just a drunk, too tipsy to walk home? I couldn't just go in there sword raised and scare him to death! But I resisted the urge to call out, see who was there . . .

If I did that then I lost the element of surprise.

So I compromised – I kept my hand on the hilt of my sword but did not draw it, and began ascending the stairs as quietly as I could.

Another footfall, not mine . . . And then several more. With each step came the jingling of weapons . . .

Not a friend, then.

I kept my hand on the hilt of my broadsword, terrified that the delicate singing sound of my sword being cleared of it's sheath would alert the intruder.

More footfalls . . . The intruder was pacing, almost in a circle, as if contemplating it's situation.

My hand tightened on the sword, and the door to the upstairs bedroom was only a few steps before me. I took another step up, but as soon as I pressed my weight on the wood it made a creak that I felt must have been deafening. I took my weight off the stair as soon as I heard the noise, but it was too late.

The pacing stopped.

I froze.

I felt sure that the both of us were standing completely still, waiting for the slightest hint that the other was making a move. We were opponents now.

But I would win . . . I had no need to breathe. I could be deadly quiet for as long as I wanted to be.

And I could hear the breaths of my opponent, practically rasps to my delicate ears. They continued, no matter how hard the intruder wanted he wasn't able to stop breathing. And when I closed my eyes and listened really hard, I fancied that I could almost hear his heart rattling against his ribs in a never-ending rhythm . . . I almost could, if I listened hard enough . . .

Despite my calm and confidence, my grip on the hilt of my sword tightened and I knew that my knuckles had turned white.

But then I heard something that would've made my heart stop and my blood run cold if it were possible, something that I hadn't heard in years and sincerely hoped I never would've had to again . . .

The intruder raised their nose and sniffed, smelling the air for blood – beating through my veins or otherwise.

My hand gripped on the sword so tightly that I could feel every one of the ridges, almost cutting through my skin.

That was impossible . . . They couldn't survive in the corruption and this was one of few and far between living spots in this place! There was no way they'd be able to get here from one of the others . . .

Unless . . . no . . . they couldn't . . .

Unless they were hiding in the abandoned buildings in the village . . .

I bolted up the last few stairs and kicked the door down, drawing my sword in the process. I heard an inhuman hiss from the corner of the room, as if whatever was inside was hurt by the dim light coming from behind the open door. I took a small swing and, as I had both hoped and despised the idea of, was blocked.

The weapon holding mine in place was a wickedly curved blade, not much longer than a hunting knife, that looked both exotically lethal and haphazardly forged. I had been right . . .

I let the intruder force me back slightly so that I could catch a glimpse of it's face in the dim light of the hallway, and then I saw it . . .

I watched as the intruder stepped into the light, and saw the light play on the wickedly sharp features and pointed nose and ears of the scout, illuminating the sickly green skin and tattered clothing, sewn together carelessly from the armour of fallen brothers.

I looked into the face of the Goblin Scout, and the Goblin Scout looked into mine.

If it had known that it had no more than ten seconds to live, then I suppose it might've been a little more careful to block my stab.

I tore off the piece of cloth tied around it's waist, a symbol of it's rank, and left the room.

I had some hunting to do.