Why we failed Pt. 13
A Symphony of Swords
As the sun dipped low over the horizon, casting long shadows across the family farm in Castle Town, Link and his father shared a moment of quiet reflection. They stood amidst the fields, their day's labor behind them, surrounded by the tranquil sounds of dusk. Link's father, a man of both the soil and the sword, being a leader among the royal guard and a farmer, bore the weight of his dual responsibilities with a stoic grace.
Link, at the cusp of his childhood years, brimmed with questions and a restless energy that seemed to stem from the very core of his being. His father, tall and weathered from a life of service and toil, turned to him with a look of understanding and patience.
"I don't understand, why do we have to live here? Why can't we just sell Uncle's farm and be done with it? It's not like we'll ever be able to repay the debt anyway. Why not sell it for what it's worth and go home?" A young Link asked, just shy of ten years old. "They'll never find us back at the Domain."
"Son, things aren't that easy, and this is your home," his father said, helping him load the last bushels of apples onto the cart. It had been a meager harvest that afternoon but nevertheless what was salvaged were going to be sold in the square the following morning.
Link's uncle passed away abruptly from a sickness that year which swept through the city. So, he and his family came back to square away family debts left by his uncle. Believed to have come from the far east, the illness that swept across the land for some strange reason only affected some of the denizens. Infact, many in castle town survived the disease with little consequence at all whereas others tragically died soon after contraction. The mystery sickness vanished just as soon as it came too. The Pale Mist is what people called it. Due to the disparity of those affected, superstitions ran wild about the victims and their families. Many believed that if the Pale Mist made you fatally sick, then it was brought on by your own doing. That it must have been a divine punishment for some hidden sin or crime done by either you or your household.
Link's father knew better though. He said that the mist that brought the illness came from a deadly draft of wind that swept over the mountains guarding The Forbidden Waste. His uncle traded goods at a nearby town near those tall peaks and that is how he caught the disease. Many travelling merchants brought it to Castle Town that year from their treks to that same very town. 'So you see', he said, 'nothing supernatural about it'.
Link groaned, cinching the cart to the family donkey's harness so she could pull the harvest into the barn to wait until morning. "Maybe this is your home, but it's not mine. How could this place ever be?"
Link's father Tye sighed and shook his head. "I take it the other lads are still giving you trouble, eh?"
Link ignored his question; he wasn't one to look for sympathy and continued fussing about his chores while they closed up for the day.
Tye spoke again. "But what about Sven? Surely, you like seeing him again after all these years and what about your other friend, what's his name again?" Link's father hassled with trying to remember the boy who was Link's age with a couple snaps of his fingers to recollect when an annoyed Link responded.
"Orin, his name is Orin."
"That's the lad, now I remember. I thought you three get along well enough?"
"We do, but it's not that. It's just, if only I were allowed to show those other jerks, even just a little, then they wouldn't think they were so tough. Well—" Link shrugged. "—Not so much that they pick on me, at least not to my face but it's more to get under my skin by having a pick on Sven. He can't help himself like Orin and I. We aren't around all the time to watch after him."
"Well, I'm sorry the others are picking on poor Sven but it's not your place to be righting wrongs every time you step off the porch. Sooner or later, that boy is going to have to learn to stand up and fend for himself. Especially, if he has dreams of being a Guardsman," Tye insisted, stepping closer to Link as they both leaned on the fence, gazing far into the fields and to the closing shops of town off in the distance. Their colorful tiled roofs bathed by the majestic glow of the dying sunset peeking through the incoming clouds of the night.
"So, I'm just supposed to stand there and watch them bully my best friend?" Link questioned, turning his back to the wonderful scenery.
"No, I'm not saying to watch, just, be cautious. Son, we have to be careful here. In this place. I may be soon chief captain of the guard but we're not so liked as you may think. Even us guardsman have enemies masquerading as friends here. And we've been gone many years from this place and things have changed since the Queen's passing, goddess rest her soul," he said, making a genuine praying gesture to the calm sky.
"Then, let us leave and take Sven with us. I'm sure his Ma won't mind, even for just a little while. I mean, you can train us both too and if I'm not allowed to show what I can do here, what's the point of—"
"—Let me finish son, I wasn't done. Your mother and I had to come back to the capital. It's more complicated than just your uncle's passing. You'll be fine in due time. The others don't know you is all. And people fear what they don't know or understand."
"How can they know me, if I can't show them? Father, you're talking in circles. Why do I have to hide who I am and the things I can do?" Link's father hesitated to answer as the upset boy continued his appeal.
"Why can't I protect my friends from those who would harm or poke fun at their expense? It happens nearly every time we walk by the training yard where the soldiers practice. We only just want to watch. We don't mean any harm, and yet, they show up to stir up trouble. They just have to open their big mouths all the time and I have to stand there quiet and take it," Link said, turning and squeezing a fist, careful to hide his frustration from his father. He whispered to himself. "If I was only allowed, maybe then they'd think twice before messing with us," he said before whirling back around to face his father's discernment.
Link sighed and relented. This time he spoke up more contritely, his anger fading away into bewilderment. "Why would the goddess give me these, these—" Link's voice trailed off, trying to find the right words to say before his father intervened.
"—Powers?" Tye's mustached smile bent into a worried frown.
"I'm not even sure. But, why gift me with these talents if she never intended me to use them?" Link's voice was tinged with frustration and curiosity. "Orin is right, it's not fair. He's the only one who has seen some of things I can do. He says I can beat them all if only just let go."
His father, gently laying a hand on Link's shoulder, replied with a wisdom born of years. "No, son. Orin is also young, and he just wants what's best for you. We all do. One day you'll understand."
Link, his eyes reflecting the fiery hues of the setting sun, pressed on. "I want to understand now. Why must I hide who I really am? Why can't I show them? I mean, I can outrun every single one of them if I wanted to! With breath to spare too. I mean every time, Pa. Even with a ten-count head start. It don't matter. I can jump further, swordplay better, and even lift and toss heavy boulders nearly my size! I know well enough to know that even grown men can't even do that. Why should I be the one who must cower and let them win? I bet if they saw what I could really do, they wouldn't be laughing then."
His father sighed, a mix of pride and concern etched on his face. "One day you'll understand, son. I promise…But today isn't that day."
"When will be the day?" Link's voice held a note of impatience.
"Your mother and I," his father started, before carefully choosing his words. "We don't know why you were blessed with these gifts. But what we do know is that it was for a reason…" his father let out another longwinded sigh as if he was trying to reach for some fountain of wisdom.
"Now, I don't know the reason, but your mother and I believe that you were given these blessings for a purpose. The other boys are just being foolish and were raised to be that way. It's not their fault they are the way they are. They see us common folks as different and that we shouldn't be allowed to join their ranks. They are high born lads with high born affections. They don't like us amounting to the things they can achieve and want us to remain in our place. Anything else fills them with blind envy. So, all you would do by showing your talents would just inflame them more."
Displeased by his answer, Link pulled away as his father continued to give his speech. Though he didn't want to hear what he had to say, he listened.
"Please son, understand, now isn't the time. One day, you'll know your purpose and it will hit you, and then it'll be left to you to fulfill it, whatever it may be." His father smiled. "And I know it isn't to make fools of the other lads when they challenge you or the others."
"Then what is it, then? Why must I wait? What harm would it do just to show just a little? I promise I won't make a mockery of it. I just want them to leave me and my friends alone."
His father looked out across the fields, his gaze distant. "Because, son, strength…Now, I'm talking like the strength you have within you…that sort of power frightens men. Men fear what they can't understand or control. Haven't I just told you that? Perhaps, when you're older, you'll understand."
Link's expression was a mix of frustration and yearning. "I want to understand now. Help me to."
The elder man turned to face his son, his eyes filled with a mix of love and solemnity. "When you're a man grown, come back to me. After you've seen more of the world and learned of its ways, then we will talk again about your place in it. I promise."
As the conversation faded with the daylight, Link stood beside his father, the weight of his unspoken heritage heavy upon his young shoulders. The mystery of his destiny remained, for now, just out of reach, a puzzle to be unraveled in the fullness of time.
Shivering cold as he laid soaking wet; each tremor a sharp contrast to the distant clamor of battle and the raucous jubilation of the spectators. Pain hammered in his head with every beat of his heart, each pulse radiating through his aching body, pinning him to the ground. The temptation to succumb, to become a lifeless statue on the cold, unforgiving earth, was almost irresistible. As he struggled to pry his eyes open, his vision blurred, and the fervent pleas of his squire, Jun, calling him to rise seemed so close, yet miles away.
"Sir, get up! Please, you must get up! He's circling back around!" Jun, frantic and desperate, was poised to leap over the fence when a firm hand yanked him back. Anger flashed across his face as he turned to confront his restrainer. "What are you doing!? Let me go! I have to help him! If I don't hurry, he'll be trampled!"
"Calm yourself, boy!" the man's voice boomed with authority. "It's only been a moment. Let us observe a while longer."
"Observe what? For him to be crushed? He could die! I must go to him; it's my duty! I have to fetch him out of there." Jun protested, his voice thick with urgency.
"Silence!" the command cut through the air, stopping Jun in his tracks.
Jun's shoulders slumped, his resolve flickering. "I don't know who you are or what you want, but he's my friend."
"I understand, lad, but charging into the melee could hinder his concentration if he were to awake this instant. You'll only get in the way. Let us wait a minute and see what he can muster," the man replied, his tone softer, revealing a hint of strategic foresight.
From the sidelines, Athelon watched, his thoughts racing. Come on, get up... if you are who I believe you are, you can overcome this. I know you can.
Link's willpower ebbed as he lay there, wrestling with consciousness. The world seemed to dim once more, his form sinking into the sand, succumbing to the overwhelming darkness as his surroundings slipped away again.
As consciousness ebbed, a new memory gently unfolded before Link, bringing with it the familiar voice of his father. This time, however, the voice carried the weight of years laden with wisdom beyond those distant farm days. Link stood at the threshold of his father's tent, the fabric fluttering slightly in the breeze—a moment frozen just before the tournament.
"Son, if you're dead set on proving yourself and earning your own way—despite not needing to join the preliminaries—let me offer you a piece of advice," his father's voice held a gravitas born of care and concern.
Link paused, turning to face the man who was both his commander and his protector, the silhouette of his father outlined against the soft glow from within the tent as he sat at his desk.
"Do you remember, son, what I told you when we first came to live here?" his father asked, an enigmatic smile playing on his lips as he placed his quill aside.
A flicker of memory teased at the edges of Link's mind, elusive and fragmented. He had buried those words deep, at his father's behest, and they felt as distant as another lifetime.
His father's expression softened, his eyes lighting up with a rare gleam of joy as he continued, "You asked me for 'when?' And now, I tell you, your wait is over. The time has come. The only way forward now, if your heart is truly intent on winning her honor, is by glory then."
Link's brow furrowed slightly in confusion, his voice barely a whisper, "Hmm?"
"Show them, son. Now is the time to reveal who you really are, to let what's been hidden inside you emerge. You're a man grown finally, and you asked for the right time, and now I'm telling you, today is the day. This is your moment. Show them all and win for me," his father urged, his voice imbued with a conviction that resonated deep within Link, kindling a fire in his heart. "Win for her!"
Link absorbed his father's words, a nod of solemn understanding passing between them as the candlelight flickered, casting dancing shadows that seemed to echo his father's sentiments. Emboldened by the belief seen in his father's eyes, he stepped back under the tent flap, his resolve fortified.
"Now go, son! I believe in you. Win, win, win!" his father called after him, his voice a bolstering force that pushed him forward into the destiny awaiting at the tournament.
Zelda's heart plummeted to her belly as she clutched the railing of the royal balcony, her eyes glued on the jousting grounds where Helmsworth took the fall. The shock mirrored on the faces of her companions did little to soothe her dread. Meanwhile, the herald's voice echoed passionately across the arena, narrating the fierce melee with a lack of sympathy for the combatants or the princess' feelings.
"And there goes eight blue and four red sashes right out of the gates!" Bellowed the Herald, a delight of showmanship glimmering in his eyes. The roars of the crowd soared and dropped with every lance shatter and with every clash of bronze. "We still have six remaining on horseback, my Lords and Fair Ladies. How will the fallen ever recover!?" Turning to face the direction where Link fell, the Herald narrated again, noticing that his condition was worst than any other on the field. Whereas some fell, though rattled, they soon recovered quickly due to their shields bearing the brunt of the impact and not their faces.
In a mockingly concerned tone, he continued. "Oh, my, it appears one man may be down for the count already! How long must we be subjected to endure this dreadful scene?" He questioned the crowd rhetorically with a grin. "When will the judges call his fate and take to the field to save him from any more pain?"
The audience watched, many filled with horror while others were met with glee at the sight of the downfall of the princess' hero.
"Oh, my, if he were my champion, I wouldn't bear to watch another second longer! The horror! Poor brave warrior, if someone doesn't fetch him out of the fray and soon, this may spell his doom!"
Her uncle, noting the distress etched across Zelda's face, extended a comforting hand, only for her to instinctively flinch away. The momentary recoil was not out of disdain but a reflex born of a tense state. She quickly recognized his intent was only to comfort and not intrude like Arasmus might. Quickly realizing her unintended reaction, Zelda sought to amend the breach. She gently accepted his gliding hand, allowing it to rest reassuringly on her shoulder. Together, enveloped in a heavy silence, they continued to watch the tumult below, hearts heavy with the drama of the unfolding scene.
Taking the situation to heart, Mipha's voice trembled with concern, echoing the anxiety rippling through the onlookers. "Why aren't the tourney masters intervening? He's down there, vulnerable—could they not see he might be trampled any moment?" she implored, scanning the faces around her for some sign of action on the field.
Zelda's uncle, his brow furrowed in distress, chimed in with a heavy tone. "Indeed, it's unsettling how they delay. They've swiftly attended to others for far less, yet he lies unmoving. This isn't just oversight; it's negligence. If they don't act swiftly, he's at risk of serious harm amidst the melee."
Zelda, absorbing the gravity of their words, pivoted from the balcony's edge, to search for the culprit of this injustice. "Unless," she murmured, a chilling suspicion in her voice audible only to him, "this is by someone's design."
Arasmus met her accusatory stare with a serene, almost taunting look, his eyes reflecting the brazier's fire—a silent testament to his indifference.
"You're cruel." Zelda hissed, the disgust palpable in her whispered rebuke. "How could you? You have no honor."
Unruffled, Arasmus responded with icy precision, "I orchestrate no such cruelty."
"Then the sudden change in rules?" Zelda pressed, seeking a crack in his composed exterior.
Arasmus shook his head dismissively. "You search for shadows where there are none. The field is chaos, Princess, nothing more." His voice lightened into a chuckle. "But worry not, your champion will be attended to when it's deemed safe."
For your sake, I hope so; she wanted to say, yet, she couldn't find the courage to speak. Instead she bit back the harsh words teetering on her lips, choosing instead to pierce him with a silent, seething stare. Her trust in his assurances had evaporated, yet she held her tongue.
Suddenly, Mipha's shout sliced through the mounting tension, her finger pointing excitedly towards the field. "Princess, look! Your champion—he's getting up!"
Zelda whipped around, her heart hitching as she peered into the arena. There, against all odds, Helmsworth showed signs of stirring, his resolve not yet extinguished. A wave of relief washed over her, mingled with apprehension. She clung to the rail, her eyes wide, her spirit riding the thin line between hope and despair, as the figure in the mud began to rise.
Age old memories of Link's father's words of encouragement rang in his head like a bell. Or was it devastating blow from the lance? Whatever it was, he had to get up, and now. So, he summoned all his might to awake from his stupor, albeit shaken. Dazed and head pounding, Link came to and found himself knee high in the mud from the blow that shattered his senses. A throbbing, wet, chillness slicked down the side of his head matting his hair in a cold, wet snarl; the shocking realization that it wasn't sweat nor rain filled him with sudden dread. He could also taste the tangent, sickly iron taste of blood on his lips.
Miraculously, though, after feeling around with his fingers, the wound which pained him was less grave than he feared. He's taken harder beatings before. Thankfully, his helm, though dented, withstood the brunt of the impact; a marvel of Castle-Forged steel shining dimly as a testament to its resilient craftsmanship. There he desperately tried to climb back up to his feet. His muscles protested but guided by the rallying voice of his squire; whose words finally reached him, he managed to arise. "Get up sir, get up, he's coming back around! You can do it! That's it! You can get him! I know you can, you just gotta focus! He's right there!"
The clamor from the stands swelled, a discordant symphony of cheers and boos that filled the arena, punctuating the frenetic chaos of battle around him. Other competitors clashed ferociously nearby, but Link's senses sharpened at the thunderous pummeling of hooves on earth when his adversary's steed reared, snorted, and circled for another charge.
Through the flickers of torchlight encircling the arena, the rider discarded a splintered lance for the cold gleam of a drawn sword. "So, you have a bit of fight left in you after all, eh? No matter, you're mine!" !" the rider declared, a savage thrill evident in his voice, his eyes alight with a cruel lust for conquest visible even as he slammed his visor shut.
And in the daze of confusion, the monstrous black beast which he strode upon appeared to Link in that instant to be breathing plumes of fire from its nostrils in the downpour unlike any stallion, but a dragon. Its rider the devil demise himself. This is it, Link thought.
Casting aside his shield, the mud swallowing it with a splat, Link drew his bastard sword and gripped it tight with both hands; the blade singing as it left the scabbard. Years of training took over and he instinctively formed a high hylian guard stance, muscles tensing, to await the doom barreling toward him.
The rain began to pour and the ricochet of dancing drops from the ground stung under his chin in the wind as he braced for the final impact.
Link knew what must be done, but thinking and doing were two different things. Before he could flinch away from the fear that dared to overtake him, his resolve solidified in that critical moment. The world seemed to slow around him as he tapped into a primal surge of energy that burned like a fire from within, a ferocity born of desperation and the fierce need to prevail. The thunderous gallop of his opponent's steed focused his mind sharply, sharpening his senses to a razor's edge. He relinquished all hold on conscious thought, allowing instinct and years of rigorous training to take the helm.
From the roars of the crowd to the pleas of his squire and the ever-expectant gaze of the princess, the entire tournament went silent and still around him. The only things left were him and his foe.
In an instinctive reflex, he dodged the incoming slash, clipping only the tip of his bronzed blade against his foe's as he rolled underneath the slash onto the sand. And in a flash of speed akin to a viper's strike, he unleashed a brilliant counter before his enemy could get away, pelting the backside of his armor. Bronze bit into steel but only enough to launch his enemy off his saddle to tumble onto the sand.
From the stands, Zelda and her companions gasped in awe, the tension breaking into a mixture of shock and elation. Jun's voice cut through the stunned silence, his cheers piercing the tumult, "You did it, Sir! That's the way to show him! Now get him!"
The fallen dragoon cursed, his efforts to rise hampered by the slick, muddied ground. His once immaculate black armor was now smeared with the arena's grime, a stark testament to his fall from grace. As he scrambled for footing, his steed, spooked and unrestrained, galloped off, leaving him stranded and vulnerable.
Link, standing a mere twenty paces away, watched his foe struggle. His sword still in hand, gleamed under the arena's flickering torches, ready to engage once more. The crowd's roars swelled anew, a chorus of anticipation for the next move in this unexpected turn of the joust.
Link barked an order to his squire who had been standing on the sidelines. "Grab Shywind and bring her safely back to the stablemaster. She's no longer of use here! And fetch me my poleaxe on you return! Quickly!" His horse, Shywind, had been evading other combatants in a frightened dash across the sand, adding to the turmoil.
The arena had turned into a wild stampede, with horses darting unpredictively among the melee fighters. Combatants were forced to dodge not only the lethal swings of weapons but also the heavy, panicked strides of wayward steeds.
Realizing the limitations of his current armament, Link's thoughts turned sharply to his need for more suitable weaponry. His bastard sword was agile but lacked the reach and heft needed to contend with the Dragoon's formidable greatsword, which loomed dangerously large by comparison. His shield, which could level the odds, lay frustratingly beyond his grasp, positioned perilously behind his towering adversary.
As another peal of thunder roared, accentuated by a brilliant flash of lightning, the anxious crowd watched, captivated by the dwindling number of combatants. Only a handful of warriors remained engaged in fierce combat, each pair locked in their own deadly dance mere yards from Link.
Amidst the chaos, a warrior adorned with a blue sash, recognizing Link's peril, charged towards the Dragoon from behind, aiming to turn the tide. However, his valiant effort was abruptly cut short as the Dragoon, with brutal efficiency, parried the sword strike and countered with a punishing blow, swiftly neutralizing the would-be rescuer.
Link watched at a loss for words, as the dragoon effortlessly sidestepped an attack and delivered a crushing blow with his gauntleted fist to his ally's face, instantly robbing him of his senses. Such brutal ferocity was unparalleled on the tournament field, displaying a savagery that chilled Link to his bones.
As the beaten warrior lay dazed in the mud, his helm grotesquely deformed, he groped for his sword in a desperate bid to defend himself. But the dragoon, reveling in his dominance, kicked the blade away with a dismissive flick of his boot. Raising his visor to reveal a sinister grin, the dragoon then turned to the crowd, his arms raised in a grotesque bid for their acclaim before turning back to deliver a relentless series of kicks to the fallen man's head. Each sickening thud echoed through the arena, his helm bending under the force, threatening to cave in entirely.
Many cheers quickly morphed into stunned outcry as they witnessed the merciless beating unfold. The spectacle of violence far exceeded the bounds of honorable combat, leaving spectators in shock at the brutal display.
In the echoing commotion of the arena, the herald's voice, tinged with theatrical dismay, rang out, "Oh, will somebody do something to save this poor chap from his fate? Certainly, this must be against the rules! Somebody, anybody?" Yet, no judge stepped forward; the officials remained disturbingly silent, leaving the fallen competitor to his grim fate.
Gripping the railing tightly, Zelda echoed the herald's sentiment, her voice trembling with emotion and resolve, "He's right, if nobody will put an end to this madness, then I must."
Her uncle, attempting to calm her, placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder, "No, sweet niece, you mustn't interfere, please. I know it may be upsetting, but technically no rules have been broken as of yet. The man in question has yet to forfeit."
"How can he? He's being throttled!" Zelda protested, her gaze fixed on the brutal scene unfolding below.
Her uncle tried to offer a rationale, albeit weakly, "It may appear that way, but the man's pride clearly is not allowing him to surrender. Look, he keeps trying to roll away from the other's strikes. He is still in the match."
Zelda interrupted, incredulous and frustrated, "How can you possibly stand by and—"
Her uncle sighed, his tone one of reluctant acceptance, "–It's not that I enjoy watching these things happen, of course not. Of course, I would rather a cleaner fight, but it's that—my dear, sweet Zelda, please understand, this is how tournaments are held. It may seem harsh, and downright brutal at times but that is the way things are done. They've always been that way spanning back to the age of heroes."
Zelda, undeterred and firm in her conviction, responded sharply, "It's barbaric," and turned back to the battle, her disapproval palpable as she pulled her hand away and crossed her arms defiantly. "Perhaps it's high time things change. There's no need for such violence. I always believed this was to be a contest of valor and chivalry, not mayhem and bloodlust." Her words hung heavily in the air, a stark challenge to the accepted norms of the tournament.
Her uncle fell silent, powerless to retort and thought better of it to give her some space to sort her emotions on the matter. she was about to vocalize more of her displeasure when her gaze snapped back to the arena. One figure below commanded her attention—someone whose brutality had been glaringly apparent throughout the melee.
"Wait a minute, a dragoon," she paused, her mind racing with new realizations. She turned abruptly to Arasmus, accusation sharp in her tone, "He's one of your men, isn't he? But what is one of your men doing in a tournament like this?" The pieces started to fall into place, her voice rising slightly with the weight of her suspicions. "You knew about this, didn't you? You're involved in this, aren't you?"
Arasmus' response was a slight, knowing smile. He strolled leisurely to her side, leaning over the balcony to get a better view of the chaos unfolding below. "Hmm," he mused, his gaze fixed on the violent exchanges of the fighters. "What keen observation, my Sundelion."
His nonchalant demeanor only fueled her frustration. "Is he your man or not?" she demanded, her patience fraying at the edges.
"Why, does his presence in the tournament unsettle you?" Arasmus replied, his voice calm and probing, uncharacteristically straightforward in his response, neither confirming nor denying her accusation directly.
Zelda blinked, taken aback by his directness. He was not cloaking his words in riddles or evasive replies as was his usual manner. Instead, he seemed almost eager to acknowledge his involvement, adding a complex layer to their conversation that Zelda wasn't prepared for.
Arasmus asked again while she stood beside him mouth agape. "Should I have him brought here to answer for his inhumane lack of judgment on the field? After all, I will make sure he is thoroughly disciplined for such an ill display of chivalry. I don't tolerate such behavior among my ranks.
As Arasmus spoke, Zelda stood beside him, her expression one of shock, unable to articulate the tumult of emotions swirling within her. He noted her silence and, seizing the opportunity, took decisive action. With an authoritative snap of his fingers, he beckoned another Dragoon, who had been standing watch nearby. The soldier approached briskly and knelt beside them, an air of readiness about him as he awaited orders.
Arasmus issued his command with an edge sharp enough to cut through the thick tension, "You, ensure that once this man exits the tournament, he is accorded a proper send-off—fit for his conduct."
The kneeling soldier raised his head slightly, his expression a mask of confusion mingling with disbelief at the orders being issued. Zelda, catching the soldier's gaze, sensed his shock mirroring her own. The reality of the situation unfolded before her like a surreal play, each moment stretching longer than the last, embedding itself deep within her conscience.
Unperturbed, Arasmus decreed the fate of the unruly Dragoon with the casual ease of ordering a meal at table, his voice carrying a cold, calculated detachment. "See to it that his punishment serves as a stark warning to all. Anyone who dares disrupt or displease the princess shall receive their…" He paused, a sly and twisted glimmer of amusement shone in his face before he finished, "their just reward."
Zelda, overwhelmed by the severity of his words, remained silent, her thoughts a whirlwind of disbelief and apprehension as she absorbed the harsh reality of Arasmus's rule.
That being said, she understood the implications of Arasmus's intentions, and it churned her stomach with disgust. The man was going to be punished merely for carrying out what might very well have been his lord's covert commands. The cold-heartedness of it all baffled her. Could this all be a performance for her benefit? She struggled with the thought, yet felt compelled to intervene, to halt the cruel spectacle unfolding before her eyes.
Summoning every ounce of courage, Zelda's voice broke through her hesitation, her words trembling as the fine hairs on her neck stood on end, "No, you don't have to do this. Please, there's no need. I'm alright," she pleaded, her voice a blend of desperation and command.
Arasmus interrupted her with a patronizing look, his tone dripping with feigned affection, "Anything to please my soon-to-be betrothed."
The look of satisfaction he gave made her skin crawl. The fop was actually enjoying himself, she realized. And what's more, she couldn't tell if the excitement glistening in his cold eyes were due to the pleasure of having her squirm like a wriggling fish in helpless dismay; or the genuine delight he had being cruel to his subordinates as a show of power.
The idea that she ever could've thought him handsome or attractive once upon a time gave her the sudden urge to bathe and cleanse herself of his presence. But even with that she knew that no matter how much she scrubbed, the perfumed stain of his kiss burned on her cheek earlier would remain.
Back on the field, Link was poised to intervene and save the beleaguered man, but his path was abruptly blocked by an opponent clad in a red sash. The challenger lunged, his longsword slicing the air, narrowly missing Link. Caught off guard, distracted by the dragoon's plight, Link momentarily lost focus, forgetting he was now embroiled in a melee—a chaotic free-for-all.
Relief quickly replaced worry as Link sized up his new adversary. The man was clearly older, likely in his late twenties, and bore the unmistakable air of nobility—a man who had practiced solely against complacent yes-men, never truly tested in battle. His skills, or lack thereof, were as evident as the ornamental nature of his armor. Adorned with ceremonial trappings rather than practical protection, his gear was more a hindrance than a help, ill-suited for real combat.
Link exploited his opponent's lack of experience and the cumbersome armor to his advantage. With agile maneuvers, he dodged each of the noble's overwrought and ponderous strikes, steadily wearing him down. The fight was uneven from the start, with Link's seasoned prowess starkly contrasting the noble's ceremonial training.
In the throes of the melee, the noble adversary, drained of stamina and breath, finally faltered under the relentless assault. Seizing the moment, Link executed a masterful counterattack. With a deft twist of his wrist and a sharp flick, he struck his opponent's blade, sending it spinning upward out of his failing grasp. The sword arced through the air, its metallic wail cutting through the tumult, before it landed far out of reach in the sand.
Link then directed the point of his own sword toward the vanquished noble's chest, his voice muffled by the din of the arena, "Do you yield?" A tense silence enveloped them, punctuated only by the heavy breaths of the defeated man who reluctantly lifted his eyes to meet Link's steady gaze. Conceding defeat, the noble, his elegant cloak now marred by the mud, nodded and gasped out, "I... I yield."
With the dignity of the moment at hand, Link sheathed his sword and extended a helping hand to his adversary, aiding him to rise from the mire with a gesture of true knightly grace.
However, the chivalric scene was abruptly shattered by a brutal act nearby. The crowd gasped as the dragoon, having just dispatched another challenger with a vicious finality, turned the fallen combatant over with his boot. The defeated man lay sprawled and motionless in the sand. Leaning over his prey, the dragoon spat contemptuously at him, his voice thick with disdain, "Serves ya' right for getting in my way."
As the disgraced challenger limped off the field, he left Link with a parting murmur, laced with regret, "I know I shouldn't be saying this, as he is on my team, but that man has no honor. Good luck to you, young sir. You're going to need it." His words lingered in the crisp air, filled with the musky scent of disturbed earth and sweat. Link, feeling the weight of the challenger's warning, gave a solemn nod and turned to face his final adversary, the dragoon. They were the last two combatants in the arena, their shadows long and daunting in the torchlight.
Link's focus sharpened, the earlier commotion of the crowd now a distant hum. His senses tingled with the sharp tang of iron from the blood-soaked sand and the acrid smell of fear and anticipation that hung heavy in the air. He didn't know the tally of the teams, nor did he really care. He just wanted to take that bastard down, whatever it took. Link readied himself in a fighting stance and tourney attendants took to the field to fetch the fallen.
The dragoon's voice boomed across the field, cutting through the tension. "You! Let's finish our dance, shall we?" His challenge thundered in the arena just as the ground beneath their feet began to tremble. A sudden, deep rumble, more felt than heard, vibrated through the very bones of the arena, startling both warriors and spectators alike. The crowd, initially jolted by the seismic shudder, began to murmur in panic, their whispers swirling like the wind through the stands.
Amidst the rising chaos, the Herald, ever a beacon of authority, raised his hands, calling for calm with the assurance of his presence. His voice soared over the crowd, a steady command in the tumult, urging everyone to remain seated, his words a balm to the nervous energy sparking through the stands.
"There is nothing to fret, my Lords and Fair Ladies! All part of the show!" the Herald proclaimed, his voice booming across the arena, infusing a wave of relief that washed over the anxious spectators. His reassurance reignited their spirits, and they turned their attention back to the field with renewed enthusiasm.
Indeed, the Herald's words proved prophetic. As if conjured by magic, the sands of the arena shifted and transformed. Hidden mechanisms churned, elevating wooden battlements and towering obstacles from beneath the earth. Massive masts adorned with ropes and chains rose like titans while wooden walls serving as battlements dotted the arena, setting the stage for a duel that promised to eclipse all prior spectacles. The rain, as if respecting the prestige of the moment, ceased, granting the challengers a momentary respite from the relentless downpour.
Amid this unfolding drama, Jun hustled back to the sidelines, weaving through the crowd of onlookers. "I'm back Sir, what is it you need again?!" he called out, his voice lost in the chaos of the transforming arena. But his return was ill-timed. Link's attention was riveted on the dragoon, who unleashed a furious assault. The Dragoon's sword whistled through the air, each strike narrowing the gap between them, a relentless torrent of aggression.
Link, heart pounding in his ears, danced away from the slashes, his sword meeting his opponent's with a shrill clang of metal. But the dragoon's blade was merciless, biting into Link's with each contact. In a devastating moment, the dragoon's sword came down hard again, and Link's blade, unable to withstand the brutality, snapped. The top half of his sword spun away, glinting under the intermittent torchlight as it flew.
The brave warrior stumbled backward; the broken hilt of his sword still clutched in his grip. His balance lost, he crashed to the muddy ground, the air knocked out of him. He lay there, vulnerable, staring up at the looming figure of the dragoon, his mind racing for a solution in the fleeting seconds he might have left.
Link couldn't understand why his sword surrendered so easily to his enemy. The dragoon had a taste for blood and with no time to wallow in the shock of being disarmed, Link's survival instincts kicked in. As the dragoon's blade sliced through the air, aiming to end the match with a brutal finality, Link ducked, the blade slicing nothing but a few scattered raindrops in the wind.
Link seized the moment to roll over the slick, muddy ground, narrowly evading another lethal swing that instead found its mark in the sturdy wood of a nearby battlement. A short wall consisting of crude planks which Link vaulted over desperately to maneuver tantalizingly close to his long-lost shield. Just a little further, he thought, eyeing the shield that lay a stone's throw away. If I could only get to it in time, just until Jun returns with my poleaxe. I might have a chance.
The dragoon, infuriated by Link's evasive tactics, bellowed across the field, his voice thick with scorn. "Coward! Face me like a man!" His taunts sliced through the air, intended to wound as deeply as his sword.
Link, hidden behind another risen wooden wall, suppressed the sting of those words. There he resisted the urge to take the bait. His adversary's voice dropped to a menacing whisper, a contrast to his previous roars, chillingly close yet blind to Link's exact location. "So, do you understand now? Or are you still the fool who doesn't know when to quit?"
Link saw an opening while the man was looking away and bolted, his back now pressed against the cold, rough surface of a pillar, his breathing heavy as he dared a glance over the barricade where his foe was. The arena, transformed into a maze of obstacles, was now a grand chessboard where every move could be fatal. The crowd loomed on the edge of their seat as they watched. Link needed more time to strategize. He could only hide for so long. And just as he lost all hope in what to do next it suddenly dawned on him.
"Cheater…" Link whispered to himself, piecing together the riddle earlier. The realization crystallized with bitter clarity—Of course, he thought. He shook his head as he leaned against the pillar, peeking over the side to see where the brute was on the field. "No honor," he whispered again. It all made sense now. The back alley shady deals, the suspicious man working the anvil, all of it. His blade wasn't bronze at all, merely adorned to resemble bronze; it was a deception, and underneath was cold rolled steel.
A flash of memory hit him; the blacksmith's words from whom he purchased his weapons earlier echoed in his mind, a warning he hadn't fully understood until now: 'Steel devours bronze as easily as a Goron devours rock steaks. Of course, you can't use castle weapons like that in a tourney like this, you're likely to kill somebody.'
Link knew then that he wasn't just dueling a man for sport; this was a desperate fight for survival now. This soldier wanted to kill him, or the very least seriously maim him and make it look like an accident.
With his shield just within reach and the crowd's anticipation humming like a charged storm, Link prepared to turn the tables.
He never stood a chance with his sword, but even as the dread came, a glimmer of hope returned to him. Jun! He should have my poleaxe. If I could only get my poleaxe surely, it would have enough reach and weight behind it to deflect the blows of a sword, steel or otherwise. He had to try. It was his only option left and if he could avoid getting hit altogether, the better. But the time was up, he had been discovered.
"There you are!" The Dragoon screeched as he charged at him with a thrust. And with a desperate dive, Link dodged again. His hand stretched out, fingers grazing the shield just within reach. It wouldn't be much, but it just might buy enough time until he could procure another weapon worthy of his adversary.
"Jun! My poleaxe, fetch my poleaxe! Quickly!" he shouted, his voice carrying over the din of battle to where Jun stood, paralyzed momentarily by the weight of his responsibility.
Jun snapped out of it and called to action, his eyes scanning the arsenal of Link's weapons laid out along the fence. There must have been half a dozen to choose from. His heart pounded as he tried to remember which it could be—daggers, axes, spears, lances; which was the poleaxe? His inexperience gnawed at him, but urgency spurred him on. He grasped what he hoped was the right weapon—a long-handled axe with a formidable flat head, unmatched for hacking and chopping—and sprinted towards the arena.
"Jun! Hurry!" Link pleaded again from afar. "I'm out of time!" The boy winced at the command, terrified he may have delayed too much to aid his Sir. Not to mention the brute wasn't letting up in the slightest and Link could only dodge and block so many times before the inevitable bite of steel would tear into his flesh.
"And then there were two, my esteemed Lords and Ladies," The herald began, a grievous commentary of the ordeal as if Link's fate had already been sealed. "Oh, no! It looks like our brave champion from the archery bout may have finally met his match!" the herald then took a gulp of his brew, wiped his chin of foam and continued basking in the drama. "What will he do now? Will he surrender? Or does he have what it takes to go toe to toe with this seasoned veteran? Does he have an unknown trick up his sleeve? Only time will tell and only will fate decide!"
Another man beside the herald then tugged on his arm, pointing toward the direction of the sidelines, and whispered conspiratorially in his ear. The herald's eyes widen with intrigue, like a child who discovered a treasure of treats hidden in the cupboard. "It appears the small warrior has beckoned his squire for assistance, but will the little lad make it in time to save his master? We shall see!" The ruckus of the crowd reverberated again as the pinnacle of action unfolded.
"End of the road, my friend!" sneered the Dragoon, his voice a mix of triumph and violence as he thrust forward, each strike meant to end the duel. Link, shield in hand, maneuvered with all the dexterity and desperation his weary body could muster, dodging, rolling, keeping just out of fatal reach.
Jun shouted to Link, holding up high his anticipated request. "Sir! I've got it!"
With a flash of a glance, Link answered back, but before he could finish his sentence, the mammoth of a dragoon unleashed another barrage of unrelenting slashes yet again at him. "That's not it! Jun, I need my poleaxe, not an axe!"
"Some squire you have! He doesn't even know what a poleaxe is! A pity!" The dragoon said as he followed up by a sneering laugh of mockery. "Where did you find him anyway? In the gutter of Allure Alley? I bet dumped by some used up pleasure maid who didn't want a screaming brat. Come to think of it? You're a low blood. Maybe that's where you're from too? Birds of a feather flock together, I suppose!"
Link ignored his taunts and remained determined to continue.
Meanwhile, bewildered and feeling like he had been punched in the gut for his failure, Jun's face went pale as he retreated back to the cache of weapons again. "Damn it, which one is it!" the boy cursed under his breath. Time was running out and worst of all, if he didn't return and quickly, it would be his fault if anything happened to Link. And he would be remembered as the worst squire ever. But more than that, he would have lost one of his only friends ever.
Jun's eyes reddened on the verge of tears when the gruff voice from before spoke beside him again. "Why are you panicking boy?"
Jun wiped away the tears before they could form, determined not to show any weakness, and spoke determinedly." Because if I don't hurry, he'll lose or worse."
"Well, which is it?"
"I need a poleaxe," Jun sniffed, before trying to act tough again. "The only problem is, I'm not quite sure which one is a poleaxe."
"I see," the man stooped to one of the weapons and grabbed it before handing it to the lad. "I trust this is what you're looking for?" he said, a faint grin beginning to tug at his lips, but the boy could hardly focus on that, distracted by the frightening and unwavering glare given by his war-ravaged eye staring at him.
The milky gleam of it gave made the boy squirm, but he instantly reacted yet again to not to show any fear and instead, took the weapon and with a firm nod ran as fast as his feet could carry him off to the battlefield.
With agility born of sheer necessity, Link darted out of the way again, his shield bearing the brunt of the retreat as iron bracings began to give way and bend at every clash. This is it, I don't know how much more I can take. With each devastating strike, the shield surrendered a little more, sending jolts of agonizing pain throughout his weakened arm.
His breaths came heavy and labored; his earlier vigor was fading, and the shadow of exhaustion loomed. As the sword bore down again, Link braced, for what may very well be the final impact, whispering an old knight's prayer, "Core of timber, clasp of steel, ward the blow that death may deal." The great sword hammered down again with a chop, splinters bursting forth like arrows in a skirmish.
Gritting his teeth, the brave warrior retaliated with a robust kick, exploiting an opening the dragoon left as his blade kissed the edge of his shield. Standing firm, he murmured the final lines of his invocation, his voice barely above a breath, "In the fray, my stalwart guard, by Hylia's grace, my doom be barred." He prepared himself, shield raised, as the dragoon rounded yet again and lifted his blade with a roar and lunged forward once more, determined to break through the defense that Link so desperately maintained.
And as the mighty great sword came crashing down to shatter the shield once and for all, a miracle ensued. Link's whispered prayer, though faint, was answered. The sword slammed into the bark and stuck, powerless to penetrate, leaving his opponent in shocked disbelief. "You and your damn shield!" the man raged.
Behind the furious brute, Jun appeared, clutching the poleaxe. "Sir, I have what you asked for! Here! Catch!" With all his might, the lad hurled the poleaxe, which was nearly as tall as he was.
As the weapon arced gracefully through the air, the dragoon's realization dawned too late. Link, watching the trajectory, prepared for his moment. As the sword remained lodged in the shield, a bead of worry now traced its way down the man's brow.
Seizing the moment, Link released his grip on the shield. The dragoon, desperate to free his weapon, pulled back, his force sending him staggering into a dizzying tumble, the battered shield tumbling with him.
He stood roaring with violent anger, wrenching his blade from the ruins of the shield and discarding it, only to find Link, now armed with the poleaxe, ready to duel face to face.
The dragoon, furious, turned to charge at Jun, who had disrupted their duel. But the quick-footed boy dodged effortlessly. "Why you little brat? I'll kill you after this! Mark my words!" he bellowed, his threat slicing through the air. But before he could advance, Link intervened, positioning himself between the dragoon and his squire, ready to protect at all costs.
"I'm the one you want!" Link bellowed, his voice carrying across the tumultuous din of the arena. He thrust his poleaxe forward, parrying a vicious slash from his enemy's sword. "Jun, get out of here now! It isn't safe! Leave him to me!" he ordered sharply.
"But Sir, will you be alright?" Jun protested, his loyalty wavering between obedience and the urge to help. "I can help though; I can fetch you a fresh shield!"
"No, there's no use!" Link countered firmly, his eyes locked on his opponent. "I have all I need now, thanks." With a renewed vigor, he circled his adversary, each step measured and deliberate, a dance of warriors under the scrutinous eyes of fate. This time, Jun heeded the command without further argument and retreated to the safety of the sidelines.
"If you think your little friend can escape me, you're sadly mistaken. I'll be dealing with him soon enough," the dragoon taunted, his voice dripping with venom.
"First, you've got to get through me," Link retorted, his stance unyielding, the polished bronze of his poleaxe catching the eerie moonlight that slipped through the parting clouds.
The dragoon lifted his visor, revealing a smirk intended to intimidate. "If you're as good with a melee weapon as you are at jousting, then I have nothing to worry about. You're as good as dead."
"I warn you, I'm best with a poleaxe. And you fought dirty earlier." Link's grip tightened, ready to prove his mettle where words would fail.
"You royals." The dragoon said, a grin smirking under his visor. "Wishing you were true KNIGHTs. You're all but nothing but a shadow of what KNIGHTs were. They are long gone and soon you will be too. You and your pathetic honor, I spit at the lot of you," he said, as he spat a wad of phlegm at Link's boots. "None can withstand the edge of my blade. And Honor certainly won't save you from me. Or haven't you learned? I thought you understood. Bronze has no chance against castle-forged steel. And you know what the best part is about that?"
Link lifted his head to listen more intently as the man howled a final laugh before whispering a final taunt. "They'll never know the truth once you're dead."
Link flexed and ignored him, rallied to listen to his instincts and follow his training. True, he may have had a weapon of bronze, but the sheer weight, reach and agility to maneuver regardless of ore evened the odds. For a knight's true weapon, was his poleaxe. Athelon and his father taught him that. Only a fool would reach for a sword over the other. They circled each other warily, each anticipating the other's move in the tense prelude to their final clash.
"Now, you, taste my blade!" the man cried out as he lashed out first.
Link drew a deep, icy breath, allowing a moment of stillness to envelop him. He closed his eyes, silencing the clamor of the arena to focus solely on the pulse of his instincts. This moment was the culmination of all he had learned, a lifetime distilled into mere seconds. When he reopened his eyes, time slowed to a crawl, and seized this stretched thin slice of reality to glance towards Jun, whose enthusiastic cheers pierced the tension, then across to the royal enclosure. There he saw that she too had not given up on him. This was it, the final bout, and the longest ten seconds he'll ever endure. All he had to do was just hearken to the wise counsel of his father and let go—and win.
AUTHORS NOTE: Next chapter will be a short one but will wrap things up for our climax. I hope you enjoy this story and let me know if the pacing is alright. I'm going to do my best and pick up the pace a bit more. Let me know with a comment of your thoughts. Thanks- Sky