35
There was as little waiting as there was warning. Not fifteen minutes after Zelda briefed me on the journey, two palace legionaries appeared at my door. Without a word or a gesture, they escorted me out of the Guest Wing and into a businesslike carriage waiting in the shady courtyard. It was drawn by a team of sleek, wiry horses and bore the thunderbird seal, painted in silver.
The driver – clad in chainmail and a hilariously incongruous top hat – greeted me cheerfully. "Name's Clive, lad," he beamed. "Looks like I'll be takin' you up to the fight, eh?"
Clive made certain that I was packed into the coach's unremarkable interior, and then took his place at the reins. With a Hup! and a Ho! he urged the horses into action. Thus, with nothing more than the clothes on my back, the food in my belly, and the Master Sword at my hip, I started the trip that would take me to Stoneheart Province. Not even a day after I had arrived on its doorstep, I found myself departing the Imperial Palace.
Before we had even left the general vicinity of the Guest Wing, the carriage was joined by another of the same make and model. It fell into line behind us, clattering over paving stones in a cloud of dust and din. As we wove through the grounds, another pulled in ahead of us. And then another. It was a genuine convoy by the time we rolled through the northern gates and descended to the elaborate span of the Hope Bridge.
This was the bridge that connected the Isle of Kings to Lake Hylia's north shore. Whereas the Black Bridge was a dark, brooding span of rough basalt and spine-like ornamentation, the Hope Bridge was grayish-white and covered with countless intricate sculptures. The stone carvings twisted and capered over the bridge's railings like a nigh-endless parade of the whimsical. Lines of laughing children. Piles of bumbling octorocks. Men in armor dancing, arms entwined, with women in flower-bedecked gowns. Bearded wise men; contorted fools; jolly knights; twirling gorons. Sinuous figures whose joyous grins were filled with teeth like razors.
I couldn't say whether it was heartening or unnerving to reenter the city proper. A bit of both, no doubt. North of Midtown waited the patchwork district of Norburg – a twisty, unpredictable place that freely blended the commercial and residential; high class and low; manic and subdued. Here in the northern reaches of Hylium, tower-blocks heaved seven, eight, nine stories into the air. The faces poking from their upper windows watched our progress as if observing the funeral parade of some aristocratic race of ants.
These northernmost sections of Hylium were – as I later found out – intensely proud of their melting-pot district. Here, amidst stepped structures like art-deco cathedrals and bulbous minarets covered in flaking mosaics, the class structure of Hyrule underwent a sort of bizarre distillation. The rich routinely rubbed elbows with the district's poor. Neighborhood aid programs – paid for out of the pockets of alchemist entrepreneurs and landowners – maintained soup kitchens and work-placement services. The people of Norburg considered themselves more independent, socially conscious, and egalitarian than other Hylium-dwellers. They were proactively political and intensely devoted to making the voice of the common man heard. The majority of the capitol's print shops and bohemian artists' collectives made their homes in Norburg. Though it was the dwelling place of dozens of Counts, no noble Houses whatsoever broke bread there. Most of the displaced refugees from the war settled here, moving into tower blocks left empty by cryptic events still spoken of in shamed whispers.
Not that I knew any of that as I rode through the wide, winding streets that morning. I only saw pandemonium.
News of the offensive had clearly made it to general populace of the city. Putting it lightly, they had not taken it well. Perhaps the citizens still had the jolt of celebration in them from the day before. Perhaps the news of renewed war was like a plunge into a tub of ice water on a hot day: such a shock that the reaction could only be shriek and bluster.
All the same, the streets ran with the nearly panicked and the fully panicked alike. They raced like rabbits and milled about stoops in tight, muttering mobs. Women went out under the protection of their husbands or male relatives. There were old people gathered in forecourts, weeping openly. The Civil Militia was everywhere, obviously trying to convey that they were out in force.
I clambered over to the window on the side of the carriage and found a clasp that could open it. When I flipped the glass panel open, I smelled fresh, unpleasant smoke and could almost feel the vibrating tension in the air. Shouts and sobs and screams broke out in irregular bursts. The atmosphere reeked of dread – it was in the scents of dirt, cooking fat, tar, brick dust and book ink swimming through the place.
"Hear now, hear now!"
The cry came from a street corner, where a teenage boy in a blue tabard stood atop an improvised pedestal. From his splintery pulpit, the kid yelled, "Hear now! The King sends forth his legions! Brave men o' Hyrule march north to meet the threat o' Ganon! Read all about it in this evenin's special edition o' the Norburg Crier!"
Christ, but news travelled fast. It had been little over an hour since I had left the War Council's decisive meeting. Apparently, Hyrule's journalists (or their equivalents) had solid connections in the Royal Legions.
We skimmed Norburg Square – that great mile-wide plaza of sandstone tile and sculpture gardens. It was where the tallest buildings in Hylium grew: The Three Sisters, a trio of alabaster tower blocks that rose twenty stories high.
Near the center of the square, a gaggle of men had thrown together a half-assed bonfire. They hooted and cheered and passed jugs about their circle. Some of their number cackled and made unfamiliar but surely lewd gestures as the carriages passed.
"Ol' Daffy can suck my cock!" one howled. He couldn't have been much older than nineteen.
Then it was on even farther north, past the shadows of the Sisters and into the mixed-industry guildhalls of the Gulver Strip. Brick-bounded, undulating avenues. Cobbles the size of goddamn basketballs. Huge, extravagant spires sprouted from otherwise unassuming buildings. I caught sight of at least two graveyards, hidden and overgrown in the lees of crumbling temples. A small district where it always felt like twilight.
A straight-up mob of Civil Militiamen charged down the street in the opposite direction of the convoy. Some wore expressions of shock and disgust; others were notably missing the peaked helmets of their profession; still others were smeared with blood and miscellaneous filth. The Militia troop tore ass across the cobbles. Whether they were heading toward some domestic crisis or away from it, I couldn't say.
"Merciful goddesses!" I heard Clive yell through the muffling carriage roof.
As it turned out, the Lords' Highway picked back up through the drift-off of Hylium's northern limits. The caravan followed the wide road out of the capitol and into rural suburbs that spread from the city like dandelion pollen.
It was here, rolling past terraced farms and small manufactories, that the full Kerneghi-bound convoy took shape. The dozen-or-so official carriages were joined by bigger, rougher wagons pulled by draft horses and tended by men openly flaunting arms. Then came scores of cavalrymen – some of whom fell in with the wagons as escort and others who charged ahead, steeds as manic as their riders. Fairies zipped and whipped through the air, sometimes skimming just over the wagon drivers' heads. Mounted knights appeared between the coaches, their armor shining like frozen fire and starlight.
I caught my first glimpses of the Hylian grenadiers as they clung to the tops of supply wagons like rolling, armored barges. They were certainly distinctive in their starched purple and gray uniforms, huge backpacks, and notably nonstandard body types. Among them were men plump as ripe fruit and skinny as toothpick sculptures. There were clusters of gorons holding lanterns on the ends of poles, making them look like living lawn ornaments. Figures who wore slick, heavy, dripping cloaks wrapped over their uniforms could only be militarized zora.
All of this became a mobile assemblage unlike anything I'd ever seen. Though we were often left behind by the more tireless elements of the caravan, we were rarely out of sight of its influence. The dust thrown by all those hooves and wheels rose in coruscating towers over the landscape. The sound of its passage was a patchwork thunder. By night, the convoy's lanterns transformed it into a burning serpent surely visible for miles.
We left Hylium behind completely. Wilderness blended into wilderness. After dozing off for a time, I looked out the coach window with the alarming realization that we must have turned off the main highway. Now the line of vehicles and sentry horsemen rushed along the banks of a rust-colored river. The water churned and foamed about rocks like knife points.
I yawned and stretched and realized that I had absolutely fucking nothing to occupy my time on this trip. No books; no company; not even a goddamn Gameboy.
Well. Maybe I did have some people I could try to chat with. After all, I wasn't the only human on this coach. And there were plenty riding horses all around us.
"Fuck it," I muttered. I stood, steadied myself on the uneven floor of the carriage, and unlocked the cab window. I leaned out as far as I could, dust and pebbles doing cartwheels just feet beneath my chin. "Hey!" I yelled. "Yo!"
The coach hitched a bit as the driver pulled on the reins in surprise. His head whipped back and he shouted, "Is everything all right, sir?" He had to steady his errant top hat with one hand.
I attempted a goofy smile and said, "Hey – you mind if I ride up there with you? Did you want to talk at all?"
Clive blinked heavily and yelled, "Ah – why not? You can climb up here when I stop to water the horses."
So it was that I started rotating up to the carriage's backboard each time we stopped. During our trip north, Clive Kantos acted not only as coach driver, but also as de facto tour guide, local historian, gossipmonger, and roadie. When we talked, it mostly consisted of him spinning tales about whatever town or country we were passing through. To wit:
"That there's Kleiman's Rock! Were the head o' a stone giant that the Hero lopped off during the last go-around. You can see the eye sockets on the other side – or so they say!"
Or:
"Ah, Hester Town. They got this great little whorehouse down under the Roarin' Spigot Inn. Real cozy. I'd spot ya' a visit if we weren't in such a rush."
And:
"Word is that some kind o' dragon was spotted over these woods a few weeks ago. Had a roar like a castle collapsin' and wings twice the size o' this carriage. Nobody knows where it went. Some are sayin' that it was one o' Ganon's thrall beasts, out scoutin' the country. That makes a load o' sense now, don't it?"
He was the one who told me more about Hylium's internal dynamics, as he was a born-n'-bred West Side man himself. A self-professed street rat who managed to dust himself off and rise as high as a drover for the royal family. I shared a bit of Los Angeles with him, but Clive was oddly incurious about my homeland. It really was mewho did most of the listening.
And I could not deny that it was mighty country we now traveled in. Lanayru Province was indeed vast and overwhelming.
This was a land of granite buttes, bulbous pine trees, and old buildings wrapped in kudzu. Steep gullies ran away from the road. Everywhere there were signs of hidden villages, hunting trails, trading posts, game preserves, and isolated manors. Ruins dotted the landscape like old scars.
In the valley bottoms, ragged scarecrows loomed over fields green as malachite. Vines wound about fence posts and seemingly every home's foundations sprouted colonies of moss. Small armies of townsfolk and farmers would come to the roadside to watch us pass. Their cheers echoed like hallucinations in the sweltering air.
It wasn't until well into the first day that I picked out the coach carrying Zelda from the line. The vehicle was a huge, sturdy thing weighed down by a rope-bound structure of trunks, bags, valises, primitive suitcases, and even a pair of bulbous wooden barrels. Through the windows of the coach, I could see serving women chatting and laughing silently. When I caught sight of Zelda herself, she wore a coy, half-lidded expression that suggested she knew the answer to a riddle that no one else in the world could guess.
We were not separated for long. Horses needed to be fed, watered, and changed out. Cavalry escorts routinely scouted ahead for possible obstacles or ambush. Only the former ever cropped up – roadblocks of felled logs and broken-down vehicles from the legions moving north. All these necessitated breaks that could last anywhere from five minutes to an interminable hour-and-a-half.
Though the drivers tried to aim for towns and legionary depots, it was not rare to simply have to pull to the side of the road and take care of business in the dust. If a rest stop occurred outside a town like this, the servants' carriage would often disgorge maids and valets, who tapped the barrels on the back of their vehicle and filled tin cups with wine. They traveled among the carriage drivers and our cavalry escorts, offering fermented refreshment beneath the pounding Lanaius sun.
During these brief interludes, Zelda demonstrated an adroit hand not only as an attendant, but also as caterer, tailor, press coordinator (she indulged some of the townsfolk who wanted to meet the Hero), bouncer (and icily turned away others), valet, and a kind of overall road manager. I chafed against her remonstrative glares, frozen silences, and condescending fastidiousness . . . but even I had to admit that the girl kept my shit straight. For that entire trip, Zelda actually kept me out of trouble. It took me a long time to actually appreciate that.
In addition to all this, Zelda was, unsurprisingly, far more in tune to the logistics of the expedition than I was. She briefed me on the progress of the offensive each time we met – whether it was on the side of the road or in a market square.
"They are planning the coming battle as we ride," she explained as she spread a thick bedroll on the floor of my carriage by lamplight. "The ability to organize on foot is essential. There is word that General Baeleus's forces have already deployed to Kerneghi Gorge. Apparently, they fortify the area even as we ride."
On the morning of the second day, Zelda dryly informed me of the tactical situation as she handed me clothes from a steamer trunk. "The effort to retake Fort Tybalt is apparently a success," she announced. "The gap in the defensive line has been closed and any further Protectorate reinforcements have been cut off. Furthermore, I have heard reports that the enemy column has slowed considerably. Nonetheless, they continue to march southward in pursuit of our fleeing legions. New estimates place their number at nearly forty-five-thousand."
And later, on midday water break: "It appears that the survivors of the Eighth Legion will safely reach the combined base camp. One of General Fierro's Banner-Commanders, Oltho Tull, has been promoted to lead them."
On the third morning, as we shoveled down an inn breakfast of grits and cold cuccoo, she observed: "Their continued forward momentum makes no sense."
"Why's that?" I asked, a spoonful of hot corn-mush hovering over my lips. "I thought they were all about pursuing wounded enemies."
"Certainly, but only up to a logical point."
"Aren't they some crazy death cult, though? I got the idea from the bokoblins I fought that they were really just there for the chance to cut somebody. Aside from a couple guys who looked like they were in it for the money, most of them were pretty bugfuck."
Despite my colorful language, Zelda nodded in quiet consideration. She finally said, "The armies of the Protectorate do seem to attract more than their fair share of the mad and the bloodthirsty. However, their officer class is not to be underestimated. Brash and battle-obsessed as they are, their generals are not stupid. Even the most bull-headed commander of that column should know by now that his routes of supply and reinforcement have been cut. An army that size could easily turn back and smash its way back across the Faron Bluffs. So, why do they continue to march into what will obviously be a major engagement?"
"Maybe they're confident that they'll win anyway?"
"Perhaps."
"Hey," I said. I pointed my spoon at her, one eye cocked. "How do you know all this shit?"
Zelda smiled that weird, wide, half-mocking smile. That porcelain-white canine of hers made me oddly nervous. She said, "I make it my business to know a little bit of everything, Mister Olsen. When one serves a militarily minded King, it pays to know the mind of the military."
The trip north marked my first real efforts to network among the Hylians. There were plenty of opportunities to hobnob. The command caravan alone carried key clerks, cartographers, and quartermasters from the First Legion. There were plenty of servants – both female and male – and cavalrymen to talk to.
Of course, all this was much easier planned than done. Many still treated me like I was surrounded by a cloud of bad juju. Others were simply so flabbergasted by me deigning to speak to them that they didn't know what do or say. These were always the more awkward of the two types of encounter. At least nervous avoidance didn't end in more-or-less incomprehensible fawning.
I did manage to strike up conversations with my most common escorts: A trio of perpetually sighing cavalrymen from the First Legion. Allyn Croals – tall, sticklike, and proudly ignorant of anything outside the military. Kyle Estan – broad-shouldered, bow-legged, and an obsessive reader of Hylian "picture novels" like the one that had flummoxed me at the Imperial Palace. Burj Karo – a caramel-skinned goron, small of stature but a wunderkind of horsemanship.
None were actually knights, as I had first assumed. They explained to me (with slow, uncomfortable patience) that knighthood was actually a remarkably difficult status to attain in Hyrule. Though the title of "Sir" gathered respect and guaranteed social advancement, gaining it was a rigorous process that one had to begin in adolescence. Apprenticeships, multi-day exams, and constant service were just a few of the hardships involved. Most who sought the title did not attain knighthood at all. Those not weeded out by the exhausting path almost always took more than a decade to attain it.
Well – in theory. The King could bestow knighthood on whomever he wanted. This was mostly granted in cases of high valor, but it was not unheard of that influential families could sway a title to favored sons.
No: These fellows were volunteer soldiers to a man. All combat veterans; all Prime Legionaries of different cohorts in the First. All chosen by Banner-Commander Kael to ride with him in the coming battle.
It was these three amenable soldiers that I convinced to teach me how to ride on the second day out.
At first, they were more than skeptical. "Scoffing" might be the best word for their reaction when I revealed my brutal lack of experience. I eventually wore them down with appeals to honor, destiny, and finally, the safety of the army come battle.
They didn't really know what to make of me once their impromptu training began. Even the greenest volunteer cavalrymen came to the Legions after being farm boys, drovers, or deliverymen. Someone who stood next to a horse with a vague sense of dread was completely alien to them.
So they started from the very, very basics – treating me as one would a child new to the animals. We could only practice on the caravan's few breaks on the side of the road and in the evenings, when towns sheltered our resting wagons. Nevertheless, I made fairly quick progress. To my surprise, I actually had a bit of an aptitude with calming and communing with the horses. I started to gravitate toward one in particular – a gray-flanked, brindle-patterned gelding the Prime Legionaries called "Melark." This was apparently a joke among them, but I decided not to pursue what it meant.
We encountered refugees on the roads. Wagon trains and organized marches of townsfolk, fleeing from the encroaching horror. Ranchers led whole markets' worth of livestock south. Daintily dressed merchants and nobles rode filigreed wagons full of entire deconstructed households.
While most of the dispossessed wore expressions of determination and optimistic hope, others cast their faces down in tired apathy. These men and women almost certainly remembered the previous times they had been forced to abandon their homes to Ganon's onslaught. Another round was clearly too much to bear. Just as the more southerly townsfolk had done, the displaced raised their voices at our passage – but it was not always in encouragement or admiration.
"Are ya' gonna pay me for me house?" roared one dust-spattered man. "Are ya' gonna pay me for all those lost crops?"
The third evening out, the command group stayed in a nameless town centered on a huge sawmill. Bright alchemic lamps ignited at sunset and shone over the mill's stockade walls through the entire night. The smell of pine pitch and maple dust seeped through the window of my tiny inn room.
On that night, Zelda stayed in an adjoining room of the same establishment. Before supper, she insisted that I take advantage of the inn's perfunctory bathhouse. I gladly obliged her, as the road had left me feeling filthy and bedraggled as a boxcar tramp. Though it was a little more than a shed with a washtub in its center, the bathhouse did provide a solitary place to scrub off the dirt, give myself an uneven shave, and comb unfortunate tangles from my hair.
When I returned to my room, I discovered Zelda sitting on my bed. Her gemstone eyes roved up and down the object in her hands. The handmaid's gloved fingers brushed the dusty blue of its hilt, circling the golden Triforce as if it were a live electrical socket.
The Master Sword.
At once, I felt a bitter jolt of fear and outright shame. How could I have been so stupid? I hadn't let the weapon away from my side for more than a few minutes for almost an entire week. Now, I had lazily stripped it and its scabbard off with all the casual non-thought of taking off a belt. What if someone other than Zelda had come across it like this? What other hands might now grasp it to their chest as they dashed north?
And how much of the riot act was the handmaiden about to read me?
However, when Zelda al-Imzadi's eyes rose to meet mine, I found them soft and distant – almost entranced. They were wider than I'd yet seen them. There was a stunned, childlike aspect to the woman that was unnerving.
"It's beautiful, isn't it?" Zelda whispered.
Though she looked right at me, I could tell that she wasn't giving any thought to my presence. I was just a side-object in her present moment. A distraction to be considered with as little effort as possible. After all, she had much more important things to mull.
What those things were, I hadn't the remotest fathoming.
Zelda slid the sword from her lap and onto the rough blanket atop the bed. "It is imperative that you be more careful," the handmaiden said. "This weapon is undoubtedly precious."
Without another word, Zelda exited the bedroom with large, careful, exacting steps. She moved with all the graceless precision of a wind-up doll. The baggy sleeves of her dress swung awkwardly in the quickness of her flight.
"Weird . . ." I muttered.
During that fourth, last day of the journey into Stoneheart, Zelda actually joined me in my carriage. I think that she had at last fully embraced her role as my tour manager. Though she didn't say so, I suspect that she wanted to pursue the job more actively.
As such, she climbed into the coach without preamble and spent the day sitting exhaustedly on the bench across from me. Apparently, three days in near-constant motion had slowed her rigid instincts. Sleepless shadows stained the skin beneath her eyes. Though tied down beneath a habit, it was obvious that her long hair was succumbing to the heat and dust of the journey. Poky curls of it snuck over the edge of her brow. Beneath a halfhearted pall of rosewater, Zelda smelled of sweat and the cedar trunk she must have pulled her clothes from.
I can't say that sharing a carriage with the enigmatic woman was a transformative experience. As I goggled at the lakes and hills of the passing country, she busied herself with seemingly endless circles of embroidery. She would occasionally switch to mending clothes, reading from a thick book, or jotting notes into a quarto-sized ledger. All of these things were produced from a leather handbag that rested at her feet like a particularly loyal terrier – a bag whose capacity continually surprised me.
We spoke little. When we did, it was mostly terse and businesslike observations of the weather or clarifications of the day's schedule.
Once, when she pulled a quill from a pocket and began to scrawl over a notebook page, I asked, "Is it just me, or does no one ever need an ink pot with those things?"
Zelda did not look up from her writing as she said, "Pullo's Infinite Quills. A Blue Star Guild invention, if I am not mistaken. Quite handy." She shrugged. "Of course, they are not actually infinite. That would defeat the purpose, one supposes. Their ink supply has a habit of running out at exactly the wrong time." A shuddery breath. "I suppose that, even in this Alchemic Age, nothing can truly be perfected."
Then she fell abruptly silent, as if snapping shut a deadbolt on a carelessly opened door. Her gaze at the notebook in her hands was as intense as sunlight through a magnifying glass. Zelda returned to her steel reticence.
Fortunately, I had my conversations with Clive, lessons with the trio, and the endlessly unfamiliar landscape to tide me over – sort of. I only got in one ride up on the driver's seat and one rest stop's worth of time with Melark. By then, the day had taken its full shape beneath a shrouded, wispy sky. Light with a certain nether quality drenched the wagon walls and treetops. Without much warning at all, we had passed into Stoneheart Province.
The jagged splinter of Stoneheart Province connected Faron in the north to Lanayru in the south. A tiny, half-forgotten fiefdom long considered the ancestral home of Hyrule's most prolific kings. Some still referred to it as "Harkinian Province," though this was technically a misnomer.
Here was where the noble house had risen from, countless thousands of years ago – at least, so the legends said. Zelda pointedly mentioned that any historical event older than Ganon's last manifestation was suspect at best. For all she knew, House Harkinian had simply laid down roots in Stoneheart during the Lost Years.
This was a heavily forested region, covered from horizon to horizon in rippling bands of greenery. Forests of pine, slender maple, nomad spruce, stocky darkwood, and elfin groves of aspen occupied nearly every foot of ground.
However, this initial impression was misleading: The province was actually quilted with lakes and rivers. These collected and crashed through deep, cracked ravines that ran about the base of each hillside. When we passed through flat areas, low marshes and febrile wetlands sometimes spread on either side of the road. Silver skimmers – dog-sized spiders that appeared to be made of delicate glass – would flex and zip away over the surface of the water as we approached. The air grew noticeably muggy.
Some miles into the province, spikes and towers of rock began to pierce the forest and jut toward the sky. Soon, the country was so thick with the formations that it took on the aspect of passing through immeasurably huge and unfathomably ancient ruins.
To the west, a distant spine of black ridges appeared through the haze. A series of uneven, rocky fins that appeared undulate like the plated tail of some utterly cyclopean god-beast. Zelda saw my interest in the far-off shapes and told me that they were actually a short spur of mountains called the Silobar Range.
"At their northern curve, Kerneghi Gorge spills forth onto a great floodplain. The river valley spreads north and east until the edge of Faron Province. I am told that it's a fine place to hunt fowl."
"And it's where we'll fight them," I said.
"Yes."
I stared at the back-and-forth flanks of those stony hills and felt dread like a cannonball settle in my stomach.
Shortly before noon, the convoy clambered about the flank of a sizeable molehill. Below and beyond, the trees and towers of shrub-dotted rock spread seemingly without end. Then my view shifted northward . . . and I caught sight of our destination: The stolid, venerable fastness of Harkinian Keep.
House Harkinian's ancestral seat was the kind of place one might see in a fine dream or a terrible nightmare – depending on one's tastes. It was a dark stone pile perched on the edge of a scrubby bluff, towering over the landscape like the Harkinian legacy incarnate. Below its base spread a sea of trees like something from a fairy tale. Pseudo-Gothic spires rose from its parapets. There were baroque roofs of red tile and hints of the same kind of architecture as the Imperial Palace.
At the foot of the bluffs waited a small town with ancient foundations, half-buried by the encroaching forests. In the town's quaint square, we found a veritable festival of soldiery. While the citizens of the village (and presumably, Harkinian Keep above) had evacuated some days ago, the central gathering ground was packed with people. We discovered that the stream of legionaries and their hangers-on had chosen this place as a final pit-stop on the long journey.
The command convoy rolled into this gathering ground for one last break before the push to the legionary base camp. I had been riding with Clive during the last leg of the trip, so I only needed to swing myself off the driver's seat to place boots on ground.
Even though our carriages stood out from the buckboards, oxen, and groups of men in mail, few seemed to pay us any mind. Everyone had their own business to attend to, it seemed. Groups navigated the subdued bedlam with stony features.
Green spheres of fresh horse dung littered the cobbles in unsettlingly large piles. Insects of all stripes wheeled through the air as if at a carnival.
On the edges of the square, many of the shop windows were boarded over with raw-looking lumber. What few windows remained untouched revealed shop interiors stripped of goods. Empty shelves and counters scattered with litter stood as unnerving testament to the thoroughness of the evacuation.
A band of contractual mercenaries – identifiable by their piecemeal uniforms and lax grooming – had set up a cook fire in the shadow of an ornate but weathered fountain at the center of the square. Tentacles of greasy smoke swirled past stone faces. Noble granite eyes stared over the bustling plaza. A graven maiden tipped a pitcher toward the contractuals as they laughed and spooned stew from a cast-iron pot.
Our proximity to the battle lines was more evident than ever. Great pillars of smoke rose over the western hilltops. No men went unarmed; no women (save Zelda, it seemed) went unescorted. People simply stared northward from time to time, as if expecting a swarm of demons to descend without warning.
I stretched my numbed legs looked about as other occupants of the caravan performed similar rituals. Clive slipped down beside me, scratching at his sideburns, and said, "Hells, man. And this used to be such a nice little place, it did." Shaking his head, Clive slouched off – presumably to touch base with the other drivers.
The carriage door creaked open and Zelda unfolded from the inner compartment. That marble, implacable quality had returned to her features. Her eyes narrowed as she surveyed the crowds and refuse scattered throughout the square.
"Oy!"
It was a new voice, calling from somewhere at my shoulder. I turned my head to find one of the contractuals standing up from the spitting fire at the fountain's feet. He was a thin, bearded fellow with bright eyes and a certain hint of joy about him.
"Hey, you're the Hero – right?" he yelled.
Ah, hell. I realized that I had not remembered to don my cap that afternoon. After all, it was too hot and too isolated in the carriage to bother with it.
I said, "That's me!" It was almost automatic now.
Though she was still in the process of stepping down from the cab, I saw Zelda pause and give me a look like I had just insulted her grandmother.
The mercenary grinned, grabbed something from a basket sitting beside the cook fire, and leapt to his feet. His eagerness made the other contractuals growl with wild-dog laughter. Within moments, the enthusiastic mercenary had dashed across the square to stand before me. He cradled something gingerly between his hands.
"Here," he said. Despite his beard and the daggers strapped to his belt, I now saw that he was quite young. Probably no more than sixteen or seventeen, tops. The mercenary handed me a roll still radiating heat. There was a flake of ash atop it, but that didn't keep the bun from looking golden-brown and delicious.
"Thanks, man," I smiled. "Who –"
But the young man had already turned to sprint back to the ill-placed fire and his swarthy compatriots.
I gobbled down the sweet bun as Zelda took inventory of our possessions. For an amateur pastry, the roll was just short of incredible. Warm; gooey; tasting of cane sugar and maple. I wiped my hands on the knees of my trousers and spun slowly about, lips smacking, to get a better view of the half-abandoned town.
"No matter how many times I remind you, you will never learn to be more cautious, will you?" Zelda's voice was cool and flat and vaguely dispirited.
"Huh?" I grumbled. "What'd I do now?"
The handmaiden wandered past me almost idly, as if she was simply out to enjoy the plaza. "What if that had been poisoned? What if it is poisoned and we merely haven't seen its effects?"
"Um."
"It is likely not," Zelda conceded. "And I have a number of very effective antidotes stored for just such an occasion. But that isn't the point, is it?"
Part of me was sure that I could feel my throat closing up. Was my face tingling? Could I really be sure that I could still feel my toes?
"You cannot simply wander about announcing yourself as the Hero," Zelda continued. "Ganon has his spies too, after all. And Hylian contractuals are not known for their loyalty or piety."
"Wait," I choked. "What are you – I mean – oh shit. Is someone trying to poison me? Did I just get fucking poisoned?"
Oh God my heart why is it beating so fast?
"Well," Zelda said flatly, "you do not appear to be turning blue."
From his spot near the fire ring, the young mercenary waved happily. His comrades raised canteens in my honor. The wild panic seizing my heart ebbed, calmed, and transmuted into anger.
That heinous bitch! She was obviously taking pleasure in my baseless discomfort. Hell – now she had the temerity to be smiling about it! What the fuck was her problem?
So great was my rage that I didn't notice the new carriage rolling into the square, dividing mobs of stragglers, until it was nearly upon us. It was a much finer and fancier coach than those that had borne us there. Its walls were darkly lacquered and inlaid with byzantine designs of pale brass. A pair of hale, black horses pulled the vehicle. From a banner pole flew the purple and gold pennant of House Harkinian. The carriage pulled to a halt a dozen yards away, whereupon it was again surrounded by people pushing through the town and toward whatever highways led north.
I paid it little mind as I reared on Zelda and hissed, "That's some fucking sense of humor you got there!"
She gave me an impassive glance before gazing at the elegant coach. Absently, Zelda said, "It is no laughing matter, I assure you. If you do not practice better forethought and restraint, you will surely come to a bad end."
"Listen," I growled, "I get it. You don't like me. But I'm getting sick of these little mind ga –"
Zelda's hand shot up, index finger extended in a clear bit of body language: Shut the fuck up a moment.
Her attention was fixed on the newly arrived carriage and its open door. The driver stood on the side-rail, squinting and sweating in the humidity. I now saw who had departed the vehicle: A bent, shaggy-haired crone hobbled among the milling troops. Her fingers were encrusted in rings and three layers of jeweled necklaces swung from her wattled neck. Eyes blue and milky as a winter sky. The black shawl about her shoulders was of lace so fine it was like dyed spider silk. She approached us with a cane in one hand and the other outstretched in greeting.
"Dame Harkinian!" Zelda pronounced. A shimmer of genuine surprise passed over her features.
"Maid Imzadi. Zelda," said the old woman. Her tremulous voice was rich with the quasi-Nordic accent of the King's family. "It is very good to see you here, even in these most perilous of times."
Zelda rushed forward with quick, tight steps. She bowed to the crone, who waved a hand and then beckoned the handmaiden closer. Up close, their size difference was astonishing – Zelda had to be at least foot taller than the other woman. Nonetheless, Zelda bent and embraced Dame Harkinian warmly.
"I thought you and your household had evacuated, honored mistress," Zelda said.
The old woman made a dry, reedy sound of dismissal. "Pffah. This is my home and our family's fiefdom. Let them come, if they will. I did indeed send away most of my servants, but men like Trevor," she indicated the coach driver, "have elected to stay. We will face whatever may come. But I have faith in the Legions, my dear. I've no doubt that they will turn the ruffians back."
"As do we all," Zelda said.
"I also wished to see a certain fellow rumored to be traveling this way," the old woman said. She turned toward me almost casually. "A certain foreign gentleman."
I no doubt colored at that.
Zelda showed no hesitation in introducing us. "Linus Olsen – this is Dame Elba Harkinian. Aunt to the King and Mistress of Harkinian Keep."
Dame Harkinian nodded gently and said, "I have heard much about you, Hero apparent. Many rumors fly my way. I see that not all of them are fantasies." Her wrinkled hand indicated my ears.
"Um," I said. "Yeah. Not all, I guess."
"Then it is true that you ride to meet Ganon's horde?"
I managed a nod.
"Good, good," Dame Harkinian said. "It is high time that these days of prophecy run their course, just as they have so many times before. Who would have thought that I would see an age touched by the hand of the goddesses, old and feeble as I am?"
Zelda regarded the elder Harkinian gently. "They are certainly interesting times, honored mother."
The old woman fixed me with her faded eyes. She leaned into her cane and forcefully asked, "Are you a religious man, oh Hero? Do you believe in the goddesses?"
What a question! I wanted with all my heart to shout, Who the fuck cares? There's a war on! Alas, I was getting ever more careful with what I said. Instead, I coughed, "Uh. Not before I came here, lady – uh – Dame? – Harkinian. I'm getting to be a bit of a convert, though."
At this, she nodded appreciatively. "Of course. It is only natural. Tell me, my lad: have you been shriven?"
Zelda grew an unmistakably pleased smile. "No, my lady. He has not."
Oh, God. What fresh hell was this?
"I know that it is out of fashion in the capitol . . ." Dame Harkinian sighed.
"Ah, but I think it's a wonderful thing!" Zelda said with what sounded like genuine good cheer. "Please excuse my forwardness, my lady, but would it be out of sorts to use the keep's temple? Did old Duello evacuate with the rest?"
Elba Harkinian nodded vigorously. "Mmm, no. He remains. And I do not believe that this young man should ride into battle without good council, do you?"
The handmaiden pressed her palms as if in manic prayer. She smoothly said, "I think that it is a wonderful idea, honored mother. An absolutely beautiful idea."
"Indeed!" the old woman crooned.
Flummoxed, I said nothing.
Zelda said, "Shall we send word to the sanctuary? I do not want to come upon the honored sage unannounced."
"Ah, child," Elba Harkinian laughed, "I anticipated this need. I told Duello to expect you before I descended. Even now he awaits the Hero's arrival."
"Hey," I finally said. "What are you guys talking about?" Truth be told, I had started to sweat a little.
Both women turned my way. Zelda's voice was like cold fog as she said, "Sage Duello is a practitioner of older ways, Mister Olsen. Some might say better ways." Zelda nodded to the old woman, who in turned grinned softly at me. Her yellow teeth were like snapped-off cornstalks.
The handmaiden said, "Both Dame Harkinian and I agree. It would be best if I took you up to the Harkinian family temple to confess your sins."