Malon shut her eyes tight as her head was once again forced under the water. She instinctively held her breath, even though it wasn't necessary. But it still hurt whenever water made it up her nose and into her lungs. She wasn't sure if she could still drown in the Sacred Realm, but she didn't want to take the chance.
After a minute or so, she was pulled up forcibly by the hair. No sooner had her head left the water than she was slapped viciously across the face. She was slapped again, then thrown into a heavy wooden chair. She was slapped again and again, each time harder than the last. Her torturer, a large Horik-tai that looked like a man-sized beetle, grabbed her by the hair and lifted her battered face up until it was almost level with his.
"How long have you been here?" he rasped. "Five days? Six? And yet you have still not answered our questions." He slapped her again, but still she remained silent. "Why are you in our lands? Did the Soro-faks send you?" When she did not answer, he stood her up and punched her in the stomach, sending her back into the chair. She coughed once, spitting up blood.
"You enter our realm," her captor continued, "Bringing with you two demons, some strange hybrid, and a member of our greatest enemy, and still you refuse to tell us why? After five days of questioning, still you remain silent? What is so important that you would endure such torture? What are you doing here?" Silence was Malon's only response. The Horik-tai glared at her. "Pride cometh before the fall," he muttered, then gestured at the two guards standing on either side of the chair. They nodded and lifted Malon from her seat and removed her tunic; her armor and sword had already been taken upon her arrival. They forced her back into her seat, this time with her bare back to the examiner. He was now holding a long, leather whip. "Pride is admirable," he told Malon, as he brought his arm back. "But only when it accomplishes something."
* * *
Malon landed hard on her back, spots dancing before her eyes. She briefly saw two of her captors through the hold they had dropped her in before they disappeared from view. She lay there a while, not moving, barely even blinking. Finally, she heard Nuamru's voice croak, "Welcome back, fearless leader. How was your visit with our hosts today?"
Malon laughed, and immediately wished she hadn't as blood filled her mouth. Turning her head to the side, she spit it out and faced the Gerudo woman. Numaru's face was just as bloodied and battered as her own. "Same as always, Numaru," she replied, forcing a weak smile. "No drinks, no welcome, no manners."
"Mine was much the same. But they used a twig instead of the whip today, just for variety, I think."
Malon nodded and closed her eyes, trying to steady her wracked nerves. Ever day of their captivity had been the same: torture, rest, torture, rest, one long, vicious cycle. But Malon, Numaru, and Zakro refused to speak. She did not know how long their captors would prolong the interrogations before they finally got tired of it and killed them, but Malon had a sinking feeling that that would not be for some time yet.
At the moment, Malon heard something heavy hit the ground beside her. Turning her head, she saw Zakro lying face down on the hard earthen floor. His eyes were swollen shut, and there were burn marks on his shoulders and arms, long jagged marks that merely seemed to be another addition to his tattoos. Struggling, he rolled onto his back. "Is that all you got?" he roared defiantly at the hole. "Is that it? It'll take more than red-hot pokers and multiple beatings to break THIS Zora! Zakro speaks when he chooses to speak, and to WHOM! King Zakro…" His rant was interrupted as he too spat up blood, the thick green liquid dribbling down the sides of his mouth. "King Zakro breaks for no bug! Zorak-toma! M'shakkle fi toonay!" This was followed by more obscenities in the Zora language. When he was finally finished, he spat on the ground beside him. Turning to face Malon, he grinned. "Showed them, didn't I?"
"You sure did, Zakro. The exact same show they've had the past five days. But I never get tired of it." Malon moved one hand up and placed it over his.
"I think that's the last round for today," Numaru said as she shuffled closer to her companions. "We should be able to speak freely now."
"Of what?" Zakro grunted. "Escape? We have no weapons, no armor, and no idea where we are in the bloody fort. I haven't lost hope, but our list of options grows short."
"We do have one option," Malon interjected. "We can all get some rest. Try and think up plans while you're resting; we only have a couple of hours until the next round."
Both murmured their consent, then they kissed their fingertips and touched them to their strips of Link's hat—the Horik-tai had at least left them that much—and closed their eyes. Malon's stayed open however, as she tried to figure out a way out of this latest mess. Nothing had gone right for the Chosen since the minute they had set foot in the Sacred Realm, and it was hard for her to imagine that luck changing anytime soon.
Sighing in defeat, she had just closed her eyes, when something landed on her stomach. She opened her eyes and let out a small cry that was loud enough to wake the others.
"Hmm, hello again Malon, my red-headed fox, how are you enjoying your time in this quaint little box?"
"Bazillo!" Malon hissed, careful to keep her voice low.
"Goddesses, send me back to the pokers," Zakro groaned.
Bazillo ignored him and continued to talk to Malon. "Hmm, come to save you, I have, but don't ask me why, for the chances are good that all four of us will die. It has taken three days for me to sneak into this hole, but now I have finally reached my set goal. But to free you, now, now, that is the trick, for the fog you have fallen in is really quite thick."
"Bazillo?" Malon said through gritted teeth. "Do you think you could get off my stomach? It was hit by a large club all morning."
Bazillo made a little sound and then hopped off onto the ground at her feet. Fighting back the pain, she sat up, the others right behind her. "How long have you been here?" Malon asked the little sprite.
"Hmm, three days it took, for Bazillo to sneak in. These bug-folk are more observant than old Necron's men. Also, another reason for why I did wait, was to give your friends time to save their own fate."
Numaru's eyes shimmered with hope. "You mean that Shrike and Mattalla are still alive?"
Bazillo nodded his head. "Hmm, when last I saw them they were still alive, but what happens next is for them to decide. As for yourselves, you must hurry, make haste, for I fear you do not have much time left to waste. The Horik-tai are patient, but even they must get bored, and the cost of that penalty you cannot afford."
"We need our weapons, Bazillo," Malon said. "And we need to find a safe route out of here. I don't think we're in any condition to fight."
"Hmm, weapons I can get you, but that will take time, so will be forced to do without my sly, clever rhyme."
"I'm sure we'll manage," Zakro muttered.
"How long, Bazillo?" Numaru asked.
"Hmm, give me one more day, that should be enough, so until then my friends, stay strong and stay tough."
"Well," Malon said, optimism creeping back into her voice, "Looks like we have our plan. Now we just have to last long enough for it to work."
Numaru nodded, and looked at Bazillo. "What did you mean when you said it was up to Shrike and Mattalla to decide their own fate."
Bazillo's beak broke into a sardonic smile, appreciating some hidden irony. "Hmm, captured they were, between some dangerous spokes, by the ancient Soro-faks, the grim Shadow Folk."
* * *
Shrike and Mattalla were lead blindfolded through wherever it was they were being held. They had been held captive for close to five days, but had not been mistreated; no torture, no questions, nothing. They had merely been left in absolute darkness, stripped of their weapons, but otherwise unhurt.
Now they walked in silence, their captors still unknown, prodding them forward. Finally, they came to a halt. Mattalla stood tall and proud, a look of defiance on his face. Shrike also stood straight and tall, using his remaining senses to try and gauge their new situation. Unfortunately, no sound came to his ears, nor any odor to his nose; whoever they were, their captors did not want to reveal themselves just yet.
They felt the blindfolds being removed from their eyes, but their view wasn't much improved. They were standing in a single circle of light, the rest of the room shrouded in darkness. Shrike and Mattalla exchanged looks, then they stared forward into the darkness, waiting.
"The Council is now in session," a deep, powerful voice echoed through the room. "Molo min fata, duskanee bran shota."
Shrike gasped, as the words came to his ears. "It can't be…it isn't possible…"
"You have been brought here before us to answer for your trespasses," the voice went on, addressing the two warriors.
"What?" Mattalla growled. "What trespasses? Show yourselves, cowards, and present your accusations as men, with honor!"
The room fell silent again, and it was a long while before the voice said, "You have been caught on the lands of our enemy, the Horik-tai, interfering with our plans. You will answer for this."
"We will answer for nothing!" Mattalla retorted, challenging the voice. "We refuse to answer to cowards who hide behind a shroud of darkness!"
"Call us that again, Goron," a different voice answered, "And we will learn just how tough your hide really is."
"I welcome it, coward," Mattalla hissed.
"Kochee!" Shrike suddenly blurted out, silencing both parties. "Wai sachee sinko-lanka, a luchi fel ond o tu. Feero quan choto-lunga Sheik-pon-fula!" The room broke out into a confused murmuring, as more voices revealed themselves. Mattalla stared at Shrike, completely lost.
"Sona!" the first voice called, bringing the room back into silence. "Sona! M'shunkle chun, soro chai? Dac Sheik-pon-fula?
Shrike nodded and answered the question. "Yao, wai moi."
Again, the room fell silent. "Shrike," Mattalla whispered. "What just happened? How do you know their language?"
"I have just issued a challenge," Shrike explained, "One that will hopefully save our lives. We will compete in the Sheik-pon-fula, or the Dance of the Shadows, in order to gain our freedom. And as for knowing their language…" He paused as the room was fully illuminated, revealing the occupants. The room was circular, filled with dozens of men and women, their hair either blond, gray, or white, all wearing a mesh of gray, white, and blue clothing and masks, each adorned with a single red eye shedding a single tear.
"These are my people," Shrike finished. "These are the Sheikah."
