Chapter 38: The Treachery of the Boar

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Note: So I'm writing the final chapters of the story now; I'll either be finished or REALLY close to finished by the time Tears of the Kingdom comes out. As such, I'll try to post a chapter a day until then! I currently have more chapters available to post than there are days until the game releases, so as we get closer there might even be multiple chapters released on some days! ( :

I hope you enjoy!

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Link

Link had learned many things during the Trial of the Sword. He had tested his skills to their limits, discovered the capabilities of his body in combat. In particular he had learned how to push through physical pain, how to let adrenaline fuel him beyond the usual reaches of mortal capacities. As he ran through the mostly-deserted ancient roads of Skeldon, heading west in the shadow of the Grafensted, he realized that not everything he had learned in the Trial was to his benefit.

In the Trial of the Sword, he could stand to be fatally injured and still make the calculated decision to push himself further. It was impossible for him to actually die, thanks to the Sheikah magic that governed the illusory realm he had been trapped within.

Here, out of the Trial, his exposed skin burning from the cold as he fled through the city with a knife in his side, the chilling possibility that he had made a grave mistake somewhere along the line felt truer by the second. Especially as he heard distant shouts far behind him, warped and faint by the mile between them.

He ducked into the shadow of a dwelling he knew to be uninhabited – its straw roof had not been replaced, and some of the stone was crumbling. His breaths coming in sharp, pained spurts that sent frosty air burning through his lungs, he leaned against the wall, letting his eyes slip closed for a moment.

I need a plan. I can't just go running blindly through a city I know nothing about.

And the pain from his side, from the knife embedded there, was increasingly difficult to bear. He worried about what further damage it had caused over the course of his run. I'm far enough from th'Grafensted by now that I should have some time, t'least. S'good that this side f'th'ruin seems less inhabited.

He sank gingerly to his knees, grinding his teeth at the fierce ache in his bloodied side, and slipped Zah Tori's satchel from his shoulder. Quickly, fumbling in his haste, he filtered through the contents, snatching a piece of jerky and sticking it in his mouth as he searched. The Sheikah had mentioned medical supplies – he found them and drew them out, finding bandages, a few small vials of various kinds of salve, and a needle and suturing thread.

Link grimaced, releasing a tense breath. He remembered telling Zelda that he'd had to stitch his own wound closed once before, after his lynel fight. He had hoped never to repeat the experience. The fact that he would have to now, as a result of the actions of one of his own people, for whom he had fought that lynel in the first place, sent a sour taste through his mouth as he readied the needle. May Durnthun go unburied, he thought bitterly.

He eased his bundled-up tunic, now splattered with blood, away from his side. The knife's hilt stuck out from his side above his hip bone, grotesque and unnatural. Link gripped the hilt, drawing in a slow, calming breath and letting it out even more slowly, trying to prepare himself. He tightened his hold and yanked it out, his body lurching forward as he screamed, unable to keep the sound back as the searing agony in his side tripled. Link ground his teeth together, fighting to keep silent, holding his arms around himself tightly as sickeningly hot blood spewed forth from the injury.

Move… move! he told himself, fighting a wave of dizziness. He grabbed the needle and shoved it through the edges of the wound with a grunt, forcing himself to keep breathing even though his first impulse was to hold his breath. He fought to keep from flinching with each puncture of the needle, and as he carefully pulled it and the thread through he groaned through his teeth, in agony. Several times his cold-numbed grip slipped on the needle, wet with his blood. When at last the wound was stitched closed, his hands were shaking and his skin felt hypersensitive – the slightest touch to the edges of the injury had him biting back whimpers from the pain. Trembling, he wrapped a bandage around his waist to cover the wound and tied it firmly in place, and then he pulled his tunic back on over it and sagged against the wall of the ruined building, gulping down breaths of air as if he was half-drowned, sweat soaking him from head to toe. He shivered violently, half-pulling a knee to his chest and resting his forehead against it. Dragons… what a mess.

It wasn't a fatal wound, and from his limited medical knowledge it didn't seem to have cut into anything vital. But in his haste to close it, he knew he had missed steps – things that could come back to cause him trouble later. Things like cleaning the wound beforehand, or even stopping the bleeding before stitching it closed.

I need t'get out f'here. I need t'get help.

He closed his eyes briefly, feeling exhausted already from all that had happened. He forced himself to think about Durnthun's betrayal, of Gotvin's sacrifice, and pushed himself to his feet.

Darkness at once clouded his vision. He stumbled back and struck the wall hard with a grunt, slamming his eyes closed to fight the sudden onslaught of dizziness sending his mind swirling like eddies in a river.

…I guess I shouldn't move on quite yet.

Frustrated, he allowed himself to sink back to the ground and pulled his knees close, wincing at the increased pressure on his side but feeling colder by the minute. I can't rest long, he told himself, resting his head back against the wall. I'll have t'keep going soon. The dark clouds above, with snowflakes drifting lightly down to rest on his shoulders, were dire enough of a warning to him. He pulled another piece of jerky from the satchel and chewed it slowly, fighting the tremors in his body. Lerkin Durnthun… he's th'shaman here; he should've known better. Now he's gone and led everyone here astray.

Voices drew him back to full alertness. His eyes snapped open, his pulse hammering wildly. A jolt of fear arced through him and his gaze darted around the ruined building, searching for a place to hide. He pressed himself up against the corner he had fallen in, using the wall to steady himself as he pushed to his feet as quietly as he could manage, more carefully this time, and strained to discern where the voices were coming from.

The western road, he realized. The western border of Skeldon.

"…no fresh tracks leading away from th'city anywhere along th'perimeter," a gruff voice was saying. "There's only th'tracks leading from th'Lost Woods, from when he first came in."

"So he's still in th'city," a second voice said, stern and cold. "Lerkin traitor. We'll find him, then. Keep th'border patrols going. I'll organize men t'perform a thorough search f'each and every building in here."

They were nearing Link's hiding place. His pulse throbbed in his neck, almost chokingly. He shivered from the cold and watched the caved-in doorway with wide eyes, his breath freezing in his lungs as he caught the flicker of shadow from the road beyond.

"S'a tricky situation, t'be sure," a third man sighed. "He'll be wanting t'escape through th'east or th'south – it'll land him closer t'his flameless Sheikah allies. But th'west is – or was – less heavily guarded. More places t'hide."

"We've got th'southeastern border under tight watch," the second said with grim confidence. "He's not getting out th'way he came in, that's for certain. F'he's smart, he'll be on this half f'th'city – more's th'reason t'focus our search here."

Their voices were starting to fade. Link let out a quiet breath, some of the tension in his shoulders easing. Then he heard a last strand of their conversation. "More's th'pity that Gotvin turned traitor. We need all th'hands we can get for something like this, and now he's dead and took a good few wolves with him. What a waste."

Link closed his eyes, the words feeling like a physical blow. Shakily he pressed a hand to his stomach, where indeed Gotvin himself had punched him mere hours before.

So he's dead now, too. He… he sacrificed himself so that I could get away.

Gotvin, Wulkrik, Zothun… I'm all that's left now.

He rubbed at his eyes with his least-bloodied hand, a hollow ache yawning within his gut. I'll come back t'bury you, my brother, he vowed firmly to himself, certain that the Boar warriors here would decide to leave Gotvin unburied.

F'course, that requires me t'actually get out f'here.

He scanned mentally back over what he had learned from the passing warriors. There were patrols around the edge of the city, scanning for footprints leading away from Skeldon. He would be pursued eventually. But if he could ensure that no one actually saw him leave, he would be able to give himself a decent head start.

And I have t'move quickly. They're going t'start searching th'abandoned buildings. He was painfully reminded of the Battle for Uhlenom – that fateful morning where his scouts had caught sight of the Sheikah forces methodically searching the empty buildings to clear out any Zonai they found within. He shook his head slowly, bringing himself back to the present.

They haven't yet started their search in th'city. S'long as I keep an ear out and try t'stay silent, I'll be fine. Th'storm will help conceal me as well.

He considered for a moment turning into a wolf, but with a glance at his side, remembering how previous transformations had removed whatever treatment his injuries had received in human form, decided against it. Lerkin shame. It would've been useful here.

Link pulled another piece of jerky from his satchel and shoved it in his mouth. Then he set out from his meager shelter as the snow fell thicker and faster around him. He murmured a quiet prayer that he would not get lost in the storm and felt a peculiar twinge in his right hand, deep in the skin below the mark of the Triforce.

This side of Skeldon was eerily silent, the rustling of trees in a gentle breeze the only faint sound. The snow fortunately was not sticking to the paving stones of the roads just yet, allowing Link to walk carefully in near silence towards the border. He quickly realized, barely half an hour in, feeling as though the ground had dropped out from under him, that the ancient city was not nearly as large as he had thought – not even half the size of Uhlenom.

He could see, through the boughs of pines and blocky ruins of buildings and carved pillars ahead of him, a group consisting of a wolf warrior and four others gathered on the border. Beyond them was a white field drenched in snow, and beyond them a jagged mountain range. His heart jumped with a painful mix of emotions – grief, anger, doubt.

They weren't facing him. He could hide, wait for them to move on. And risk getting caught by patrols sweeping th'buildings – I've no idea how close behind me they are.

Or he could confront them. Ask for their assistance, or… or slay them where they stood, and make his escape. He struggled to swallow, his mouth painfully dry. The snow drifted down and he blinked flakes from his lashes, his shoulders bending under the weight of the choices before him.

There's only five, he reasoned. I've fought more than that and won. Not Zonai, f'course, but… He winced, flexing his hands restlessly at his side. They're… my kinsmen. It's Durnthun's fault that they've been corrupted, anyways – it's not their fault. Maybe… maybe I could reason with them. Explain what I've learned about Dohmos' influence. Twilight's blood runs in them just as much as it does me. Surely they would believe something that came from th'lips f'th'Guardian Wolf himself.

He exhaled heavily, his breath clouding in the frosty air. I have t'try, at least. I can't just… I can't kill them. He started forward again, quickly closing the distance between him and the five.

One must have heard him coming, despite his attempts to remain silent. With a brief conversation between them they turned around to face him, expressions guarded beneath the shadow of their furrowed brows. The wolf slipped his musket from his shoulders, and the other four drew their swords. Link slowed his pace, his spine prickling with fresh doubt.

"Dragon paint," the wolf noted, his voice dark. "You're Link f'Lohsitho. Th'one we're looking for."

Link swallowed. "I am," he said, lifting his chin. "I came t'Skeldon for my pilgrimage – and I came seeking aid. Hyrule is on th'brink f'being destroyed –"

"We are Zonai," another snorted dismissively. "Why do we care about Hyrule? Let it burn, as they would have seen us burn."

Link felt a sudden certainty that he was hearing his own words parroted back at him. He felt a pang of guilt, looking at the older man that had spoken, realizing the depth of his own past misguided thinking. "We're part f'Hyrule," he said quietly. "But besides that, th'evil that faces us is a far greater threat than any one nation. Even now, Hyrule has been overtaken by a usurper."

"Th'Gerudo King, Khanot," a third man nodded. "We all rejoiced when Durnthun told us so – our prayers have been answered, t'last! Khanot is an ally t'th'Zonai. Th'fact that y'take issue with this change in power does nothing in your favor, considering th'rumors that you're a traitor."

"Link f'Lohsitho," the wolf said, his voice grave. "Y'don't remember me. I was under your command at Uhlenom; I came here with Gotvin. You're a lerkin good warrior, and a hero t'our people. We have orders t'kill you. I do not wish t'take your life, but our shaman is dead and so are several other brave warriors f'th'Zonai. Come back t'th'Grafensted with us now, so that we can try t'prove your innocence."

Link exhaled shakily, his stomach roiling at the words of his kinsmen. No, he did not recognize the wolf warrior before him. But if what he said was true… His heart ached.

He thinks I'm a hero.

"I can't come with you," he said, his voice a near whisper. "All f'y'have been deceived. That great fire at th'Grafensted – it's not Din. It's – it's Dohmos. He's locked away th'spirits f'our ancestors from this place. He's pulling th'strings in Hyrule – he's th'reason Khanot's in power, and it'll destroy us all – Hylian, Sheikah, Zonai alike. Please… come with me now, and be free f'him."

The five Zonai exchanged looks with one another. Link watched, struggling to find some hope that his words would be received. Surely… surely he was not the only one to feel how wrong that red fire was. Surely the Zonai, who placed so much effort on spiritual power, were more spiritually aware than that.

But the wolf's gaze hardened. "I regret this, Link f'Lohsitho," he said coldly. "Y'have, indeed, betrayed your people." He raised his musket to his shoulder and took aim. Link yanked the Master Sword from its sheath and lunged in a lightning-fast fluid movement, locking the anguish in his soul away behind a sturdy wall of battle-honed instincts. He found the wolf embedded on his blade, watched the life dimming in his eyes as he yanked his blade free and continued towards the others. In a blur of scattered images, his heart thudding in his chest, of eyes that burned in the icy air, he found three others dead by his hand. The fifth ran off, presumably to go for reinforcements.

Link didn't have the heart to pursue. He stared at the bodies of his kinsmen, his chest heaving with breath while theirs remained still beneath their gambesons, their blood leaking onto the porcelain snow at their feet while his remained surging through his body. The stab wound in his side burned hot and fierce, a sharp sting throbbing in time to his pulse, but it paled in comparison to the sensation that seemed to be tearing his soul asunder.

He crumpled to his hands and knees and vomited, his body heaving with painful dry retches that seemed to split his side open again but he hardly cared about that now, with his hands red with blood that could never be cleaned away. His vision wavered as at last he sat back on his heels and wiped his mouth, shivering violently in the cold, his stomach writhing and his throat raw.

Zelda, he reminded himself, feeling numb and hollow. Th'Calamity. I have t'get back.

With a pained grunt he pushed himself to his feet and staggered a few steps, nearly collapsing again. He blinked the tears from his eyes, set his gaze on the rugged hulk of the mountains through the falling snow, and set off at a swift jog, pushing down the twinge of pain in his side, allowing the merciless wind that drifted across the plain to gnaw through his tunic and skin to numb him down to his bones.

Maybe I am a traitor t'my people, he thought bitterly, disgusted with himself.

He ran until the pain in his side became too much to bear, and then he slowed to a swift walk. The snow falling steadily would obscure his tracks, but he worried it would be too late to keep him completely safe. As he reached the foothills of the mountains and started the climb up the rocky, ice-ridden slopes, a look behind him revealed the dark smudge on the great white expanse he had crossed after leaving the city – the chase had begun.

The frigid weather became more of a hindrance the further he climbed, as the air thinned and the chill pierced his lungs as if with knives, often drawing harsh coughs from his throat. His tunic was warm and well-suited for winter, but had been wet in places with his blood and sweat. The wind on the plain had formed massive drifts in places along the mountainside, and he soon found his trousers soaked up to his knees, making his frozen skin feel raw; each step through deep snow felt like stepping into a bed of knives scraping his calves above his boots. The cold and wet seeped down his legs into his feet, rendering them numb and clumsy.

He told himself he could stop once night fell. Without a way to see his tracks, surely his pursuers would have to stop as well. He could afford to rest, build himself a snow shelter – there was plenty enough snow for that – and hope it was enough to keep himself from freezing to death before morning.

I have no fire-making supplies, a wary voice in his mind reminded him. No way t'dry my wet clothes.

And as darkness steadily encroached on the mountainside, the clouds seeming heavier by the minute, he noticed himself coughing more and more often, the sensation tearing painfully at the wound in his side. He found himself praying more fervently, as the certainty of his survival dwindled.

At first as he traveled he tried not to think about what had happened at Skeldon at all. But then as he leaned against the side of a jagged ridge, panting hard, his own sweat chilling him more deeply than the snow on its own ever could, he found himself wondering what exactly had gone wrong. And he knew immediately what the answer was.

I did not think that we could be corrupted t'such a terrible extent.

The Zonai people as a whole were heroes in his mind – or had been, up until today. Fearless in battle, mighty warriors with hearts of fire. People that he had been proud to fight for, and to fight with.

Perhaps, he realized, blinking tears and snowflakes from his eyes, perhaps too proud. Proud enough t'be blinded.

He had not truly believed that his people could be so thoroughly corrupted by the forces of evil. He had held onto hope, up until the moment that he had slain the first wolf warrior on the border, that his people would feel as he did once Dohmos' deception was explained. That any evil on their part was unintentional.

And perhaps that was still true, he reflected, forcing himself higher, onward. But evil was still evil, no matter how well-intended.

When the darkness was deep enough that he couldn't see well enough to place his feet safely, he started trying to carve himself out a cave to shelter in. He quickly realized, as his hands screamed in protest at digging into ice and snow, that he wouldn't be successful without either a cover for his hands or some sort of shovel. Without either, he kept walking until he found a natural outcropping of stone that provided some shelter. Shuddering violently, he wedged himself beneath it, tucking his hands around himself, pulling his legs up to his chest, and closing his eyes.

He didn't know how much time had passed before he started awake with an undeniable certainty that he was no longer alone. He remained still for a moment, crammed beneath the rock, feeling its deep cold engulfing him on every side, and fighting a cough. He heard nothing – the mountainside was deathly quiet, not even a breathy moan of wind drifting over the snow-drenched stone. But the feeling persisted.

Grimacing, he stretched his cramped legs out and painfully wriggled his way out from beneath the outcropping, into the open. He scanned his surroundings – nothing. White snow dark beneath the shadow of the thick clouds, thick flakes drifting steadily downwards.

He heard something, a low breath, deep and heavy, as if belonging to some massive creature, and at once turned around. His eyes flew wide as a fiery shape descended through the thick haze of clouds, its grand horns reminiscent of dancing flames and its skin like volcanic stone with molten rock glaring from beneath. Link stared in awe as it weaved gracefully through the sky, its ancient gaze hardly seeming to notice him beneath it.

"Dinraal," he whispered, sinking to his knees before the great dragon as it passed overhead, its lithe body undulating smoothly in the sky. The great spirit of fire, one of the three dragons that had guarded Hyrule since time immemorial. As he watched, something fell from its side, carving an orange path down to the mountainside, landing not far from where Link was. He tracked its fall with his gaze and got to his feet to go after it –

And when he looked back into the sky, Dinraal was gone.

Some part of him wondered if perhaps he was seeing things, if perhaps he had fallen more ill than he realized over the course of the day's travels. He half-ran, half slipped down the mountainside towards the object that had fallen, and spotted it in a shallow crater in the snow, the edges slick with freshly-melted water.

It was a scale the size of Link's chest, glowing a warm, comforting orange like a campfire. Hesitantly he reached a hand out to touch it and winced at first – it burned, but perhaps that was more of a statement of how cold his hand was.

A sudden thought crashed into his mind with all the force of a gale. It's warm. It's a source f'heat without any real fire.

Pulling his hands into his sleeves, he scooped the scale up out of the snow and looked around for some new shelter. He spotted a small cave, a sliver of darkness against the various gray shades of the mountain, and stumbled towards it with the scale pressed against his chest. Inside he found enough room to move around without much trouble, but not so much space that he would get too cold, even with a source of heat. He undressed quickly, groaning quietly as the cold seemed to deepen across his bare skin, and then he lay down with the scale of Dinraal on his chest and his clothes draped on top of it, not touching his skin at all. Astonished by the blessing of the great spirit, to provide him with the means to survive the night, he fell quickly into a deep, restful sleep.