Chapter 2: The Zonai at War
~O~O~O~O~O~O~O~
Link
Garlands of dried autumn leaves from before the winter hung across the cobbled roads of Mokhtis, around the necks of the stone boars carved at every crossroads. The mud from the recent melting snow was a deep red – red like blood, red like the flames of Din, whose Day of celebration it was.
"Well, y'lost," huffed a young girl with dark golden hair just a shade darker than her brother's, rolling her eyes. Absently she ruffled the thick fur behind the ears of the large black and white dog trotting beside them. "Again. Did it feel as good s'y'thought it would?"
Link grinned sheepishly. "I lasted longer this time. That's something, isn't it?"
Azrun merely rolled her eyes again. At fourteen springs old, the gesture had replaced sticking her tongue out as her favorite way to express exasperation with her brother. "We're almost back t'camp. Thank th'Dragons Frokar brought along medical supplies!"
"It's not that bad," Link protested, glancing over his arm. The Champion of the Boar Tribe had represented his people well, and fought like the beast they held sacred. Gotvin, Link was fairly sure his name was – he'd encountered the man at prior Days of Din as well. The cut across Link's upper arm stung fiercely, but the bleeding had slowed, dark crimson mingling with the green paint across his arms and chest. Link could still hardly believe he'd made it to the final round, after competing at the Days of the Goddesses tournaments for nearly a decade now.
Hurried footsteps sounded behind them, and a hulking shadow blotted out the sun. "Congratulations!" Guthric of Guthtwin beamed, slapping his shoulder. "Y'almost did it – next time, for sure!"
"Don't let th'other Boars hear y'cheering, Groose," Link teased. Guthric had earned the nickname in his fifteenth spring, when he decided to try and train roosters to fight alongside him. Guthric the Rooster – Groose. "Don't want 'em t'think y'turned Dragon!"
Groose waved his massive hand with a scoff, his unruly crimson hair bobbing as he shook his head. "They wouldn't dare – I'm still getting glory from my discovery f'that explosive powdery stuff! And I've almost got a working model f'an even better weapon that uses it…"
"So y'gave up on the roosters?" Azrun asked with a raised eyebrow, smirking.
"Never," Groose assured her. He paused in the road, hands on his hips, and whistled loudly through his teeth. After a moment and a distant fluttering of wings that drew steadily closer, a fluffy grey rooster landed proudly on Groose's head. Feathers went all the way down to his feet, creating the illusion that he was wearing boots.
Link laughed. Groose's shoulders slumped in dismay. "Aww, Boti," he complained, looking up in the direction of the bird on his head. "We've been over this! It's th'shoulder, not th'head!"
Boti merely clucked disapprovingly and fluttered down from his master's head to peck at the ground near his feet. The great dog at Link's side studied it curiously, wagging her tail.
"Least he came when called," Azrun pointed out optimistically. "That's more'n any of us thought possible when y'started!" She bent down to give the fluffy bird a pat on the back. She remained the only person Link had ever seen to touch Groose's war-birds without suffering nipped fingers; he suspected it was simply how their ancestors' magic manifested through her.
"Yeah, but they've still got a long ways t'go before they'll be battle-ready," Groose huffed. "I won't fail, though! Maybe I can just borrow y'for a week, Link, before the herds go up for th'summer. If y'can turn a wolf into a sheepdog, surely y'can turn a rooster into a battle bird!"
"A wolf actually has a mind t'work with, though," Link protested. "And she's part dog, anyway." He scratched the dog's head – she seemed to know he was talking about her – and moved his foot out of Boti's reach only for the bird to follow with an indignant ruffling of feathers, pecking at the sturdy lynel leather of his boots. "Fine. I'll give it a shot."
Any Zonai in good standing with their ancestors could call upon the spirit magic, but what abilities they had depended heavily on their bloodline. Link's father and grandfather, and possibly others further back in his line, had possessed great skill with animals. When Link stretched forth his right hand to touch a beast, or even a person, and called upon the magic, his arm glowed green down to his fingertips and he could reach the soul of whatever it was he was contacting. He could feel its emotions, its vitality; he could use that to communicate, to an extent.
During a winter years past, one of Lohsitho's sheepdogs was bred by a wolf. The beast was slain, and the dog didn't survive long after birthing her litter of two mongrel wolfdog pups. On a dare from Groose, Link reached out to one of the pups with his ancestor's magic. The other pup didn't survive, but Link's pup, as he raised and nourished her, grew into a hulking black dog with a white belly, legs, and face, and the build of a wolf. For an embarrassing month Link had been the talk of the Dragon Tribe, as an absolute bear of a dog trailed his footsteps everywhere he went.
If only befriending wolfdogs could do something about those deadigging Sheikah, he thought bitterly. Men should be renowned for great deeds of valor, not… not cheap tricks.
Not that Beira was a cheap trick, he admitted to himself, glancing down at the dog at his side and stroking her brow fondly. Lohsitho had never before seen such a loyal and effective sheepdog; she looked up at him with her usual deep fondness, unaware of the worries that plagued her master's mind.
"You're frowning again," Azrun noticed worriedly, her hand on his arm startling him from his musings.
"Y'alright?" Groose added. "We should get t'celebrating – you made it t'the final round; that's something t'be proud of!"
"I'm just glad th'Day f'Din is even happening this year," Link muttered bitterly. His arm was beginning to sting again; he resisted the urge to cover it with his other hand. Anything red was a sign of good luck during the festivities for Din, although Link wasn't sure how much that applied to one's own blood. Elder Frokar would know, as the shaman of their village.
His sister and friend were silent beside him as they made their way to the Camp of Farosh, set up on the outskirts of Mokhtis. The Sheikah threat hung heavy over them all, though they did their best to ignore it on this day. First those smoke-spewing machines. Then their lust for th'spirit flames. And they have th'King's ear – we don't.
Groose's forced laughter and another slap on the back drew him back to the present. "It's not th'time for those worries," he said, his grin just a little less bright than before and his hair seeming to droop. "We're having th'festival according t'plan. And come summer, we'll celebrate th'Day of Farore in Orthon – and on th'ground blessed by th'Dragons themselves, you're sure t'win! By th'Day of Nayru, you'll be known throughout th'land! We Boars have won every major tournament this past decade; everyone'll be relieved for someone else t'win…"
"I'd take a victory from th'Boar tribe any day f'we could put th'Sheikah in as opponents," Link scowled. "Hang them all and leave their bodies out t'rot! They have no right t'come after our dead!"
"Link, calm down," Azrun urged, frowning at him. She clasped his hand and gave it a squeeze. "I know you're worried – we all are. But th'Sheikah haven't actually done anything yet besides ask. And we've turned them down, and we'll continue t'turn them down. What's th'worst they can do?"
Link stiffened at her response, and she winced, instantly realizing the implication of her statement.
Groose's forced chuckle was more strained this time. "If they do try anything, we'll beat their droopshield butts so hard they'll run all th'way t'Tabantha with their tails between their legs!" He smacked his fist heartily against his palm to emphasize his words.
Link bit back a growl, in no mood to be cheered up. His loss today hadn't bothered him before; he'd taken heart in lasting for so long. But now the ache of his many bruises and the sting in his arm seemed to press in around him, testifying only of weakness.
I won't keep losing forever. Especially f'it comes t'war with th'Sheikah. I won't lose when it really counts.
~O~O~O~O~O~O~O~
Six Months Later
~O~O~O~O~O~O~O~
"Up now, Link. It's time."
Link awakened with a light nudge from a booted foot and sat up quickly in the nearly abandoned tent, rubbing the sleep hastily from his eyes. Elder Frokar stood over him, leaning on a gnarled wooden staff, his headdress of a badger's pelt between a set of mule deer antlers shading his keen gray eyes.
"Y'should be able t'take Beira for this first part," Frokar continued as Link strapped his sword and hatchet to his belt along a with a water-treated pouch of lynel hide containing lead charges and a hollowed-out sheep's horn filled with gunpowder. "Just be careful f'your silhouettes. Get an estimate f'what th'force looks like, a number f'y'can, and then report. Most f'th'force has already descended the Azgrafen Crevice; that's where you'll go when you're done."
Link nodded curtly, loading a measure of gunpowder and a lead ball into his matchlock, slinging it across his back, and pulling on his helmet. "I'll see y'soon," he said, leaving the shaman's side and pulling aside the tent flaps to find Beira waiting patiently outside. The loyal beast had refused to let him go to war without her, and though he'd never admit it out loud, he was forever grateful to the Goddesses for such a good friend out here. Azrun would be finishing off the growing season down by the southern coast, and Groose was working every day to refine his groundbreaking invention of the firearm. Frokar was the only other resident of Lohsitho out here, but he was less a friend and more a guardian of sorts. A guardian that had only gotten more protective of him as the war went on, a sentiment that was often more a source of annoyance to Link than a comfort.
So it fell to Beira to keep his loneliness at bay. She jumped to her feet when he emerged, tail wagging in greeting. Link let the power of his ancestors flow through his hand as he pressed it gently against her broad forehead, offering a greeting of his own and letting her know their goal.
Y'won't see combat today, friend. We're starting out in th'open, very little cover - ranged attacks first. But f'we can march on Skadkil soon…
The names meant nothing to the wolfdog, but she understood the message well enough. She gave him a slightly disappointed look that reminded him painfully of Azrun and trotted at his heels as he started off northwest through the Uhle Highlands, through tall grasses and shrubby bushes towards a craggy cliff overlooking the road along the Uhleweard River. Currently owned by th'Sheikah, he thought with no small amount of fury.
He signalled with his right hand for Beira to stay back with several yards still between them and the edge of the cliff. He pulled his helmet down and sank to his hands and knees, crawling through the alpine grass and creeping towards the edge. F'they have scouts, they'll recognize th'shape f'lynel horns peering over th'cliff. Best t'stay as small as possible.
He reached the cliff and slowly poked his head over the edge. The vertigo from gazing down from great heights was something he'd learned to ignore; he focused instead on the well-worn path down below. Or rather, the red and blue mottled shapes of the Sheikah army there. Link's features twisted into a scowl; his hands tightened into fists. Flameless lerkin cowards!
He breathed in a slow, shaking breath and let it out tensely until the anger dimmed enough to let him focus. Won't get t'spill my share f'their blood until I've done what I came here for.
Not a massive force, by any means. Probably two thousand Sheikah warriors, and half that many of what they called 'guardians.' Guardians. Urgh! Did they choose th'name on purpose, t'dishonor our Guardian Wolf?
They were marching in a single column down the road, on their way from one of the Sheikah settlements in the Rozudo Valley towards the town of Skadkil, which was by rights Zonai land. Our dead are buried there. Our spirit flame! Dragons only know how much f'it has already been destroyed by those Sheikah cowards…
He backed away from the edge and reclaimed his helmet, strapping it back to his head. A flash of spirit green caught his eye and he spun in surprise, heart leaping to his throat – there were no Grafensteda, the burial crypts of the Zonai, on the mountaintops. Not as far as he knew. There should not be spirit flame up here.
Seeing nothing, he turned to Beira, who was watching him curiously. He pushed magic through his hand and touched her brow. Did you see anything?
She sent him a memory – moments ago old. A wolf's tail waving in the grass, glowing with the green spirit flame.
Link swallowed thickly. So I wasn't imagining it. She saw it, too.
A wolf spirit, eh?
Green was the color of life and death. The color of the warpaint Link had applied at the last Grafensted his battalion had stopped by, smudged from sweat by now under his armor. It was the color worn by the Dragon Tribe, whose patron was Farore, Goddess of Courage.
As for the wolf itself, well… wolves were not held as sacred as boars, dragons, and owls. But they were deeply respected, and every Zonai child knew the legend of the Guardian Wolf, an entity that had watched over their people since their dawn.
This is a good omen, Link decided. Many Sheikah will fall this day.
The entire force had already rappelled down the Azgrafen Crevice by the time Link reached it. He grabbed one of the ropes, clipped it to his belt, and began lowering himself down. Beira settled down with her chin on her paws next to the edge, watching him leave morosely; the few fox scouts that remained watching the cliff would lower her down after Link.
The lynel leather of his gauntlets and boots protected his feet, legs, and hands from rope burn; there was no hide sturdier in all of Hyrule. Link had killed his lynel at the dawn of the winter before the war. Any Zonai hoping to become an elite warrior of the tribe was required to slay a lynel and craft its hide and bone into armor by hand. The Zonai had agreements with the Rito tribe in Northern Hyrule, where lynels were plentiful and often a menace; the Rito could request that the Zonai people send an aspiring warrior to their lands to slay their lynel. Link had done exactly that – his lynel, which had killed several lumberjacks, had been slain on Hebra Peak. He tanned the hides and boiled the bones there in the Rito's lands, and some of their messengers had helped him transport them back to Lohsitho. The rest of the winter he had spent carefully tailoring the hide into armor – into his gambeson, dyed green; into his boots and gauntlets, into his belt. Crafting the lynel's skull and mane into a helmet was particularly difficult, but he'd persevered.
His lynel had a dark red mane, and black hide dappled with paler brown spots. Link had chosen to paint the skull in blue, for then – with the red of the lynel's mane and the green of his tribe's own colors – each of the Golden Goddesses were represented in his armor. He hoped it would portray him as a warrior with a balance of power, courage, and wisdom.
Not that I feel balanced. But it doesn't hurt t'aspire t'those virtues.
He hadn't expected to wear his armor into an actual war. But it had seen him through many a battle now, and he had donated most of his leftover lynel hide to other soldiers in need of sturdy armor. Because one of the costs of this war was an inability to access the rest of Hyrule, other aspiring warriors could no longer travel to other lands to slay their lynel. The King of Hyrule had closed the Zonai off from the rest of the kingdom. If not for the Gerudo smiths following Groose's designs for the firearms and keeping the Zonai armies supplied…
Hang th'Hylians, Link thought bitterly, grinding his teeth in frustration. Hang th'lying Sheikah who turned them against us! And hang that lerkin King!
His feet touched the ground and he took off at a swift jog for the stand of Zonai flags among the shrubbery at the bottom of the crevice signifying the command station. The captains gathered by the flags, with shoulder pads of badger hide to signify their rank, beckoned him closer.
"Two thousand men, one thousand machines," Link reported, addressing the man in the center of the group, shoulders draped in bear hide. "All in one group. Most f'th'machines towards the front. No scouts that I could see – they don't know we're here."
Colonel Nerthin nodded his approval. "Good. Get t'your platoon and await orders. You'll be at th'front f'th'charge."
Link dipped his head. His typical orders, then. "Yes, sir."
He lit the fuse for his matchlock musket with the offered candle from one of the captains before hurrying off into the scrubby undergrowth. The Zonai here were well hidden along the riverbank. The earthy colors of their armor – while not strictly camouflage, per se – did much to shelter them from the unfriendly eyes of the Sheikah.
Link's platoon consisted of thirty full-blooded, elite Zonai warriors – men that had slain their lynels and crafted their armor. Their shoulders were adorned in wolf hide, a symbol of their courage and ferocity. They had no formal commander, but were instead often given specialized orders directly from Colonel Nerthin. Generally, the more senior wolf warriors acted as the official leaders of the group, but there were certain missions, usually sabotage, that Nerthin put Link in charge of, instead. Together with his team of eight wolves, Link had destroyed thousands of guardians that never got the chance to see a real battle.
The other wolf warriors nodded greetings to him as he sank into a crouch in the reeds on the riverbank alongside them, cold water lapping at his feet. They remained silent – the Sheikah brigade would soon be within earshot, if they weren't already. Link ran through his preparations that morning in his head. I definitely loaded my gun. Powder's in th'pan. Full pouch f'ammunition at my belt. Powderhorn ready t'go. Sword's sharpened and ready.
He exhaled softly, heart pounding faster in anticipation. These moments before the battle… they would never get easier, he feared. Always the anxious singing of his blood, the slight trembling that took his limbs.
The Sheikah force was in sight, now. Link squinted through the rushes. The front lines of the force, just as he'd observed from the top of the cliff, were comprised mostly of guardians. Perfect. The mechanical whirring and clanking of unnatural stone limbs drifted across the water. Link swallowed, his mouth dry, and carefully slipped his sword from its sheath.
They waited. The guardians clattered their way up the trail; there did unfortunately seem to be many fewer Sheikah soldiers dispersed between them. Link frowned as the tail end of the brigade came into view – No; that can't be right – there were so many more of them than this!
He turned to the wolf warrior nearest to him – Azwalth, a member of his sabotage team, who wore a white-maned lynel helm. "This isn't all f'them," Link whispered urgently. "There are more somewhere – I'm sure f'it."
Azwalth grimaced, eyeing the force. "Nothing we can do about it now," he muttered back. "Y'reported the numbers – it's up t'Colonel Nerthin t'make th'call based on that."
Link shifted uncertainly, not liking it, the knowledge of hidden Sheikah weighing heavily in his chest.
Then, the signal – a wave of green spirit flame flashed from the Zonai side of the river, from Elder Frokar, towards the Sheikah. With a fading hum, the guardian forces collapsed, deactivated by the power of Zonai magic. Link couldn't help his triumphant grin – every time he saw it, it was no less impressive, no less inspiring. Joining his roar to those of the other wolf warriors, he surged from the reeds, raising his sword to pierce the air with the spears and swords of his fellows. Their first objective – the Sheikah warriors. Then they'd take their hatchets and hammers to the deactivated guardians, break them into pieces, and dump them into the river.
Betrayers! Invaders! Deadiggers! Rage burned through Link's veins as he forded the river, strengthened as some of the Sheikah sent a volley of arrows their way while their comrades began to flee. Hylain arrows, shot from Sheikah bows. Link gnashed his teeth at the injustice of it all – that the kingdom would side with the Sheikah, would ignore the blasphemy of their automated machines, would instead encourage their research –
He felt a sense of savage vengeance as his sword plunged into a fleeing Sheikah soldier's soft back. Leaving the man writhing on the ground, he found his next target and ended him just as quickly. Caught off guard, their abominable guardians stolen from them, the Sheikah were struggling to retreat. And in terms of skill in melee combat, the Zonai had no equal. At last, all those years of getting my hide handed t'me at th'tournaments, put t'good use!
He dodged the spear of an oncoming Sheikah trying to stand and fight and countered with a powerful blow to the man's neck. He didn't miss the fear in the soldier's tattooed eyes as he fell and felt a swelling of pride for the mighty appearance of his armor.
The signal came – the Sheikah had been successfully driven back; it was time to focus on the guardians. Link slipped his hatchet from his belt and, with the rest of the warriors around him, began chopping at the guardians at their feet. The joints where their claws met their legs and legs met their bodies, the gap where their heads could raise up and weapon-wielding arms unfold, the cores on their underbellies. Every guardian destroyed in such a manner could not be reclaimed by the Sheikah to be repurposed, reused to create other abominations. It was this part of his battles that Link truly enjoyed – breaking to pieces the despicable machines responsible for so much bloodshed.
At the beginning of it all, the Zonai had been caught off guard. Hardly a week after the Day of Din, Sheikah guardians were marching through the lands of the Owl Tribe, supported by large armies of Sheikah soldiers. Men, woman, children – everyone was cut down, often shot down by burning guardian bolts. Survivors attempted to put together bands of resistance and take back their homes from the hills – they fought to their last breaths. So fast, so sudden and unexpected, had been the Sheikah advance, that those pockets of resistance couldn't receive any support. By the time the Zonai managed to muster their armies, the Sheikah had taken five of the major settlements in Owl's territory, including Uhlenom, the city of Nayru and the seat of Owl's power, and they had taken land all the way up to the Uhle Highlands. The Zonai who had not fled before the Sheikah advance were slain.
Link's chest was tight as he slammed the blade of his hatchet against a guardian's legs, releasing a pained cry of grief and outrage. So much innocent blood had been spilt. So many sacred Grafensteda defiled. The Sheikah had much blood to pay in tribute.
Enough guardians had been destroyed by now that several platoons were focusing on gathering up the larger, more usable pieces to dump in the river nearby. It was then that the shout went up – another force of Sheikah and guardians had come into view; they were marching up the hill towards the Zonai.
"Wolf warriors! To the front!" one of the captains ordered, sending some of his own soldiers to the front as well.
Link slipped his hatchet back to his belt and swung his matchlock from his shoulder, making sure as he jogged towards the oncoming force that the fuse was still lit, the pan was still covered to keep the powder from dropping out. He knelt on the front line alongside the other wolf warriors, as the ordinary soldiers stood behind them, offset so that the wolf warriors weren't directly beneath the other soldiers' musket muzzles. Two lines of matchlocks to break the Sheikah front. Link could see the Sheikah approaching, could feel the heavy impact of clawed guardian feet striking the ground.
Good – the guardians are at th'front.
He aimed carefully, sliding the pancover to the side and holding his finger against the trigger. He could see a pulsating blue guardian eye and kept his focus on it as the order came to fire. He pulled the trigger; the fuse came down on the gunpowder in the pan with a bright hot flash of flame. He held perfectly still – the next instant, the air was rent with booming thunder, musket muzzles spewing flame and lead and billowing silver smoke. The guardians at the front that had been hit toppled backwards, destroyed; the next line climbed over them. Link grabbed his powder horn, refilled the pan, poured powder down the barrel – one, two, good – then slid the ramrod from the bottom of the gun and prodded a ball down the barrel after the powder. He raised his gun to his shoulder, glared down the sights, prepared his next shot.
The shouted order to fire – second volley shot true, thunder crackling between the cliffs and the light, sulfuric scent of the powder drifting across the battlefield as fire burst from the Zonai guns again. Guardians across the second line of the Sheikah advance either stopped working entirely or hobbled weakly forward, damaged beyond functionality.
Link slung his matchlock across his back again and drew his sword with the other wolves, charging the Sheikah line. The platoons behind them split into two, flanking the Sheikah army and switching from muskets to bows, spears, and swords to attack the sides of the column, while the wolf warriors attacked the front. The rest of the Zonai force behind them continued the work of destroying the guardians and dumping their fragments into the river.
Fewer guardians in this troop, but more men. A lot more men. We can't win this – not anymore, Link thought bitterly, stumbling as a burning bolt from a guardian stung his shoulder – they were now in range of the guardians' blasts – and continuing his run. Best we can do is hold 'em off 'til we've destroyed th'guardians we've already taken.
He entered battle eagerly, his sword finding a guardian's eye before it could fire again. As the Zonai entered melee range, the guardians' heads rose up from their bodies on metallic necks, and spindly metal limbs unfolded outwards, wielding Sheikah tachi swords, yari spears, and naginata polearms. Link smirked grimly. The Sheikah had created the guardians with a fairly limited move set; once a Zonai had survived a certain number of battles against them, the patterns became clear, and easy to dodge and counter. Link parried the nearest guardian's first attack, watched how it prepared the second and sidestepped out of the way so that it missed by at least a foot, and its eye was impaled by his blade before it could begin the third.
Much to his surprise, the remaining guardians retreated, leaping with surprising agility all the way back to the first line of actual Sheikah warriors, who had not advanced while their guardians attacked. Link scowled, his heart squeezing in suspicion – surely we can't have scared them off already – as he and the other wolf warriors darted forward, taking advantage of the ground they'd seemingly gained. The guardians stretched their arms out to the side as if to protect the Sheikah behind them, perfectly spaced between each other so that their weapons just barely didn't touch. Too easy – they're leaving themselves completely vulnerable!
He began a forward thrust –
And then the line of guardians shot forward, their tops and weapons spinning violently around in a circle, right into the Zonai warriors. Link barely had time to comprehend before the shaft and base of the blade of a naginata slammed into his side and drove the breath from his lungs with a startled breathless grunt, knocking him off his feet and directly into a second spiraling guardian's weapon and then hard to the ground. He lay still for a moment, stunned, winded, fresh aches and stinging wounds pulsating across his body as his heart raced faster and faster in near panic. What – what, by th'Dragons…?
He rolled to his knees and pushed himself to his feet as soon as he regained his breath and lost it in the next instant, his heart flying to his throat.
Blood – so much blood. Men sundered limb from limb, slowly expiring. Men whose heads rolled on the ground, torn from their bodies by deadly spinning blades. Among them, Link thought he saw a white-maned lynel helm, splattered in blood. "Goddesses, no," he breathed, his chest heaving.
The order to retreat had been given. The Zonai were fleeing, hurrying back to the river. The wolf warriors who had survived the guardians' attack were among them. The guardians, now in front of Link, between him and his people, had finished their deadly spinning attack and were firing at the men's backs.
Link glanced behind them, at the Sheikah triumphantly marching forward, moments out of range from him. His teeth clenched, familiar rage and dismay sweeping through him. He snatched up the javelin from one of his fallen comrades, turned to face the Sheikah, and hurled it into their midst with all of his might. "Dragons leave you all unburied!" he roared at them, before racing as fast as his feet could carry him down towards the riverbank, shame at the retreat scalding his heels even as arrows struck the ground at his feet, a lucky crossbow bolt skimming across his arm. His armor absorbed most of it, leaving him with an uncomfortable wound but not a debilitating one and sending him stumbling forward with a grunt at the impact. But then he was in the river, wading out towards the rushes on the other side. The reeds granted him cover; the Sheikah were not following.
Why would they? Their goal wasn't t'win, either. Just t'get t'Skadkil with guardians intact. Making it that much harder for us t'take it back.
He sank to his knees in the shallows and slammed a fist against the ground with a shout of anger, ignoring the twinge of pain from his arm. Hang them all, he cursed inwardly, blood raging. And leave them unburied, t'be picked at by beast and bird, never laid t'rest, never remembered by kin!
He swallowed thickly, his heart throbbing painfully as he tried not to think about how such a fate – the worst fate a Zonai could wish on anyone – was what awaited the wounded and dead that had been left behind on the field of battle. A fate they, unlike the Sheikah cowards, entirely did not deserve.
He pushed himself to his feet with a heavy, pained breath and cast one last look at the battlefield across the river. The Sheikah column was, even now, trampling the Zonai dead under their feet. Guardian, guide their souls home, he prayed silently, and turned his back.
The flash of spirit green out of the corner of his eye didn't draw his attention this time. He felt only numb; there was no room for anything else in his mind or soul.
~O~O~O~O~O~O~O~
"Y'were blessed, lad," Frokar sighed, leaning on his crooked staff as Link pressed a cloth dripping with hot water against the slashes across his side, stiffening against the sharp sting. Beira lay next to him, watching with worry in her pale amber eyes. "Don't know how else t'explain it. That th'mechination attacking y'was holdin' a spear, that y'were just close enough t'miss most f'th'blade…"
"'Blessed' doesn't seem like th'right word," Link growled, images of his mutilated comrades swimming in his minds eye. Swallowing thickly, he focused his gaze on the cuts in his sides. One on his left, fairly shallow, from the first spinning guardian that had struck him. One on his right, much deeper, from the second. It would most likely need to be stitched closed, although a field medic would have to make the call about that. Link had stitched his own wound closed once, and was in no hurry to do it again if the situation was anything less than dire.
His other injuries hardly needed tending at all. A small burned hole half an inch deep and half that again wide in his left shoulder from a guardian's blast, and bruises across his body with varying severity. He could, grudgingly, understand how Frokar could say he'd been blessed in the battle. He was alive and still capable of fighting by the end of it – he'd been injured, but not badly, and most of the wounds would be healing nicely in a week's time.
Frokar sighed wearily, taking a seat at Link's side with a crackling of old joints. "Th'Sheikah machinations displayed a new ability, and y'lived t'tell th'tale mostly intact," he rasped, a hint of scolding in his tone. "That, truly is a blessing."
Link grunted noncommittally, reaching for a bandage to wrap around his side. He'd see the field medics soon. Usually he would wait until the most dire wounds had been addressed first, but the nature of the Sheikah's counterattack had left no possibility of carrying wounded back. If a man hadn't been able to get himself out, he'd been left behind. Link clenched his teeth tightly, trying to force the sounds of his dying comrades from his memory.
Some of our finest warriors. Gone, just like that.
And Azwalth was among them – one of the eight on Link's sabotage team. He hadn't yet been able to check in with the remaining seven; Azwalth had been fighting near him. He'd seen his body on the ground. He hadn't stayed long enough to catch the identities of the other fallen wolves from the battle.
Six months of war – he was tired of it. Though his anger and hatred towards the Sheikah had not dwindled, not in the slightest, the weight of the death he'd seen and the screams he'd heard grew heavier by the day.
Frokar's hand on his knee drew him from his mind. The shaman was studying the faded green paint there with a critical eye. He turned his sharp gray gaze on Link, the badger's striped head hanging down the middle of his forehead. "Y'should perform th'Skeldrite again," he advised, his rough voice almost gentle. "It'll do y'some good. And your marks f'protection could use refreshing."
"With what Grafensted?" Link huffed angrily. "The nearest one is Skadkil. And Dragons only know how much f'it's left after the Sheikah've been mining it for so long."
Beira whined softly at his tone, resting her chin on his thigh. Frokar was quiet for a moment, wrinkled brow furrowing further. Link had seen it enough times on enough people by now that he easily recognized the Sheikah-directed anger on the elder's weathered face.
"Y'could go across th'river tonight," he said at last. "Bury our dead there, light a torch for 'em, perform th'Skeldrite."
Link considered for a moment, glancing down at his chest. The marks of protection he'd applied weeks ago had been smudged by sweat and blood. Some were gone entirely. Performing the Skeldrite and reaffirming his ancestors' protection certainly wouldn't hurt. But… "Using th'spirit flame in Sheikah-held land," he said slowly. "Wouldn't that just give them another target?"
Frokar winked. "Not f'y'bring it back over th'river afterwards," he grinned. His smile quickly faded. "I… I know it's not ideal. Th'flame's meant t'stay with th'dead – it represents their spirits. But… th'alternative is t'leave them unburied, as we've been forced t'do t'too many brave warriors already over these six months…"
Link's heart twinged, a wave of grief gripping his heart – the same thoughts had gone through his own mind before the adrenaline of battle had even faded. He gripped Frokar's forearm. "I'll gather my team and ask for Colonel Nerthin's permission t'leave," he promised. He smirked grimly. "We'll raid one of th'Sheikah villages out in th'valley on our way back; I heard a scout saying a shipment of guardian materials arrived this morning."
Frokar's grin returned. "What better way t'honor the spirit f'th'Skedrite?" He pushed himself to his feet, stroking a thumb over the end of his staff. "I'll see t'it that y'have th'colors f'paint that y'need."
Colonel Nerthin, Link discovered, was entirely unopposed to the idea of sending a small handful of wolf warriors to bury the dead from the day. "Th'chance t'bury our dead from this war doesn't present itself often," he said gravely, his hand on Link's shoulder. "Go, and know y'act in th'stead f'every man here." His gaze darkened with the familiar anger. "And when you've finished, kill as many flameless Sheikah as y'can without endangering yourselves."
Link's gaze burned with fiery promise. By th'Dragons, I will.
Seven Zonai wolves and a dog crossed the river when the night's shadows were their deepest, and counted it a blessing from the Goddesses that they would be hidden in their mission.