"At the end of the little soldier's first battle, he looked upon his fallen brethren. He did not pray to Hylia for their souls, as he should have, but instead dared to ask a question of his Goddess. 'My Lady,' he said, 'what is the purpose of this? To what end have we slain our brothers?' Hylia, though displeased with him, was always patient and kind, and answered his question: 'It is for my glory, and that of my three daughters, that you fight. My beloved child, it is my will. That alone is reason enough.'"
Etran Olrani, "The Cowardly Soldier," from Ordish Children's Stories
The shining armor of the Galinedh glinted in the streets, their spears raised as high as their voices. Their march was less of a march and more of an aggressive trot, a poorly organized half-run that left a wave of angry heat in their wake.
Palo could not blame them. It had been years since Obra Garud, each longer than the last. Bereft of their home, their independence, and most recently their leaders, the Galinedh were itching for this fight. They sprang toward the main boulevard, breaking into groups to file down alleys and stairwells, climbing up to the rooftops to support the Faronian archers, standing guard by the traps and ambushes that Telma's men had set up through the city—there was no shadow untouched by the glint of their spears, there was no place where the King's men could hide from them. Nabru had positioned herself and her best women at the very front of the boulevard, vowing to avenge every death in Obra Garud tenfold—even if it meant raising her blade against her former sisters.
Palo and Sheim did not go with her. They didn't go with the first wave of the city guard, nor the second. They lingered near the palace walls, where security was tightest—or would be until Zee appeared on the battlements, raised her arms and cast an impenetrable barrier over herself and her commanders (or destroyed the city; Palo couldn't be sure exactly what the triforce would do, since the triumvirate did not seem to obey strict rules like his own new patron god did). Talm would be up there, issuing orders and coordinating movement between the factions, and Link and Impa were probably pacing around the battlements now, waiting for the moment they could jump down and join the fray.
It won't be long, Palo silently assured them—and himself. It wouldn't be long until he would have more blood on his hands than he'd know what to do with.
A dusty wind picked up. The distant sounds of screams, of cannons and ringing metal came with it, along with the unmistakable smell of blue fire. A flash of light tore through the streets, and for a moment Palo was sure that some artillery had been fired too near him, but the only explosion he felt was a low rumble under his feet.
"Sheim, do you think they've broken through the gate?" he asked.
"Assuredly," the elder answered. He pointed his chin toward the smoke rising at the city's entrance. "Did you see that light?"
"Yeah. My eyes still hurt."
"That was our King. That light is the same as Elgra's. And I have no doubt she could've sliced through the metal of the portcullis as easily as flesh."
"Couldn't be that easy." Palo folded his hands behind his head. He told himself to relax, that even if Ganondorf could bore his way through metal, he couldn't do the same through the shields of light Zelda's triforce could conjure. "The gates of Goron City kept Elgra out, even with the power of the gods on her side."
"We are not Gorons."
"And Ganondorf isn't his mother."
"No," Sheim said. "He's become something much worse."
The clang of metal echoed down the boulevard. A contingent of Viscen's men (Palo could not stop thinking of them as belonging to that poor man) rushed past, swords drawn. A few Knights on horseback galloped toward the city gates, and another blue cloud rose in the distance. The sharp sounds of cannon fire met Palo's ears, and his hand twitched to Bloodletter's hilt.
"Steady yourself, deadseer," Sheim said. "Stay with me. We will fight much better together than apart. And I will not see you die today when it is my duty to kill you tomorrow."
"Of course, Elder." Palo almost smiled. Sheim was right, as always. It would be foolish for him to obey his instinct, to rush out to quench the thirst for blood inside him. So he stood patiently, Agahnim giddy at his side, waiting to begin the calculations, to line up the offerings and reap the rewards.
It was almost a blessing when the first of the King's men rounded the corner. He was a lone soldier, lucky to have escaped the blades of the Galinedh. He heaved a broken shield in one arm and a reddened axe in the other, eyes wide with that familiar paradox of fear and fury. To Palo's relief, as soon as he spied the two of them, he raised his tattered weaponry and charged.
Palo didn't even get the chance to draw Bloodletter. Sheim was already there, driving his short sword through the soldier's throat, as quick and unexpected as an insect sting. The elder flicked the blood from his blade and watched the body fall, almost bored-looking, before he strolled back to Palo. The taste of the man's death lingered in the air, unused, unfulfilled.
"Disappointing," Agahnim muttered on Palo's behalf.
"Prepare yourself," Sheim said to him. "There will be more where he came from."
Fortunately, the elder's words rang true. A few more men stumbled down the narrow streets toward them, those who had escaped the chaos at the city gate, who had avoided Telma's traps and dodged the arrows of the Faronians. It was a trickle that Palo knew preceded the flood.
A few soldiers became a few dozen—Gerudo spearwomen, Ordish on horseback, a contingent of footmen, hesitant at the end of the street, bereft of orders and practically begging to be cut down. There was more than enough blood to go around, and when Palo glanced at Sheim, the elder gave him tacit permission to charge.
Bloodletter's weight alone felled the first horseman at the front of the group. Just as he readied his halberd to cut Palo down, Bloodletter bit into his horse's legs, drawing a scream from both the animal and its rider. The horse stumbled forward with a powerful jerk, and the Ordishman flew from its back, landing square on the cobblestones. A crack of bone snapped through the clattering of armor, and Palo felt the fire of life suddenly snuffed out. A surge of energy crawled up his legs as the soldier's soul fled through the cracks in his neck, wriggling through the slits in his heavy armor.
Gods, it was unlike anything Palo had felt before. It was joyful, plentiful—with a quick pause of effort, he could reach out and snatch up a fraction of that life, a drop of blood, a pleasant memory, an aspect of the man's personality or loyalties, and keep it in his palm like a smoke bomb. He collected that energy, redirected it, letting it guide his sword as he cut the head clean off of an incoming axeman.
"Excellent," Agahnim laughed. He floated beside him, clapping his hands at each swing of Palo's sword. "Make him rise! The horseman is mostly intact, make his limbs work for you."
"Not enough," Palo breathed. He swiped a Gerudo soldier's feet out from under her and drove Bloodletter through her middle. A quick vision of a weeping daughter left alone at home flew through his head, following her spirit as it fled her body. He clutched it to himself, saving it. He knew the costs, the balances. It would take a hundred deaths just to make one corpse rise to his aid, and even then he would need to take time to speak the ritual words. He had only one burst of power currently hidden in his back pocket—a single soul to offer the death-god, and that deal had been struck days ago. He was saving that one for when he really needed it.
"They will easily obey you," Agahnim said. "You are the greatest necromancer to walk this nation. Greater even than myself, I admit. The dead will heed your call."
Palo sidestepped another soldier and cut through him. His life spurted from him all at once, flowing onto the ground and leaking through the cobblestones to the unspeakable maw below. Palo felt a surge of power in exchange, revitalizing his muscles, sending his heart into a frenzy of excitement.
"Don't waste it on your sword arm!" Agahnim scolded. "There is so much life around you, the things you could do—"
"No," Palo grunted. "Not with him around." Somewhere to his left, Sheim felled another horseman, sword flashing too fast to follow. "At best I can maybe move—"
A large Gerudo swordswoman bore down on him, suddenly, from nowhere. She was nearly as big as Nabru, and when she swung her broadsword she nearly took Palo's head off with it. He sprang away, leaping around Bloodletter and reassessing, feeling the downward flow of life, measuring the drops of blood that still sprayed from the soldiers he'd defeated. Perhaps he had enough to—
The Gerudo sprang toward him, blade raised, and then stopped cold. One of her comrades, so freshly dead that her blood still flowed from her wounds, had latched onto her ankle. A red-soaked hand grasped at her greaves, and the soldier glanced down to see a familiar arm attached to a body—maybe a friend, maybe even a sister. Spattered with gore, legs severed at the knees, all the half-dead woman could do was grip her fellow soldier and release a desperate wail, calling the name of the daughter she'd left at home.
The living soldier shook, paralyzed. Palo ran her through, then removed the head of her comrade's wailing corpse. It was the most merciful thing he could do, after she had come to his aid, guided by stolen visions.
"Beautiful," Agahnim sighed. "You're a master. The liminal space between living and dead is one of the most powerful—and difficult—to use."
"I'm not gonna lie," Palo admitted. "This is tough."
He slowly backed away from the two corpses, squeezing bits of their lives between his fingers. More soldiers appeared at the end of the dusty road—a veritable feast for his patron, but he was not sure if he had the strength to take on all of them at once. Not as he was now, shaken and depleted from forcing only a few parts of a corpse to move at his command—and a corpse so freshly dead it still practically counted as living.
"Now you have a true appreciation for the subtle art of necromancy," Agahnim said.
"I don't know why my people didn't teach me this shit—" He sliced through an oncoming Ordishman, a disoriented foot-soldier, and let the flow of blood reinvigorate his trembling legs.
"It is quite simple, deadseer," Agahnim answered. "Your elders were afraid of how powerful you could become."
Palo sliced open another soldier, bathing himself in that life, breathing it in. A dozen more appeared at the end of the boulevard, and there would be even more after that.
"They burned your kind before you could turn against them," the ghost continued. "They forbid the essence of your magic—they kept your hands tied, forcing you to merely watch the dead instead of raise them. They had to keep you weak for fear you would rule them."
"What the fuck do you know about Sheikah?" Palo grunted. Behind him, he heard Sheim's shout for retreat. The thirst still pulsated through him, eager to drain the blood of his enemies, but as he counted the swords through the dust, he knew it was wise to obey. He turned and ran.
Agahnim floated leisurely beside him, drifting through the smoke and dust. "I know enough, " he said. "Like all my Ordish countrymen, I'm well-versed in Hyrule's history. And I know what the Sheikah elders did to heretics like you. I know yours is planning to murder you the moment this is over."
"Tell me something I don't know," Palo breathed.
"Well," the ghost paused, grinning. "When he is in his deepest sleep, sometimes he smiles and whispers your name."
Palo almost tripped, his legs almost gave out from under him—but he recovered, stumbling forward, swinging Bloodletter back over his shoulder. "I didn't need to know that," he muttered. "Not now."
"He loves you deeply," Agahnim said, "and is still willing to slit your throat to silence you. That tells you how much he is afraid of you, deadseer. That speaks to your true potential."
Palo's eyes moved to Sheim, ahead of him, cloak drifting in the dust. He wondered if he could bring himself to turn against the elder. He wondered if he would have the courage to fight for his own life, or worse, to win.
"I'll cross that bridge when I get to it," Palo said. "I don't need you burning any before then."
Nabru, as usual, stood atop a veritable mountain of corpses. Wave after wave of soldiers came her way, and she dispatched all of them—her spear never slowed, her dance never stopped, and she did not tire as she stepped over the bodies of her opponents to meet their replacements. Her cheek stung, and she swore she had popped a stitch out sometime earlier, but the jolts of pain only made her own blade sharper, they only kindled her fury.
Din's Fire was in her joyful element, and it was only getting hotter.
Smoke rose from outside the walls, dust from inside. The roar of cannons rang in her ears, and the familiar scent of blue fire singed her nostrils. Choked air and flames and screaming horses, men's shouts cut off with their heads—it was horrifying chaos, and it was wonderful. For the first time since Barudi commandeered her body, Nabru felt normal. She wasn't going to lose this moment, she wasn't going to stop fighting, so long as she stood.
Her women fought beside her, skilled, prepared, angry. The wounds of Obra Garud opened anew, and every one of the King's soldiers they had failed to kill then would meet their deaths now. It was the only way the Great Worm could turn.
Nabru piled two axemen on the tip of her spear and flung them back toward the smoldering portcullis. The gate was piled high with the corpses of the King's men—their charge was narrow, frantic, and any soldiers that made it past the Galinedh were only met with Faronian arrows from bowmen hiding on the rooftops. Any that survived that were then faced with Telma's well-laid traps, the Knights of Hylia, and if they managed to make it as far as the castle, they would have to contend with the Verdant Knight.
Nabru had started off this battle with fragile hope boiling in her stomach. There were two outcomes for her: she could win, or she could die, and as she cut down what may have been her hundredth opponent, as she and her women advanced and retreated with each wave, losing only a few soldiers for every fifty of the King's, she realized the better outcome may be the likelier. If they played their cards right, if Telma's gang were sly enough, if the Faronians were sharp-eyed enough, if the United Uprising's soldiers were disciplined and brutal and unyielding, they could do it. They could defeat the largest army Hyrule had ever known, and they could do it on the streets of the King's own city.
It lifted her heart to think of it. All Nabru needed to do was play her part and obey Talm's commands, to not overstep her bounds and ensure her women followed the predetermined strategy. Talm and Aelina had been very clear about the role of the Galinedh, and Nabru was not about to challenge either of them. She would pick off as many of the King's soldiers as she could, but when it came to the man himself, she would leave it to that scrawny Hylian stableboy.
She might've laughed at it all, if she wasn't currently fending off a dozen swords at once. She might've taken the time to consider the absurdity of the gods, even to reach out to them and ask why they had shoved such power into little golden trinkets and handed them out so capriciously, but the sounds of battle rang in her ears, and she devoted her attention to the fight at hand.
Or she tried to. The next swing she took, intending to swipe away three men at once, met nothing but air. When she recovered, regaining her footing and glancing toward her enemies, she found they had backed away, parting for an oncoming threat, fleeing to the sides of the boulevard. It took her a moment to realize they were making way for their commander.
A light flashed, the stink of magic met Nabru's nose, and through the dust and smoke she saw the King burst into the street.
"Shit," she breathed.
The Mandrag's gargantuan warhorse leapt over the corpses of his men with a fearless, almost playful gait. Its rider was equally undaunted by the chaos in the boulevard, reeking of fire and dust and blood and wearing a white smile that turned Nabru's stomach. He reined in his horse at the center of the street and glanced around, surveying the debris and corpses that crowded the cobblestones. Wherever his eyes wandered, an unbearable heat followed—and when his gaze met Nabru's, searing rage crawled up her spine.
She resisted. She forced herself to raise her voice and lower her spear. "Galinedh, fall back!" she called. Her captains repeated the order, and her fighters pulled to the alleys, making way for the King almost as quickly as his own soldiers. Some of the more reckless men in the other units, Ordish or Faronian, took this opportunity to charge him—but they did not make it far. All the King had to do was raise his hand, and the onslaught found itself pinned by thin shafts of golden light.
He urged his horse forward, and Nabru saw the dark stains across his eyes, his arms, and along the length of his broadsword. By all rights that blade should've been clean—the Galinedh were the first to meet the oncoming army, and there were no soldiers outside the gate but the King's own.
Nabru narrowed her eyes, slowing her retreat. She backed away, lifting her spear only to cut down a man chasing her, and lingered to watch the King march onward. The blood was not fresh on his armor, it was not fresh on his face or sword. It had to have been that of his own men—and the way it was smeared on his face—gods, he must've doused himself in blood magic.
The stupid bastard, she thought. He lost his rova and now he's trying to become one.
It sickened her. Against her better judgment, she stepped forward, taking her spear in both hands. Her legs begged her to charge, her arms screamed with the desire to rush forward and run the King through, but she held back, lingering at the edge of the boulevard. She knew better than to challenge him now, without help from the gods' golden power, but temptation brought her steadily forward, spear tip first.
The King lifted Wormtooth, red with dried, spattered blood. He did not look at Nabru, he did not aim for Nabru, he only held his sword skyward and eyed the street, crowded with corpses, rushing soldiers, and smoldering debris. A glow crawled up the length of metal, lighting the blood a bright orange. Then he brought it down, the weight of his power directed at the cobblestones before him.
The world went silent for a moment, then Nabru's ears were filled with fire.
The city street warped, widening and narrowing as the blast tore through it—the light blinded her, the force threw her from her feet and into the building behind her. Her head spun, and pain erupted from her side, tearing through her leg, up her torso, into her arm.
Her sight didn't quite clear, her ears never stopped ringing, but when she pulled herself together, she was lying in a pile of rubble, the tattered remnants of soldiers around her—her own, the King's, Ordish and Gerudo and Faronian. Slowly, too slowly, she stood. Time seemed to dilate, and the burst of power seemed to echo again and again in her ears, thudding, burning.
The King lowered his sword and looked down the leveled boulevard, now nothing but broken cobblestone, warped and smoldering with heat. Corpses were burnt to ash, debris and living soldiers had been shoved to either side of the street, leaving a clear path for his advance. The Mandrag kicked his horse forward, rushing past the piles of ash, the broken glass and the outstretched arms of his own dying soldiers, blown half to bits or stuck under waves of brick, molded as inextricably into the street as the rest of the stones.
"Vile snake," Nabru growled, though she could not hear her own voice. When she tried to stumble forward, she found her legs were weak and trembling, her trousers burnt and shredded over her mail. When she tried to take her spear in her singed and aching hands, she found one was missing.
Her whole arm was missing. On her left shoulder sat her deformed pauldron, and below that, there was only air. She still felt her skin, her muscles, burning, twinging with eagerness to fight, but only her right arm remained, hand clutching her spear so tightly it shook with agony.
"Fuck," she hissed in Gerudo. "Fuck that disgusting spawn of cursed rova. Fuck him to the ends of the world, the slithering drip of vile Ganond-seed."
She knew she was a mess of broken bones and burnt flesh, she knew she had no possible chance of destroying the King for what he had done for her, for the many fights and victories he had just stolen from her, but she couldn't stop herself. She strode forward on fractured legs, lifting her spear in the only arm left to her, aiming straight for him, and used the rest of her depleted strength to hurl it in his direction.
The last thing she heard was the screaming of his horse, the last thing she saw was the black blur of the mount stumbling over itself, spear in its flank. She smiled, and fell.
In the usually quiet squares of the east district, beneath the protective shadows of the castle walls, Palo and Sheim fought off as many men as they could. Members of the United Uprising appeared from the alleyways, slid from roofs and balconies to help them, and one overeager guard atop the palace walls fired a shot of blue flame down the road, turning an entire infantry unit to ash before their eyes.
Holy shit, Palo thought as the smell of burnt souls reached his nose, I hope that cannon doesn't take too long to reload.
The street went quiet, briefly. A unit of Telma's rushed past, taking the other Uprising soldiers east with them, toward the sound of oncoming hoofbeats. Palo and Sheim stayed behind, picking off the last of the King's men—a few disoriented stragglers, already deafened and frightened by the cannons. They were easy enough to finish off, and their fear sweetened their deaths, giving them an almost pleasant taste on Palo's tongue.
The deadseer was nearly starting to enjoy himself, he was nearly willing to admit to Agahnim that he was having a strange sort of fun. He almost felt himself relax—until the ground began to shake so violently under him he nearly lost his footing.
A terrible boom trembled through the streets, beginning at the mouth of the boulevard and ending in the grand square. It wasn't the cannons, it couldn't be—it wasn't followed by a scream of blue fire, it didn't end with a puff of smoke and a familiar smell. It was unlike anything Palo had heard or felt before, echoing with a high, otherworldly frequency.
He froze as the rumbling ceased, and dust shook from every brick in the city. The entire street was cloaked in a grey haze, stinking with magic. He looked around him, clutching Bloodletter, and called Sheim's name. The elder appeared beside him, unharmed, calm.
"What was that?" Palo hissed, half to Agahnim, half to Sheim. Neither spoke for a minute at least, but eventually, Palo got his answer.
Through the grey smoke, through the dust and the smell of fire and blood, a hulking shadow appeared. It was tall, broad, carrying a blade of golden light. The King walked down the narrow road perfectly intact, cape unruffled. His blade and hands were spattered with blood, and there was a narrow streak of it across his eyes, but he did not look harmed—there was not a dent in his armor nor a hint of blue fire's touch. He was soaked in red and absolutely pristine.
Palo doubted Talm and the other commanders could see into the narrow streets of this district, especially not through this dust, but he hoped whoever was running the cannon up there caught a glimpse of this new opponent. He also hoped, that along with good eyesight, that observer would have the good sense to abandon their post and go tell the others.
He knew he probably couldn't take down Ganondorf on his own, but he could at least keep him here, hold his attention until Talm sent Link down with his triforce and the Goron-forged steel that served it.
So he lifted Bloodletter, briefly kissed the flat of its blade for good luck, and threw himself at the Mandrag.
"Palo, don't—"
He didn't know if it had been Sheim speaking, or Agahnim, but the words did not stop him. He knew what he had to do, and he could do nothing else—the darkness inside him smelled the King's blood, an ancient, coveted line, it sensed the powerful life that glowed in his body. That thirst propelled Palo toward the Mandrag, mouth open, desperate to spill just a drop of that blood, to keep it flowing until Link spilled it all, right into the mouth of the ancient one. Silent, swift, Palo lifted Bloodletter, preparing for the most important strike of his life.
The King didn't move. He didn't even raise his broadsword, he just watched the blade of his enemy barrel toward him, unimpeded, unchallenged.
It was with a wave of surprise that Palo knew Bloodletter would hit its target. He had expected a parry, he had expected a flash of golden light, but he had caught the King by surprise. The Mandrag could barely turn to face the deadseer before he was on him, bearing down with the entire weight of Bloodletter. Palo poured every ounce of strength he had into his blow, buoyed by the strength of his god, muscles lit by the fragments of life siphoned from the dead.
The blade struck true. Or, it should've—the heaviest, sharpest curve of the metal met the King directly between his eyes, right where the jewel of his crown glittered. But for half a second, a long, agonizing moment, nothing happened. Palo hung suspended over the Mandrag, all his force still directed downward—he could feel the might of his own sword burning in every one of his muscles, he could still taste victory on his tongue.
And then he saw what Bloodletter had truly hit—a thin, near-invisible coating of golden light, hovering around the King as closely as a second skin. The Mandrag looked up at him, mouth wide in a triumphant smile. "Deadseer," was all he said.
The force of Palo's blow backfired. His whole body was enveloped in a terrible, trembling reverberation—and then he was flying backward, flailing, gasping. It was all he could do to swing his legs, desperately cling to his sword, and try to reorient himself, but the force of his momentum did not allow even that. With a terrible jolt, he crashed into the door of a nearby building, shaking it to its very foundations. Wood splintered around him, the wind was knocked from his lungs, and he slid to the ground, barely managing to land on his knees. Breathless, gasping for air, he pulled himself upright. When he stumbled forward again, raising Bloodletter, the only evidence that his blade had even touched the King was a large, shameful chip in its edge.
Palo suddenly, truly realized why Elder Merel had been so adamant about that stupid magic sword.
Ganondorf stepped toward him, vengeful smile spreading. His eyes were locked with Palo's, glinting bright with golden light. They had the same manic radiance to them as his rova; he was enveloped in the same stinking aura, bathed in the same sacrificial blood. Palo could almost still smell Barudi's magic, the cold, the heat, when the King stepped toward him.
Palo knew he couldn't fight back. He could not raise his sword against the King, not decked out in the gods' golden light, not while he had the power of rova magic radiating from his blood-streaked eyes. And he couldn't get much help from the dead—at least not unless he bought himself some time. If he could flee, he could regain precious few seconds, then he could call upon his last reliable source for help.
He didn't know how long he had. The King was practically on top of him now, raising his broadsword, gathering light at its tip. In half a second that blade would come down on him—the best he could do was raise Bloodletter and hope it would redirect the Mandrag's strike. He needed to survive the next few seconds, but he didn't know how likely that was. He tensed, preparing for the King's downswing, preparing to close his eyes and wake up on Agahnim's plane, bodiless, having missed the only opportunity he had to defeat the King.
But Ganondorf's blow never met him. A streak of black flew in from above, and in a flash of metal too quick for Palo to follow, the broadsword rang in the King's grip, sending him stumbling backward with a cry of surprise. The Mandrag recovered and hesitated for a moment, disbelieving, as Sheim skidded to a halt before him.
Gods, if anyone could sneak up on the King, it would be that clever bastard. The elder spun around, regaining his grip on his short sword, and the Mandrag turned his gaze toward his newest attacker. Palo did not waste the opportunity—he backed out of the King's range, forming the first words of a spell. It was a reckless move on his part, but a heretical part of him believed that perhaps, if he proved powerful enough, he could destroy Ganondorf the same way he destroyed his wife.
Sheim danced backward, blade shining, quick and graceful. The King followed, steady but slow enough for the Sheikah to slip out of his reach.
Come on, Elder, Palo said in his head, as his mouth formed different words, words not fit to be muttered in the world of the living. I'm almost done.
Sheim pulled away from the King, slowing only to slice back at him with the useless tip of his blade—it chipped at the King's gauntlets, at his crown, at his breastplate and cloak without leaving so much as a mark. But it was enough to keep the Mandrag distracted, to keep him firmly focused on his current attacker. Sheim's sword was as invisible and uncatchable as a dream, whipping back and forth in no discernible pattern, distracting and persistent—until it wasn't.
Somehow, the King had raised his own blade at just the right time. Somehow, he had managed to catch the tip of Sheim's sword in its cross guard, he had managed to arrest it in the thick worm scales that jutted from its hilt. The elder attempted to withdraw his sword, but the King would not let him—he yanked his opponent closer, one hand firmly locking their weapons in place, the other rising, preparing for a strike.
As Ganondorf and Sheim stilled in the dusty haze, tensing like a held breath, Palo's spell stuck in his throat. He did not know what would happen next, but he knew he could not stop it.
The King jerked his hand backwards, dragging Sheim toward him by the length of his blade. A vein of golden light shot up his raised arm, webbing between his fingers. The elder didn't have time to move, didn't have time to run, before the hand plunged into his stomach, bursting with all the raw power of a god.
A cry died in Palo's mouth as the King slammed Sheim down onto the cobblestones. His gauntlet disappeared into the elder's stomach, first the fingers, then the wrist, then half the forearm, as quickly and easily as if passing through water. Trails of golden light threaded down from his elbow, meeting in sinister confluences and emptying into the elder's flesh.
Sheim did not scream, he did not struggle. As the King grabbed a fistful of his innards and crushed him from the inside out, he only turned his head slightly and eyed Palo with a look of calm resignation.
Quickly, as easily as gutting fowl, the King ripped Sheim open. Blood sprayed, ribs cracked, and Ganondorf stole the life from the Sheikah's greatest warrior in one swift movement of his arm. When he stood again, he was bathed to the elbow in fresh blood, his hand pulsating with an eager golden light. Then, he turned his gaze to Palo.
"Run," Agahnim whispered in his ear. "Run, you idiot."
Palo tried. He dropped his spell half-spoken, he turned and tried to flee, the scent of his elder's death still burning in his nostrils. But as he threw one leg in front of the other, the world slowed as if in a nightmare. Sheim's spirit roared past him, disappearing into the distance, eager to seek out Temok and his daughter, the grandchild he'd never met. He tried to follow that spirit, to flee the scene as effortlessly as a ghost, but he had physical legs, and physical lungs, too mundane to outrun the power of the gods.
Something slammed into him. He flew forward, only to be turned and caught in the grip of the Mandrag. A dark magic, pierced with gold, wrapped around him, squeezing every part of him, wrestling Bloodletter from his grasp. The sword clattered to the ground as a hand, perhaps real, perhaps etherial, grasped his hair and slammed his head against the wall behind him. He felt something hot pour down his neck, soaking his shirt as his back was pressed firmly to the stone. He could barely open his eyes, and when he did, the only thing he saw was the furious face of the King, too close to his.
"You are the one responsible," Ganondorf growled.
Palo couldn't speak. The most he could do was mouth a few silent syllables, hoping beyond hope that they would work.
"You were the one at Relta. You were the one who raised the Ordish dead." The Mandrag's grip tightened around Palo's chest, his arms, his head—and he desperately tried to squeeze out the final few rasps of his spell, praying desperately to any god that would still listen to a heretic like him. "You are the monster that killed my wife."
Palo's lips formed one more pathetic syllable, and a slight rumbling took hold of the little square. It wasn't enough; he had to buy himself some time to speak the name. "Mah…" he managed to choke. A streak of blood fell from the corner of his mouth. "J—"
The King's magic tightened around Palo, killing the words. The Mandrag raised his arm to the sky, glowing gold with vengeful radiance. "You will pay for what you've done."
The clouds seemed to open. A beam of gold descended, traveling through the King's empty hand like an otherworldly spear. It slipped perfectly into the rounded circle of his raised fingers, straight and true, quivered for a fraction of a second, and then plunged directly into Palo.
The deadseer screamed. The light pierced his shoulder, breaking his clavicle, tearing his arm from his socket. The snapping of bones echoed through his lungs, his head, and the light arced through every vessel, past his heart and into his gut, burning everything in its path before remerging from his opposite hip. Bone shattered, flesh ripped open, veins burst, and as the light traveled through his abdomen and out the other side, a spray of blood hit the wall. His body hit soon afterward, slumping against the stone.
Then the fire died, the light vanished as easily as it had appeared—a curse, a damnation, a terrible insult by the very same gods that had infinitely blessed Link and little Zee. Palo felt as if he could vomit, but he was unsure of he still had a stomach to do so.
The King smiled at him. "Wretched heretic."
Ganondorf stepped away, releasing his grip, and Palo fell, limp and helpless, to the ground. He could barely groan, he could barely cry out as the shift in his body reignited all the searing pains the gods had left in him. He could smell his own flesh burn, he could feel his own blood fill his lungs, flowing gleefully into forbidden spaces. He suddenly had the sensation that he was drowning.
The King paid him little mind. He made to go, lingering only to deliver a few words. "Try not to die too quickly, deadseer," he said, almost solemnly. "A swift end does not befit your crimes. I will be back for you. When I have slit the throat of your princess and skinned the stableboy alive, I will be back to mete out your just punishment."
Palo didn't have the strength to laugh. He barely kept himself alert, each breath soaked in bubbling blood. He couldn't shout, he couldn't reach out for the King and try to stop him. He couldn't rise and warn the others. He could only lie there in agony, as his strength slowly left him.
The Mandrag turned on his heel, broadsword in hand, and calmly walked into the dust, disappearing in a flicker of darkness.
"I can't see anything," Impa said. She held the spyglass close to her face, surveying the city before her, but Link could guess that she had only seen the same things he had—dust, blue smoke, occasional glints of metal as swords clashed.
They had both watched an explosion of light ignite the city gates, then again somewhere in the boulevard. It tore through the smoke, displacing it and forcing it upward, and they had all felt the unmistakeable power of the triforce rattle through the ground, down the streets and all the way up the palace walls. But after that, there had been nothing. Nothing but corpses of soldiers, the smoldering remains of buildings and a few straggling survivors, trying to escape into the shadows.
Before the dust and smoke returned to envelop the boulevard, Link had thought he'd seen the King, a large, dark form in the middle of the street. His heart raced for a moment when he realized the form was injured, struggling, stuck—but a quick look through the spyglass confirmed it was only the King's mount, dying swiftly, with a spear lodged in its side. The man himself was nowhere to be seen.
"There's a few coming up the east side," Talm said, glancing over the streets. "Either they're hopelessly lost or they mean to attack the far wall."
"Let me take care of them," Impa said.
"I already sent someone," Talm answered.
"Maybe the King is with them," Link put in, almost desperately. "I saw him down there." He thought he'd glimpsed a flash of golden light in the maze of tall buildings in that district, then once more, even closer to the castle. But he couldn't be sure—it could've easily been his imagination, or his overeager triforce trying to urge him into action. It hadn't stopped burning since the battle began, sending waves of urgent energy up his arm.
"At the very least we know he's in the city," Talm muttered. She reached up to take the little telescope from her sister. "But his movement is so erratic. I can't tell where he's gone."
"Let me go find him," Link said.
"No. I'm not sending you some on wild game of hide and seek, not when we have so little time as it is. In fact, that's probably what the King wants us to do." She glanced at Link with almost an amused look on her face. "You can go down once you're fully armored."
The pageboy hung his head in shame as he struggled with Link's breastplate. He had a hard enough time as it was buckling the Verdant Knight's gauntlets and greaves—Link figured he might be battle-ready sometime next year.
"Now, where's Zelda?" Talm asked the nearest passing commander. "Everything's going to shit down there and if she's not here to hold the gate soon, the King'll break through before we know it. Bo can't hold it on his own."
"You n-never know, with him," Aelina said, too hopefully. "He'll hold out until Zee gets here. She should b-b-be on her w-way."
"I'll go look for her," Impa said. She turned on her heels before anyone could protest—she was as eager to put herself to use as Link was, clearly. "If anything happens to me, I defer my command to Aelina."
"W-w-wait," the Ordishwoman protested, "I can't—"
"You'll be fine," Talm said. "I'll help you. Impa, go get us our queen."
Impa gave a salute to her sister and trotted toward the nearest guard tower. As she passed, Link caught a glimpse of the confusion in her face, he saw the suspicious anxiety in her eyes. It did not take someone of Impa's impeccable instinct to smell something awry, something beyond the smoke and dust.
He watched Impa disappear into the tower and reemerge at its base, tearing across the castle grounds toward the north wing. Somewhere near his ear, his sword began to ring out, sending a steady buzz of warning through his back and into his head.
Go.
It was as clear a command as the blade could give him. His triforce echoed the sentiment, writhing inside him like a trapped animal, spitting light and heat and tremulous energy into his veins. He did not know where it wanted him to go, or why, but he knew he had to run, and he had to run as fast as he could.
"I'll be right back," Link said. He shook off his desperate pageboy, who had only managed to cloak him in chainmail and a few necessities, and began to run toward the guard tower. He was not sure of his destination, or his reason for running, all he knew was that he had to go down, he had to follow his triforce where it led him.
"Where are you going? You're not in costume yet!" Talm called after him like a desperate stagehand. "Come back!"
His sword rang across his back as he flew down the guard tower steps. A dark shadow crawled in from the edges of his vision, and his heart leapt inside him—he could suddenly feel the King, too close, too strong, like a particularly pungent scent. He could not tell from where, but his feet carried him of their own volition.
With each step his hand burned, his head spun, and an awful dread reared inside him. His triforce screamed and struggled, pulling him forward, forcing him to jump down the stairs and emerge into the castle grounds. From there, his direction was clear.
It was the will of the gods, it was a pull of something much more powerful than him, and he could not disobey.
Well, this isn't good, Palo thought. His shattered bones lay on shattered cobblestones, marrow and blood spilling from him slowly but inexorably. He could not pull himself to his feet, he could not shout for help, he could not warn the others of the King's imminent arrival. He would never walk again, if his wounds healed on their own, and he would never breathe again if they didn't.
Palo was smart enough to know he was going to die. There was no way out of this predicament alive, and he could no longer hoard his cards to his chest. He had to play them, he had to bet everything he had on this moment. He thought about all the things he'd lost, all the things he had left to gain… there were things he would keep and things he would surrender… but he had to…
Stop torturing yourself over the numbers and just do it, snapped a voice inside his head. Apparently he was more eager to live than he had previously thought. You've already been through this calculation.
He closed his eyes.
"I told you to run."
When he opened them again, he saw Agahnim standing over him, a disappointed look on his transparent face.
"I… will run… in a moment," Palo breathed. A streak of new blood bubbled between his dried, cracked lips, and dripped down his chin. Beneath him, beneath the pain and weakness, his shattered bones could sense a deep rumble, though he could not tell if it was cannon fire or the opening jaws of hell. Honestly, with the state his head was in now, it was a tossup.
"I don't think so," Agahnim frowned. He fluttered down beside Palo, draping himself on the cobblestones beside him. He reached out, laying a cold white finger on the deadseer's cheek. "You will join me in a moment."
"No…"
"It was a valiant effort. I could feel the power of your spell, and it amazed me. I commend you—it is a pity you could not finish it."
"Yeah…" Palo closed his eyes again, glancing at the ledgers, the abaci, the slivery liquid of life pouring from one scale to the other. It truly was a pity. He was saving this gamble for a moment he could really use it—though he supposed there was no time like the present. Sheim was gone, and the King was rushing unopposed to the castle. Palo wasn't ready to die, he wasn't ready to give up all the leverage he had.
It took every ounce of effort to move his mouth. "Remember…" he croaked, and Agahnim leaned in, as if proximity could make his metaphysical ears hear any better. "You asked… how I did… with only the soul of a soldier."
"Yes, it still astounds me," Agahnim smiled. As he lay down beside Palo, his curled hair framed his white face, subject to gravity just like the living. It was charming, somehow.
"I didn't." Palo looked to the gray smoke above him, swirling with a fell wind. "I promised… the soul… most loyal… servant."
Agahnim's smile faded. "What?"
"You… owe me…" Palo moved slightly, pain jolting from his hip to his shoulder. "It balances out. Adds up… somehow."
The ghost retreated. He scrambled away from Palo, long-nailed fingers curling around the stony debris. "No," he hissed.
Palo took the deepest breath he could. It was barely a breath, shallow, tinged with blood—when he spoke the words they were nothing more than a suggestion on his lips. Slowly, but thoroughly, he recast his spell, making sure each syllable rang clear in his head, if not in the air itself.
"Sheikah, cease this foolishness," Agahnim said. "You have no idea what you're doing. You don't know the consequences."
"Mah…"
"Palo, wait!"
"Joh…"
"Stop, I beg you—"
He smiled when he mouthed the final syllable. "Rah."
The name was barely out of his mouth before the street was enveloped in darkness. Agahnim struggled, he writhed and flickered and screamed, he tried his best to escape the inescapable. But when the ground split, when a dark, oppressive presence slithered through both of their minds, the necromancer could do nothing. The deal had been struck already, and no amount of cajoling or haggling could change the perfect, unassailable numbers.
A single eye opened below Agahnim. From the endless depths of its pupil came the screams of a million damned souls, aching, freezing, begging. Then the eye blinked, and the ghost was gone.
The street was empty once more. When the darkness lifted, when the smoke cleared and the smell of rotting flesh and sulfur blew away in the wind, a figure rose from the ash, hauled a sword over its shoulder and trotted frantically through the haze.