Part 5
The road was a memory. The world Link now moved through was wild and untamed, a rugged, rolling landscape of rocky hills and sparse, windswept forests that lay between the familiar embrace of Faron and the distant, unknown lands of Lanayru. There was no path here but the one the monsters had made, and the one he forged himself in their wake. He was no longer a traveler; he was a tracker, and the silence of the wilderness was his guide.
This was a different kind of aloneness from the road. Here, the world was not empty; it was simply indifferent. It did not care for the small boy treading carefully over its stony flesh. But Link was a child of nature, and he knew how to listen to its truths. He found water by following the flight of finches. He supplemented his mother's journey bread with the tart, hardy berries and edible roots he had learned to identify in his own woods. He moved with the sun, resting in the high heat of the day in the cool shadow of a rock outcropping, and traveled in the long, creeping shadows of dawn and dusk, his small form all but invisible to the untrained eye.
He followed the trail of the corrupted Bokoblins. Their passage was a clumsy, violent scar upon the land. They left behind a wake of casual destruction—saplings snapped for sport, the nests of small animals trampled. More than that, they left behind a stain of the shadow's corruption. He found a squirrel, its body unmarked, but its eyes wide and vacant, its life force seemingly drained away. He saw patches of grass along their trail that were withered and gray, as if winter had selectively touched only the spots where they had trod. The blight was not just in the forest; it was a pestilence these creatures carried with them.
The Sheikah token he had recovered from Elwin's bag had awakened. He kept it in the pouch with the Keaton Mask, but he could feel its presence against his side. It was a subtle, almost sub-sonic hum, a vibration that resonated deep in his bones. He quickly realized it was a guide. When he was moving true on the monsters' trail, the hum was a steady, low thrum. If he strayed, it would fade. The closer he got to a concentration of their foul energy, the more intense the vibration became. The Sheikah, whoever they were, had created a compass that did not point north, but pointed toward the dark.
By the second day of his trek through the wilds, he knew he was getting close. The tracks were fresher, the signs of corruption more frequent. He scaled a high, windswept ridge to survey the land ahead. Below him, in a narrow, rocky valley, he saw them. It was a small scouting party—four Bokoblins, their jerky, unnatural movements clear even from this distance. But they were not alone. Leading them was a creature of a different scale. It was a Moblin, a hulking, brutish monster twice the size of a man, carrying a crude but massive iron spear.
The sight of it sent a jolt of fear through him. The stakes had just been raised immeasurably. This wasn't just a scattered band of scavengers; it was an organized war party with a commander. This was an invasion in miniature.
He instinctively reached for the Keaton Mask. He slipped it on, the familiar, cool wood a strange comfort. He focused his gaze on the brutish Moblin below, pouring all of his concentration into it, trying to see what the mask wanted to show him. For a moment, there was nothing. Then, the world flickered, and a brief, blurry image flashed through his mind. It was not a clear vision like before, but a powerful impression: the dark, yawning mouth of a cave. The angry orange glare of a large fire. And the glint of dull, iron bars. A prison.
Elwin. He was alive. The mask's insight was a jolt of pure, unadulterated hope. They hadn't killed him. They had taken him somewhere.
He now had a destination. Guided by the intensifying hum of the Sheikah token and the searing image from the mask, he moved with a new urgency. He skirted the valley, keeping to the high ground, his movements as silent and unseen as a hawk's shadow. By dusk, he found it.
It was a crude encampment, nestled in a natural amphitheater at the base of a series of sheer, rocky cliffs. A cave system yawned at the back of the camp, its maw belching a foul-smelling smoke from the massive bonfire that roared just outside. He could count at least a dozen Bokoblins, their guttural shouts and violent squabbles echoing off the rocks. The Moblin was there, sitting on a crude throne of rock and hide, gnawing on a haunch of some unfortunate beast. It was a picture of primal, brutish evil.
And then he saw it. On the far side of the camp, near the base of the cliff wall, was a hastily constructed cage. It was made of sharpened logs and reinforced with the bent, twisted ironwork of Elwin's own mail cart. And inside, slumped in the dirt, was the familiar, portly figure of the Royal Postman. He was unmoving, his uniform torn and stained, but from the slight rise and fall of his chest, Link could see that he was alive.
A wave of cold fury washed over Link, so intense it made him dizzy. But he pushed it down, replacing it with the cold, clear focus of a hunter. A frontal assault was suicide. He was one boy. They were a small army. He would have to be smarter. He would have to be a ghost.
He settled into a hidden crevice high on the cliff face overlooking the camp, a position that gave him a perfect view. For hours, he simply watched. He committed the entire camp to memory: the number of guards, their lazy patrol routes, the way they were spooked by night-flying birds, the exact location of the cage's heavy, wooden locking bar. He saw their overconfidence, their arrogance. They believed they were safe here, deep in the wilderness, far from any knights or soldiers who might challenge them. They would not be watching for a threat from above.
His plan began to form, a delicate and dangerous strategy built on stealth, distraction, and the enemy's own stupidity. The cage was positioned near the cliff face, the side of the camp the monsters guarded most poorly. Above the opposite side of the camp, a section of the cliff was unstable, a ledge littered with loose scree and precariously balanced rocks. It was a rockslide waiting to happen.
Night fell, blanketing the hills in darkness. The bonfire in the center of the camp now provided the only light, casting long, dancing shadows. The Bokoblins grew more boisterous, their crude feast beginning. Their attention was focused on the fire, on their food, on their petty, violent squabbles. The moment was now.
From his perch, Link silently made his final preparations. He found the largest, most unstable collection of rocks on the ledge above the far side of the camp. It wouldn't take much to send them tumbling down—a few well-aimed stones from his slingshot. That would be his distraction. A loud, terrifying crash from the darkness to draw every eye, every monster, away from his true target.
He took a deep breath, the cold night air a balm to his racing heart. He looked from the pile of rocks, to the fire, and then to the cage, where Elwin lay still and silent. He had found his friend. Now, he had to bring him home. He loaded his slingshot, the small, smooth stone feeling as heavy as the entire world. The time for watching was over. The time for action was now.