Link’s cloak flapped behind him as he drifted eastward with the wind, his hands gripping the wooden handles of the paraglider as tightly as they could. He was directly above the path Rhoam had pointed out, a wide dirt track sandwiched by thin woods to the north and low hills to the south.

Beyond the latter, Link glimpsed another Sheikah tower on the far side of a great lake, which was divided by a massive bridge of stone. Its ends were marked by arched gateways made of the same material and topped by battlements built to safeguard those traveling in both directions. Even from this distance, Link could see parts of those entryways were crumbling in a manner uncomfortably similar to the Temple of Time.

The effect of flight, even a mockery of it, was exhilarating. Link wondered what it must be like to be one of the Rito that Rhoam had described, able to take to the sky whenever you please and cut through the wind far faster than feet or hooves could march. Surely there was no better way to travel than this.

As he descended, Link’s marvel at being airborne gave way to concern over what lay directly below him. Small ruins of long-decrepit buildings lined the sides of the broad dirt road. Here and there a wall rose high enough to reveal the empty socket of a former window, but most of the remains left much to the imagination. Some purposeful destruction had done most of the work. Time and nature were finishing it, leaving only bare foundations and a few pockmarked walls as reminders that this place had been home to a number of people long ago.

Link carefully scanned the ruins and adjacent woods, aware that he was easy descending prey for enemies lying in wait. Nothing stirred. No telltale signs of life betrayed the presence of bokoblins. Whatever this place was, it appeared truly forsaken.

The landing could not have gone more smoothly. Link hit the ground at a slow lope, the paraglider collapsing easily the moment the wind and his muscles ceased working to keep it taut. He quickly stowed the contraption on another set of hooks hanging from the back of his belt, where it would be out of the way of his hands and arms. Between that and his poorly filled haversack, he was traveling light indeed.

After one last glance around, Link turned his attention toward his destination: the orange-glowing Sheikah tower and the aptly named Dueling Peaks just behind it. It was very nearly a straight shot eastward, the road all but pointing to it.

The outset of the journey was a depressing reminder of what Link was setting out to overcome. Long-forgotten refuse dotted the ground all around the ruins. Cracked barrels and broken-down handcarts lay near one building that might have once been a storehouse. Near another, Link glimpsed at least three rusted weapons — a sword and two spears — laying half-covered in the dirt and grass. Perhaps an armory. Self-sustaining this place might once have been, but its desolation was absolute, leaving Link to wonder again at the long-lasting devastation his forgotten world had suffered.

The ruins extended eastward, though most now lay on the northern side of the path as hills encroached from the south. From what Link could tell from a glance northward, this place lay at least two days’ journey from the castle. Given the size of the town and the road running straight through it, this must have once been a thriving thoroughfare for travelers in this area of Hyrule.

Gone, now, Link thought. How much gone since I went to sleep?

The thought of his long rest brought Link’s attention to the sun, which was already setting quickly behind him. He did not fancy the idea of sleeping inside the skeletal remains of a ruined building. Looking ahead to gauge the distance remaining to the tower, however, he was surprised to see a light glimmering further down the road. As he approached, Link realized its source was a torch lit and hanging from a pillar that marked the beginning of a small, stone bridge. The sound of rushing water confirmed the need for such a structure, and Link realized with another pang of regret that the bridge must also have once marked the once-proud entryway into the ruins he had just passed.

He was about to search for a suitable campsite when Link heard noises up ahead, near the bridge itself.

“Gerroutofit, yeh mangy swine!”

The heavily accented shout was followed by several pig-like squeals. Link did not hesitate. Drawing his short blade, he ran headlong up the shallow, overgrown steps of the bridge and into the fray.

Brigo stood his ground against the three bokoblins trying to force him back toward the east side of Proxim Bridge. If they succeeded, he knew they would be able to circle him and finish the job. His best chance was to keep them on the bridge itself, where its narrow width and his long spear could keep his enemies in eyesight and at arm’s length.

“Ye’ll not throw meh in yeh cookin’ pots, filth!” he bellowed as he turned away a half-hearted swing from a Bokoblin club.

Brigo cursed himself as eight kinds of fool, as only a fool let three stinking pigspawn take him by surprise. He should have seen the signs he had learned from knee-high to his mammy’s apron strings, but he’d let himself go lax after a fortnight’s worth of quiet patrol. Now he would likely pay the price for it.

Hylia, but the lads back at the stable would have a raw good laugh if they could see meh now! he thought viciously to himself.

One of the bokoblins began hefting its club to throw. It was a childish move, but one that Brigo immediately recognized as devastatingly effective. Forced to fend off the projectile, he would be all but exposed to a rush from the other two beasts. He re-gripped the haft of his spear, readying himself for the inevitable charge.

“G’on, then, yeh great, filthy excuse fer a pig’s dinner!” Brigo roared defiantly. “‘Ave a go!”

The offending bokoblin was about to do just that when a sword point emerged from its chest. The beast looked down stupidly, then slumped lifelessly to the stone bridge floor as its killer quickly engaged the other two monsters.

Brigo stood slackjawed as his rescuer -- a young man hardly removed from boyhood -- dispatched a second bokoblin with a swift slice across the snout. The warrior’s dark blonde hair, tied back at the nape of his neck, whipped around his face as he avoided a desperate swing from the third beast’s club. The blow struck only air as the newcomer — with nary a sign of emotion showing in his hard, blue eyes — sidestepped the blow, then ran the monster through with his short sword.

The job was done in a trice, and Brigo could not contain his amazement at the deed.

“Strike me, lad, but yeh did a fair job wi’ those pigspawn, so help meh yeh did!” he exclaimed.

Brigo’s rescuer looked up — he was much shorter than himself, though that was the case with almost everyone he knew — and met his astonished gaze. Brigo was extremely glad to be the saved and not the slain for more than one reason. Those eyes — like a bloody wolf, he thought — were cold enough to crack the ice his grandpappy had taught him to avoid in the mountains to the far northwest. Not cruel or mistrusting. Just hard, as though what the boy had done was nothing more than an everyday task completed.

O’ course, Brigo thought ruefully, he ruddy made it look that way, didn’ ‘e?

The stranger looked around at his handiwork, eying the dead bokoblins with a small frown. As he did so, he took out a cloth to clean the blood from his blade. Brigo noted the boy also carried a bow and small quiver of arrows. A curious, rectangular object he didn’t recognize hung just off-center from his belt.

“Are there more of these near here?” the stranger asked quietly.

Brigo ran his fingers through his short, brown hair and shook his head. “Nary a sign o’ the beasts asides these three. If yeh don’ mind me askin’, lad, where the devil did yeh come from? Did ol’ Tasseren send yeh’ to back me up? If ‘e did, ye’d better tell that horse hopper that ‘e’s in for a good thumpin’ when I see him again! This ‘ere is my patrol, an’ I ken do it by mehself jus’ like I allus have!”

A quiet smile stole across the stranger’s face as he sheathed his short sword over his shoulder. Brigo forgave him his mirth — it wasn’t funny, and he had meant every word — if only because it was good to see that hard expression thawed.

“No one sent me,” the stranger answered while gesturing behind him. “I come from the plateau to the west. I saw them attack you and thought it’d be rude to just sit by and watch.”

Brigo was only half-listening. He had caught a glimpse of the golden insignia on the back of young man’s cloak while he had pointed toward the plateau in question.

What in bloody blazes is he doin’ wavin’ the blinkin’ Hylian sigil around like a bloody beacon? he wondered to himself. Aloud, he elected a less invasive question spurred by the boy’s answer.

“The plateau?” Brigo asked, surprised. “Did no think anyone lived up there aside from the birds and bees. How in blazes did yeh wind up there?”

The boy shrugged. “I was left there a long time ago. I don’t know how. It’s the only place I can remember being.”

Brigo looked hard at the young man. He didn’t peg him for lying, but he was telling as little of the truth as Brigo himself would when skirting his mammy’s highly attuned sense for trouble. Well, he thought to himself, best let him be. The lad did right by me, after all.

The rapidly darkening sky momentarily distracted his attention from this strange newcomer.

“Well then, the least I can do is offer a fire an’ a place to kip up for the night,” Brigo said. “I know a place a ways up that hill yonder ah’ve used many a time. It’ll do if yer keen on it.”

The young man looked up at him, and Brigo was pleased to see those sky-blue eyes were much softer than they had been.

“That sounds just fine to me, good sir,” he said. “I accept, with my thanks.”

Deciding to do away with one more formality, Brigo held out his hand.

“There’ll be no ‘good sir’ with me, lad,” he said warmly. “Name’s Brigo, but yeh can call me Brig. All meh friends do.”

Oddly enough, the young man seemed taken aback by his words. He hesitated an instant before clasping Brigo’s proffered hand. The warmth in the gesture matched that in his voice.

“I’m Link.”

The small, smokeless fire burned low into the night, barely illuminating its two caretakers as they rested from their evening repast. Link looked around at the campsite his new companion had chosen. It was one of the few flat areas atop the elongated hill running alongside the road leading to Dueling Peaks. Their view of that path was blocked by the section of an enormous, fallen tree trunk, ensuring their privacy from any other bokoblin bands roaming the area.

Brigo’s meal was the most delicious thing Link had tasted since awakening in the shrine. The tall man, who appeared some ten years older than himself, had proven as adept at hunting fish in a river as he was fending off bokoblins with his long spear. Brigo had landed two healthy sized bass, then added his own concoction of spices from a well-stocked pouch in the enormous pack he had previously stowed at the campsite.

Link had smiled at his outspoken friend’s running monologue as he grilled the lot in a large, black pan also produced from his ample supplies.

“Nothin’ like a couple o’ bass to fill yer belly after slayin’ a few pigspawn,” Brigo cheerfully remarked while preparing the meal over the fire. “Besides, yeh look like yeh need a little fattenin’ up, lad.”

Link had not objected nor interrupted. Simply put, it was good to have a friend. Rhoam had, ultimately, been his king, and one not of this world in the end. Brigo was like himself, if unweighted by the task Link carried. And a touch more loquacious, he mentally added with a smile to himself.

Bellies full and campsite secure, the two had settled in comfortably against the back of the log. Brigo patted his own stomach contentedly, though he was still as tall and lean as ever despite the healthy meal.

“That there was exactly what this body o’ mine needed,” Brigo chuckled. “I take it yeh enjoyed it, seein’ as yeh hardly said a word, lad.”

Link nodded, then answered so as to reassure his host.

“Your skills with a spear and a pot do both your parents proud, Brig,” Link said earnestly. “You tell them I’ll vouch for you if they’ve yet to know that for themselves.”

Brig’s gaze shifted back to the fire, his expression temporarily subdued.

“Yeh do me honor sayin’ so, lad, but yeh’ve no need to vouch for meh,” he said resignedly. “Meh mammy an’ pater ‘ave long since gone to the green meadows and quiet springs of the Goddess Hylia, may they rest in Her embrace.”

“I am sorry, friend,” Link said quietly, and he meant it. Brigo’s enthusiasm was one of the best things about him, and he felt terrible for having blunted it, however unintentionally. “I guessed you to be fairly young, yet, so I assumed they would still be among the living.”

Brigo waived off his apology.

“Yeh’ve no need to be feelin’ sorry for me, lad,” he answered. “‘Tis twenty long years since they passed on. Meh heart’s made peace with it, though ‘twas what happened to them that’s made me what I am today.”

Link merely nodded, silently allowing his friend to decide whether he wanted to go on. He did.

“I was born in the great Hebra Mountains to the northwest o’ here, south o’ the peak, mind,” Brigo continued. “We lived by ourselves, like most do thereabouts. Only ever saw the occasional traveler or one o’ those barkin’ mad Rito on a mission to get hisself killed.”

“You’ve seen a Rito?” Link asked, impressed.

“Oh aye,” Brigo answered nonchalantly. “Even had one in our house once: a young male. I was only a boy, but I remember it well. Taller then a man, ‘e was. Stood and talked like one, too. ‘Cept for that, looked like a winter hawk, ‘e did. Feathers white as snow an’ eyes fierce enough to freeze yeh where yeh stand.”

“Why did it visit your family?” Link asked, curious.

Brigo snorted in response. “The bloody fool’d hurt himself huntin’ lizalfos. Evil lizards,” he added, somewhat surprised at Link’s questioning look. “I’d’ve thought yeh’d killed yer fair share o’ those, the way you scrap, lad.”

Link shook his head. Lizalfos. Clearly, more than bokoblins had infested the land since his unwilling sleep a century ago.

Brigo eyed him a bit longer before ultimately continuing his story.

“Anyway, me mammy patched him up as best she could. Barmy bird did no stay long enough fer ‘is wing to heal. Said e’d get along jus’ fine. I dunno if he did, but the lizalfos wot hurt ‘im must’ve been trailin’ ‘im. A day later, they came knockin’, so to speak. Too many for meh ol’ pater to handle by hisself. They hid me awa’ in a space under the floor jus’ before the lizardspawn broke in.”

Link said nothing while his friend kept his gaze locked on the fire during the tale. Finally, he shook his head and went on.

“I decided I was goin’ to keep the same thing from happenin’ to other good people. Once the lizardspawn left, I made meh way over to the stable east of where we lived, a good two days’ journey to the Tabantha Tundra. I trained with the patrolmen there, and when I came of age, they told me the stable down here needed a good spear. Ah’ve been here ever since.”

“Is it just you serving this stable, then?” Link asked, wondering how few stood against what appeared to be the daily threat of Ganon’s minions.

“There’s allus at least a score to a stable,” Brigo explained, again eying Link curiously. “I came here on account o’ the Dueling Peaks stable bein’ a hand short at the time. We patrol the area, an’ if we see a group o’ filth bigger than we can handle, we’re to see if we can find out where they’re goin’, ‘ow many there are and if the people at the stable need to pack up an’ flee.”

“Where would they go, though?” Link persisted. “If the stable is where people stay for some measure of safety, what’s left to them if it falls?”

“There’s allus another stable or, in some cases, e’en a village within a few days’ journey. Meh stable’s lucky as it’s atwixt two villages that are still standin’ since before the Calamity. ‘Twould take a fair number to make a stable pack up and leave, though,” Brigo added with a thoughtful nod. “Between patrolmen and travelers and a few preparations, they’ve got enough to fight off at least a score o’ the beasts, if not more, an’ that many ‘aven’t been spotted together in a century, lad.”

Link nodded at his friend’s explanation. The enemy were many, but disunited, it seemed. All the better for what he had to do.

He had little time to keep that line of thought to himself however, as Brigo had again taken to eyeing him until he could no longer contain his curiosity.

“If yeh say yer from the plateau, I’ll believe yeh, lad,” he began slowly. “Yeh saved meh life an’ I’m indebted to yeh, no matter how much it sticks in meh craw to say it. But I can no lie, it’s hard for meh to believe yeh don’t know most o’ what I told yeh already.”

Now it was Link’s turn to stare into the fire as he deliberated how much to tell his new companion. If he could not trust a man alongside whom he had fought Ganon’s creatures — a man who had vowed to do so as often as his life required it of him — whom could he trust?

“What I’m about to tell you is true, Brig,” Link began as he adjusted his back against the log, “but I won’t blame you if you call me ‘barmy’ by the time I’ve finished…”

A bubble of fear surrounded the Stalfos wherever it went among the bokoblin camp. It would not have normally deigned to mingle with the pig-like creatures, but they needed an element of terror to keep them obedient. Failure could not be risked, not when their quarry was so close.

The undead skeleton conducted its survey astride a saddled stalhorse, which restlessly pawed the ground. Like the Stalfos, the reanimated steed was impatient to be moving during the precious nighttime hours. The Stalfos did nothing to calm its nightmarish mount. Comfort was for the living.

A wickedly curved scimitar rested on the Stalfos’s back, as cold and deadly as the creature itself. It should not need such tools to finish the boy itself, but it was never a bad idea to carry weapons around a large group of bokoblins. Mentally chained to the Stalfos they might be, but its control over them was as dependent on fear as its unnatural bond, which was strained now that it touched so many at once.

Such examples seemed unnecessary, however. The normally impudent beasts were giving their master and its mount a wide berth. The Stalfos did not even need to fix its eyeless gaze directly on them… until two of the swine approached him from behind.

Without uttering a sound, the Stalfos wheeled the Stalhorse around and, in the same motion, separated the first bokoblin from its head. He was about to do the same to the second before it fell to the ground, its three-fingered hands held high to show it meant no harm. The Stalfos did not bother to look at the beast it had just slain, nor did it acknowledge the terrified squeals of its brethren. What mattered was the swine that still lived — and the message it contained.

Delving into the bokoblin’s mind was a simple affair, though not as thorough as that of the Demon King. The Stalfos was only granted a portion of that power, but that was more than enough to sift through the brains of these dim-witted creatures.

This bokoblin was a lookout, one of the few far-sighted of its kind. The Stalfos traced the beast’s linear line of thought. It had been waiting for three of its brethren — scouts — to return. They had not. The bokoblin feared, even now, what that message might mean for itself.

The Stalfos would have taken dry satisfaction in fulfilling that fear, but it could ill afford to lose more of the beasts under its command. All were needed to accomplish the task that would earn the Stalfos the greatest honor under the Demon King — the honor of Karanlik.

The skeletal monster had nearly killed the bokoblin that had borne news of that prize. Why allow word of it to reach others that might be capable of claiming it? But murdering his Master’s messenger before its task was complete would be foolish to the extreme. No, better to remain in his Master’s good graces and hasten to find — and kill — the boy first.

The Stalfos was well positioned to do so. Its camp lay in the shadow of Dueling Peaks, on the sloping side of a hill just north of the river. Its steep southern face met the inlet from which one of the newly sprung and cursed Sheikah towers rose. On the hill’s gentler northern side, a score and a half of Bokoblins lay in wait. If the boy circled this way to reach the tower, he would be dead by the time he realized what was waiting for him.

Taking no chances, the Stalfos had also stationed ten bokoblins on the south side of the river, ensuring that the boy would meet his end on either bank. If he somehow proved a match for the smaller band, it would not be without the larger noticing.

Such precautions would likely be unnecessary. The boy, the Stalfos had been told, would seek out the towers, that this tower in particular was likely along his path and therefore too tempting to pass up.

The bokoblin’s thoughts confirmed as much. The Stalfos had heard nothing of any patrolling stablemen since its band had arrived the day before. If three scouts between here and the plateau were dead, it had to be the boy’s handiwork.

The Stalfos was resigned to the fact that the boy was likely to journey by day, robbing it of the personal pleasure of killing him itself. The same held true for the flock of keese — creatures that hunted only at night — currently hiding in the crevices of the mountains. That was why it had driven the blade of fear into the swine, a reminder to finish the deed in the Stalfos’s absence. If it rose the following night to find failure, any bokoblin still living would wish the boy had finished it.

Dawn was still an hour away, but the Stalfos was not going to take any chances. It would not trust the bokoblins to let its bones rest undisturbed. A small niche at the base of the mountain — well away from both camps — would do tonight. Before it turned the stalhorse in that direction, however, the Stalfos stopped one last time in the middle of the camp, sending out a final message to its followers.

The boy will likely arrive here tomorrow. You will kill him, but leave the body unspoiled. The Master has commanded it. Fail in any of this, and I will send you to join that.

That last the Stalfos said while pointing to the headless corpse of the slain bokoblin, which lay in a wide swath none of its companions dared approach. The dumb beasts backed further away still, nodding and snorting their intended obedience.

Once again, the Stalfos wished it could smile.