Chapter Text
Teba sat amid the aftermath of chaos. Plumes of smoke rose from fires only recently quenched. Their flames had scorched many of the wooden platforms and staircases spiraling the single, narrow mountain spire on which Rito Village was built. A feather drifted lazily on the heated air, belying the deadly swiftness with which disaster had struck the bird-like creatures’ ancestral home. The falling plume brought Teba’s already simmering temper to a boil, one that had only briefly subsided as he took time to stop. To breathe. To remember he was alive. But the feather belonged to one of his people, who had been made to scatter and hide and die.
The snow-white plumage that enveloped Teba’s head and neck rose, like hackles on the winter wolves that prowled Dronoc’s Pass to the north. He looked skyward, his rage at war with the tears brimming in his golden eyes. His sight was second to none among the Rito. Those twin golden orbs had spotted Hyrule bass when all but he gave up Lake Totori for empty. In such lean times, the Rito’s most respected warrior had kept his people from starving. Today, he had failed them.
Teba’s eyes did not need to focus on something as small as fish on this day. They found their target with pathetic ease. It loomed over the village, its shadow blotting out the sun and drowning his people’s home in unnatural midday darkness. The silhouetted shape in the sky looked like an enormous bird, but Teba knew it was not.
His breath rattled, his helpless rage washing over him like the “lava” Kaneli had described when he was a chick: red water that flowed from the top of Death Mountain far to the east, the red water that could kill all but the Gorons who lived there. Kaneli said that, during the time of the Great Flood, this same “lava” had once formed the stone pillar upon which Rito Village flourished.
Teba did not know about all that, though he knew it was beyond foolish to doubt his Chieftain. He had never seen lava up close. But he could see this. Teba glared at the underbelly of Vah Medoh, the Divine Beast supposedly built and commissioned to protect his people long ago. Now the metal monstrosity blocked the sunlight that would have shone on a bird-like race afraid of nothing, except that this was like nothing they had ever seen. The machine’s enormous wings could span the entire village with room to spare. Circles of metal spun furiously under its shoulders. Teba could only assume that was how the giant machine remained aloft. The wings themselves never moved, only extended in a frozen mockery of flight.
Vah Medoh’s metallic frame narrowed sharply at its front, where a lifelike beak had been fashioned. This also did not move. Sound emitted anyway. The screech made Teba’s own warcry seem as the mewling whimpers of a hatchling. It shook the warrior Rito to his core even as it vibrated the wooden platforms on which he sat. Distracted by the sensation, Teba looked down one flight of stairs and saw, protruding from a blanket, the limp leg and claws of a dead Rito.
Teba’s primaries were made of the same soft white plumage as the rest of him, but the bone and muscles those feathers concealed were powerful. He heard a sharp crack and realized the sturdily built falcon bow he held had snapped in two under the strain of his aimless fury.
The clacking of talons on wood startled Teba from his violent brooding, and he quickly checked his anger. His people had already lost too much for him to lose himself.
He looked up to greet two of his wind brothers. One wore soft brown plumage and bore a feathered spear. The other sported feathers as black as Teba’s were white, a falcon bow gripped in his right wing. Quickly sizing them up, Teba realized with a sigh that the pair symbolized the very dilemma with which his people now grappled. Mezli was deadly with a throwing spear when he had to be, but he always disarmed and captured if the opportunity presented itself. A useful quality, normally, but there was no capturing Vah Medoh. His braided head feathers, a Rito warrior’s source of pride, were sullied with soot and no longer held by twine. They were still capped at the ends, however, with red metal hooks. Mezli was brave, but that bravery was tempered by a patience that held no place in Teba’s heart this day.
Harth, however… had his eyes been the same color as Teba’s, one might have thought they were mirrored pools of revenge. Instead, they shone green beneath a swath of ebony head feathers combed to the side. His braids, like Mezli, were now loose and disheveled. Each Rito sported two, but the number did not matter as much as the ornaments thereon. Harth sported one red bead on each braid, still held in place by the purple hooks still attached to the ends. He was young, but skilled, to have already added beads atop the hooks. More tokens of battles won would come. Teba quietly prayed to Hylia they would come.
“All who survived are safe?” he asked aloud.
Despite wearing fewer beads than Harth, it was Mezli who spoke first. Only Hylians thought battles equaled brains. The Rito knew a healthy dose of both was required, even if it took most of young adulthood to realize it.
“Yes,” Mezli said. “They are in caves now, well hidden. I saw your wife and eggchick with them.”
Though the village’s stone core was narrow in its middle, caves and passages honeycombed its lake-embedded base and perch-like peak. Legend held that lava had made such a formation possible, but Teba did not give a chickaloo nut about the truth of that. His family was safe. Others had not been, and it was his duty to know.
“What else?” Teba made himself ask.
“Eighteen are dead,” Mezli said heavily. “Fifteen warriors, two nest-makers and a chick.”
Teba’s vision swam. Not so many had died at once since the Great Calamity, and it was a miracle that more had not perished then. Rito Village lay far enough to the west to avoid the bulk of Ganon’s backblast one hundred years ago. Now it found itself in the eye of a different storm, one made of metal that spit blue fire.
“Have Chuva and the others returned? Did we wound the Beast, at least?” Teba asked, but not with hope. Mezli’s news withered it anyway.
“Chuva and two others were shot down trying.” Mezli hesitated. “Teba, their deaths were the last, well after you called the retreat.”
Teba stood, eyes blazing. “You lay their deaths at my feet?”
Mezli put up his feathers in peace. “It is not your choice, but Vah Medoh’s that worries me, Teba.”
“Speak plainly.”
“Vah Medoh fell on us during a hunt and did not stop until we hid ourselves. Its fires went cold after that… until Chuva took wing.”
“You think the Beast saw Chuva and the others as a threat?”
“I think Vah Medoh saw them fly.”
Harth frowned, not understanding. “Why would that matt–”
Mezli gripped Teba’s shoulders, and the war leader saw and heard the veteran’s resolve crack as he spoke.
“It won’t let us fly, Teba! All who died – warriors, nest makers, the eggchick – all were in the air when Vah Medoh shot them down!” Mezli gestured wildly to the scorched woodwork of the village. “These were merely arrows that did not find their mark! Of our people, the blue fire sought those who had taken wing, and no more! Vah Medoh would see us held to foot and claw or death!”
Mezli slumped in defeat, his bitter tears preventing him from seeing Teba’s shock. The thought that anything would seize the sky from the Rito was laughable. Vah Medoh’s shadow seized that laughter and choked it in his throat. If the Divine Beast kept the Rito grounded, they were no better than dogs Hylians kept chained to a post.
The thought inspired a grasp at hope. “What of the Hylians at the stable?” Teba asked.
Harth snorted. “Mezli has just told us the skies are barred to us, and you fret over Hylians?”
Teba rounded on the younger warrior. “I care not for Hylians, only their horses that might send for aid! Or would you walk on your claws the rest of your days?”
“And what help are Hylians against that!” Harth spat while pointing at Vah Medoh’s distant form. “Better to ask a Zora to swim the Gerudo sands than a Hylian to meet Vah Medoh in battle!”
“It matters not,” Mezli said heavily. “I said Vah Medoh sought to slay only those of our people who had taken wing. From the Hylians, it took the stable. It is smoke and ashes, now, the Hylians fled.”
Teba felt another strand of hope burned away by Medoh’s fires. Hylians were rupee-hoarding rodents, but they had their uses. Their stables were not only waypoints for travelers, but havens of safety when needed. Against a threat as great as Vah Medoh, one stable’s plea for help might have brought hundreds to their aid. Instead the Rito were left alone and earthbound.
“Is there word from Kaneli?” Teba asked. Exhausted of ideas and hope, he hoped their chieftain might provide at least one of those.
“Kaneli has met with the other elders,” Mezli said, almost apologetically, but Teba waved off his concern. As leader of the Rito warriors, Teba held an equal place among the elders, but the battle had scarcely allowed him time to rest, let alone be aware of and attend an emergency council meeting. Such was the catastrophe that it was likely only half the elders had been there, meeting informally. Truly, the Rito ways appeared to be dangling by threads as thin as Harth’s braids.
“And? What do they counsel?”
“They will announce it soon in the caves, but it appears we will be encouraged to wait under cover until Medoh--”
“NO!”
Teba did not remember standing up, but he was standing now, his narrow chest heaving against his breastplate with exertion born of rage. His feathers gripped his already ruined bow anew, threatening to break it twice over.
“We will NOT wait!” Teba shrieked. “We will not cower as Gerudo vai do from a voe! We will FIGHT! We will destroy this Shiekah beast and let our chicks play on its carcass, or we will die trying to make it so!”
Mezli’s face was the picture of utter disbelief. Warriors never rebelled against the wishes of the elders (though legends said the great Revali could do just that and already earn forgiveness by the time the elders found out). Teba did not care. His cheiftain would have them cower like chicks terrified of their first storm, seeking the comfort of their nest mother. It was too much.When he spoke again, the molten fire in Teba’s voice had hardened into steel.
“I go to fight Vah Medoh. Will you fly with me?”
Will you fly with me. This traditional Rito saying was used in countless contexts. Elders offered to allow fledgelings to fly with them so as to learn wisdom. A warrior’s greatest courage, it was said, was needed to ask that question of the nest-maker that had soared into his heart.
This time, however, Teba’s question rang like the tales of Revali’s Company, when the Rito legend took one hundred warriors to meet the flood of monsters spawned by The Great Calamity. It was said that all had raised their bows and shaken them as one, a wave of feathered death ready to follow its Champion. Teba looked into his brethren’s eyes, however, and saw his commanding plea met only half as well as he’d hoped.
“I am with you, wind brother!” Harth cried.
Teba nodded, hoping that the younger Rito was ready for a test far sterner than any he had yet faced. Then his eyes met Mezli’s, and there they found not the scorching heat of battle fire, but the wet embers of caution.
“We cannot disobey Kaneli,” Mezli said quietly. “You are my wind brother and my prayers will soar with you and Hylia, but I will stay to defend the flock.”
Teba had never doubted Mezli’s courage before, but he was sorely disappointed in him now. To hide behind safe counsel at the expense of the sky itself… could one make that choice and still call himself a Rito?
“Defend our flock, wind brother,” Teba said through gritted beak. “I go to save it.”
***
Dorephan, King of the Zora, Will of the Water and Guardian of the Domain, sat upon his enormous blue-green throne, mulling the irony of his own titles. If he were truly “Will of the Water,” he would order this blasted rain to cease. Instead, it pounded the glass-like surface of his beloved home with maddening consistency.
The Zora were impervious to rain. Even the drenching torrents formed in the Spool Bight to the east were of little consequence to Dorephan’s people. Their rubbery skin and inborn ability in the water turned storms into playthings for the calves and, occasionally, a still-childish bull. Unless those clouds spit forth lightning. Then, even the bravest bull ran for cover and treated water like poison until the storm had passed.
Thoughts of lightning returned Dorephan’s thoughts to his son. Even when his son was just an infant, Dorephan had looked forward to the day his Sidon would swim down Hylia River, perhaps even to Lake Hylia in the deep south. That was before the Calamity. The river skirted too closely to Hyrule Castle, where Ganonspawn and worse bred and festered. No, the Great Calamity had all but sealed the Zora to their own waters long ago.
Now Sidon was all but grown, a brave bull, enthusiastic to the point of recklessness. Even so, his leadership had already manifested itself magnificently. Dorephan trusted his son as few would at such a young age. Still just one hundred twenty years old, Sidon had already been allowed to explore, track and fight throughout the entire Domain.
As splendid as his son was, Dorephan worried for him now. Testing the patience of an enraged Divine Beast was a good way for a Zora to live as long as a Hylian, especially when that test included shock arrows. Sidon and Seggin had taken what few such shafts remained in the armory, willing to risk the lightning those arrows carried if it meant discovering how Vah Ruta’s ceaseless deluge might be quenched. Dorephan was grateful for his long life and equally long memory. The latter had provided a glimpse of hope in what was otherwise a hopeless affair. Shock arrows might stop the beast. They also might kill his son, if the Divine Beast did not do it first.
Dorephan fought back a rare, threatening tear, the first outward sign of the fear that had nearly forced him to deny Sidon’s quest. He had already lost his daughter to Vah Ruta one hundred years ago. He prayed to Hylia his son would be spared.
He made his prayer as he wept – in silence. It would not do for the Council to see their king shaken and in doubt. But surely, even wordless, his prayer might be heard from the seat of the Domain. The throne room, crowned by a majestically crafted fish of stone and metal bigger than fifty Dorephans put together, overlooked the entire Domain. Before the setting sun dipped below The Veiled Falls to the west, gleamed like an enormous jewel in the twilight.
The sun, however, had not shone upon Zora’s Domain in a fortnight, as unnatural an occurrence as the rain’s source.
Sacred Hylia, protect my son. Protect Sidon, as I have sought to protect the Zora you have entrusted to me.
As if his prayer had been a summons, the Council ringing the outer walls of the chamber began to shift and murmur, craning to peer through the open archway that was entrance and exit to the throne room. Such agitation was uncommon; every Zora present was old enough to have left his or her untempered years far behind. Indeed, it was rare for a Zora to join the Council before his two-hundredth year, and that unspoken statute showed in the wrinkled gills of its members.
And then it was Dorephan who struggled to comport himself when Sidon appeared at the archway. The Guardian of the Domain allowed himself a tremulous smile as his son and heir strode quickly to the audience circle at the center of the chamber, with ebony-skinned Seggin close behind.
Truth be told, more eyes focused on the latter, for it was he who had made Dorephan’s plan possible. Seggin was the only one among them to show any resistance to electricity’s fatal touch. Out of necessity, he had been called to serve despite being retired from his position some 50 years previous. Between need and desire -- Seggin might hate Ruta more than any of us , Dorephan thought sadly -- the old warrior had not hesitated to sling a silver Zora bow over his shoulder and nearly leave Sidon behind in his haste to confront Vah Ruta. They looked upon Seggin carefully, noting his fatigue and no fewer than five angry scorch marks slashing across his rubbery black skin. Resistant to electricity Seggin might be, but he was still a Zora.
There was no need for Dorephan to call The Council to attention. Age and respect had already done so, unlike the Hylian meetings he had witnessed when Hyrule was whole more than a century ago. The Zora would swim as the water let them, and if the flood proved too great, embrace the water from whence they came.
Dorephan spread his great arms and spoke in natural bass tones deeper than the depths of the Lanayru Sea.
“Sidon. Seggin. We thank Hylia that the waters have brought you home.”
“Father, we thank Hylia that the waters have brought us home.”
Where Dorephan’s voice was low and soothing, Sidon’s brimmed with a contagious energy. Many of the Councilfish smiled openly; such was the zeal that Hylia had bestowed on the Zora prince. He was also a happy reminder of better days, when the late queen and princess, Mipha, had lived. Sidon and his sister had taken after their mother, inheriting her dark red skin and smaller stature. He would be well loved when he ruled the Domain. If the Domain remained when he took the throne.
“Seggin, my friend,” Dorephan said, eyeing his hurts with concern, “would you have your wounds tended first? There is no dishonor after what you risked on our behalf.”
If anything, the Demon Sergeant stood even straighter, a familiar and fierce gleam in his eyes.
“Scratches, my king,” Seggin rasped. “Small things that can wait for the news we bring you.”
More smiles from the Council, fond and admiring things for their renewed comrade in arms. Dorephan shook his enormous head in wonder at the Demon Sergeant. He towered over Seggin, even more so for the great silver crown of his station. The Zora king was the only one of his people to appear as a whale, a rare likeness among the water-bound race. His strength was legend, as were his deeds in battle. Yet Dorephan had lived long enough to know size was a poor measure of skill and courage. Seggin the Demon Sergeant was proof of such things.
“Very well, my friend,” Dorephan said with a smile before turning serious. “How fared you against Vah Ruta? Did the shock arrows succeed as we hoped?”
The attention from the Council sharpened, their fin-fringed arms held still so not a word would be missed as Sidon made his report.
“Father, we did as you bid and swam to the East Reservoir Lake, approaching Vah Ruta from the rear. We did so quietly, but the Divine Beast was immediately aware of our presence and began spitting ice at us. I swam before the Beast, drawing its attack so that Seggin might have a clear shot with his bow and shock arrows.”
Rare murmurs rose from the Council, betraying their appreciation of the prince’s bravery in the face of near-certain death. If electricity was fatal for a Zora, extreme cold was not far behind. The snowy mountains of the Hebra were as avoided as the Gerudo Desert.
Eager though he was to continue, Sidon paused his tale to allow order to resume. Dorephan held back a smile. A future king, indeed.
“Seggin fired on one of the red orbs on the Beast’s shoulders as you instructed, Father. His aim was true. We noticed at once that the water Vah Ruta spews forth began to slow.”
Hope pulled at Dorephan and the Council. All leaned forward, willing the Prince to tell of a victorious conclusion. Their faces and bodies slumped fell as Sidon continued
“The water, however, soon returned to full force,” Sidon said with a definite note of bitterness. “Perhaps because we could not strike it with enough electricity at once. I can only surmise as much after witnessing it myself. Ruta did not stop its assault, and we were forced to cut water.”
Yes, Dorephan thought, he had heard Vah Ruta’s enraged roars, had feared the worst for his son and former Demon Sergeant. “Cutting water” was a last resort among Zora warriors, but when a lizalfo holds the spear and the Zora holds the stick, better to use it as an oar than a sword.
Dorephan settled back into his throne, absentmindedly rubbing the scar on the left side of his prominent forehead. A Guardian had given him that long ago, one of its metallic claws nearly delivering a fatal blow. But The Guardian of the Domain had triumphed with strength only he possessed, hurling the spider-like machine into the ravine between Luto’s Crossing and Oren Bridge and shattering it beyond repair.
The Zora ruler lifted his fin from his head and stared at it. Even he could not throw a Divine Beast. Hylia’s wings, he could not even wrap his girth around one of the machine’s trunk-like legs. Princess Zelda had once told him that Vah Ruta resembled something called an “elephant,” a beast bigger than a horse that roamed the lands beyond Hyrule. Not that it mattered what it looked like. From squat legs to snake-like snout, the thing needed to be stopped before all of Hyrule drowned.
Dorephan was about to allow the Council to further question the prince when, to his surprise, Sidon spoke first.
“Father, I have an idea.”
Fins fluttered in agitation at the boy’s unexpected interruption, but Dorephan knew his son would not usurp protocol without cause. He issued a stern and wordless warning to the Council, waited for them to quiet, then nodded for his heir to continue.
“Seggin’s bravery will be told for countless generations,” Sidon said, “but it is clear that shock arrows are a danger to even him.”
The former Demon Sergeant went as far as to open his mouth at this, but another glance from Dorephan silenced him. Now was not the time for Seggin to indulge his own pride.
“I believe shock arrows can defeat the beast, but we need someone who can bear enough of them -- and use them safely -- to finish the deed.” Sidon paused, and it was clear to Dorephan that even his confident son was wary of his next words’ portent. “We need a Hylian. I propose we find one and ask him or her to help us in stopping Vah Ruta’s deluge before the reservoir is breached and all eastern Hyrule is drowned in its depths.”
For the first time since the Calamity, the Council erupted with unrestrained emotion. The gills of the most elderly vibrated madly, betraying agitation normally reserved for young bulls before their first battle. Seggin, who had dutifully stood behind Sidon during his report, spat on the floor and frothed more spittle as he gave vent to his rage.
“I will have nothing to do with the traitor Hylians!” Seggin hissed. “They are the reason Vah Ruta is here, the reason he showers us with this unending deluge! The reason our Princess Mipha is lost to us!”
Others echoed Seggin’s outrage. Mizu, the eldest councilfish, clenched his withered fist toward the ceiling, his throat pulsating against the silver collar of office that spiraled around his long neck. Others followed suit, leaving Sidon to look helplessly at his father for direction.
“ENOUGH.”
Dorephan did not yell. He did not need to. Speaking just above his natural registers was enough to sound like not-so-distant thunder. The Council was immediately silenced in voice, if not in spirit. Seggin still appeared murderous, with the Mizu not far behind.
Dorephan met their malcontent with unyielding sternness, his voice like a storm rumbling just out of sight.
“Is your grudge worth the lives of the Zora? Worth the Domain itself? Do you so willingly cast as naught the lives of the Hylians who live just beyond our waters, Hylians whose trade and friendship do us good? All will be lost, my Zora, if Vah Ruta’s endless waters are not stopped. The Beast swells the skies as much as the reservoir. I would have our young feel the sun on their faces again! I would see it shine on the statue of my beloved Mipha, whose loss I feel more than any of you.”
Emotion nearly choked away Dorephan’s rebuke, especially when he saw the shared pity in his son’s eyes. He pushed past it, even as he pushed his great bulk through the waters of lake and sea.
“You will not protest Sidon’s suggestion,” Dorephan said, “not when it is the only course of action currently available to us. If rhe Council has a better plan, I am eager to hear it.”
Silence met Dorephan’s words, deflated now that the Council’s protests were revealed to have little substance behind them. The Zora King knew the elders would not change their minds or hearts. He had seen this bitterness remain, seen it often when observing elders visit the statue of his beloved daughter in the plaza below. Their love for Mipha had not been far behind his own, but theirs had festered rather than healed over a century’s worth of grieving. Despite his wisdom and knowledge, Dorephan had never been able to sever the ill-forged link between Mipha’s loss and a Hylian’s role alongside it, and he mourned that failure almost as much as his daughter.
But now the time for mourning was done, the time for doing come.
“Sidon, I give you leave to search for a Hylian who is able and willing to do this task,” Dorephan announced. “I give you and those who swim with you leave to search wherever there is a whisper of hope. Find one or more who will aid us in this thing and bring them here with all speed.”
Gills and fins fluttered, but the Council did not dare voice its indignation and risk Dorephan’s wrath again.
“Avoid Hyrule Castle, but search any area you can safely reach,” the Zora monarch continued. “Arm yourselves well. The Calamity’s essence lingers, and you will need to survive long enough to find and return with those who would help us.”
Without hesitation, Sidon knelt in the middle of the audience circle, his shark-like head bowed to the floor while he declared fealty not to his father, but to his king.
“By fin, fish and freshwater, it shall be done.”
“Go, my son. May Hylia swim with you.”
Sidon bounded to his feet and dashed out of the audience chamber, no doubt keen to find other young Zora who would follow him anywhere. Now Dorephan was truly grateful for his son’s nature. Young bulls and cows had already pledged their hearts to the future king, drawn to him by a charisma matched by none. Sidon would have ample company for the task even without the elders’ support.
The thought darkened Dorephan’s face anew.
“Unless there is urgent business for the Council,” he announced, “we are concluded.”
The rest of The Council sifted out quietly, many separating into small groups of three or four to discuss what had just transpired. Dorephan made mental notes of all of them. If Sidon did find a Hylian willing to risk his life, he would have to keep a close eye on his people’s “welcome.”
A young cow struggling to enter the audience chamber cut short the Zora king’s worries. The meeting was over, which meant none would bring business to Dorephan unless its nature demanded his attention. Her armor and spear named her a guard of the Domain. Several of the Council looked after her, some disapprovingly, but Dorephan paid them no heed. Dunma, daughter of Rivan, was one of the few cows who had not fallen head over fins for Sidon. She would as soon bother her King with something frivolous as she would marry a lizalfo.
The young guard knelt in the circle and remained in that position until Dorephan bid her rise and report.
“My king,” Dunma said in an urgent whisper, “I apologize for appearing after an audience, but the Guard felt you should know as soon as possible. The shrine has awakened.”
Dorephan had not thought anything else out of the ordinary could occur on such an extraordinary day, but this news birthed great furrows to life across his brow.
“Describe it to me.”
“It happened only moments ago, my king. One minute it was as lifeless as it had ever been. Now it glows with an orange light. We saw no one around it, nothing that would have disturbed it. We do not know what might have caused this thing, but it shows life now.”
Dorephan had not felt the fingers of fate brush him like this in one hundred years. Vah Ruta, awake and rampaging. The shrine, a long-dead relic of the ancient Sheikah, awakened. What did it all mean?
***
Bludo, Patriarch of the Gorons, lumbered across the narrow stone bridges of his beloved Goron City. Molten lava ebbed its way in channels cutting through the only city built on Death Mountain, a testament to the Gorons’ rock-hard toughness. No one else could survive, let alone thrive, in such a place.
The Goron “Boss,” as he was affectionately called by his people, did not walk slowly out of choice. In his younger days as Patriarch, Bludo’s stride was strong with purpose as he went from brother to brother, radiating a strength remarkable even among his people. Years of labor and battle, however, had hunched the once proud Goron. His back, which had once borne the weight of boulders, was now prone to sudden flares of pain that rendered him all but immobile.
Bludo ignored hints of that pain now as he haltingly stumped along, taking special care to avoid the newly formed potholes that pockmarked the stone streets. His one good eye focused on an especially deep gouge in the rock, a rough circle still smoldering with bits of lava and ash. Bludo’s people were all but immune to lava and boulders, but when the two were combined into streaking missiles from Death Mountain’s summit, even a Goron was in danger. He made a mental note to tell Fugo about this particular hole, which was deep enough to risk the rock bridge’s collapse.
A cursory look for Fugo did not find the blacksmith’s apprentice. Instead Bludo saw only other rotund brothers living as they would on any other day. Young Krane hefted a cobble crusher, the huge, rough-hewn sword favored by his people. No doubt he was on his way to patrol duty just outside the city gate. His white-haired top knot was held by a thick band of red mountain cloth, the only material not made of stone or metal that could withstand the extraordinary heat. Fugo had finally learned the making of the tricky substance under the tutelage of Master Rohan, the smith who knew more about his craft than any living Goron.
A brief look at the forge brought a much-needed grin to Bludo’s face. Master Rohan was still sleeping beneath the awning of his hut, which neighbored the great iron anvil upon which he worked. Rohan could create an arsenal of weaponry if necessary, but when it wasn’t, the old blacksmith was just as likely to nap the day away. Fugo had learned quickly, however, that age and sleep did not dent his mentor’s memory. Rohan could wake at any moment and check with unerring accuracy whether his apprentice had accomplished each of the tasks assigned him that day.
The smithy was hemmed in by lava streams on all sides save the stone path that led directly to its entrance. Across the rivulet to its right loomed Bludo’s own rock dwelling, topped by a jagged boulder of obsidian upon which was etched the symbol of his people: the Goron Emblem, portrayed with a golden diamond atop which rested three small, gold triangles. Legend held that the Goron Ruby had once been as real and tangible as the stone on which Bludo now stood. The Patriarch had no clue where the Ruby was now, but he’d gladly sell it to anyone who could halt threat he and his brothers faced now.
A small rumbling from behind caused Bludo to turn around. The tremors were too small to be caused by Vah Rudania or even the normal, infrequent eruptions from Death Mountain. Instead, the Goron chief saw a rough ball of what appeared to be solid rock roll toward him, stop, and unfurl into a young adult member of his people. Pyle’s perfectly round and jet-black eyes -- or the eyes of any Goron, for that matter -- did not convey emotion like those of Hylians. Wide mouths and dark eyebrows did that instead, and right now both of those were drawn in concern on the youngster’s normally cheerful face.
“He’s awake, Boss,” Pyle said worriedly. “Still a lil’ woozy, but the young’un should be just fine.”
“Yer in no place to be callin’ anyone ‘young’un’, young Pyle.” Bludo softened his gruff words by slapping the young Goron on the back, the most oft-used gesture of affection among his rock brothers. “G’on now, git yerself a big bowl o’ obsidian at Tanko’s. Tell ‘im to put it on my tab.”
“Thanks, Boss!” Pyle said cheerfully, his natural good humor restored. In a trice, the young Goron had curled himself back into a ball and was rolling to the west side of town, no doubt eager to sink his teeth into the rich black mineral.
Bludo turned his attention to the eastern side of Goron City, where a sprawling hut dominated a large spread of solidified stone surrounded by the largest lava stream. The armory always teemed with activity. Cobble crushers, stone smashers and drillshafts were constantly being made or repaired, a necessity given the Gorons’ endless mining of their beloved mountain.
Lately, however, the rock structure was serving another role. Under its low roof, several Gorons lay sprawled on makeshift beds of stone, all of them sporting bandages made of the same fireproof cloth that held up their top knots. Bludo mentally apologized to Rohan. Ol’ feller needed some sleep after makin’ so much cloth! He would have to thank the old smith.
Wounds were an infrequent occurrence among the rock-hard Gorons. On the rare occasion one was suffered, it was usually treated quickly and without much fuss. Newly cooled lava was inserted into the injury and then bound until the damaged area looked just as solid as the rest of the brother’s body. In the wake of Vah Rudania’s rampage, however, a large number of Gorons were forced to wait far longer than usual for the treatment to work. The flying missiles of lava and stone caused painful gouges which required significant amounts of the cooled lava to fill, then heal. No one had died yet, but the Divine Beast’s outburst had served a disturbing reminder of the Gorons’ mortality.
There had been no warning or reasoning of Vah Rudania’s madness. The giant metal lizard, which had rested peacefully inside Death Mountain’s crater for a century, had emerged spewing molten rock and fire. Most of the Gorons, mining for precious stones as they always did, were caught in the open. The casualties mounted for two days before the Divine Beast supposedly built to protect the Gorons was finally turned back beyond Eldin Bridge, where it now crawled a restless circuit around Death Mountain’s summit.
Bludo strode past his wounded brothers toward the back of the armory, where a young but massive Goron sat groggily on the biggest stone bed available. Unlike most of his brethren, Yunobo did not have his white hair in a top knot, but instead wore it loose in a broad, wavy line down the center of his wide yellow head. Enormous hands nearly engulfed that hair now, along with the rest of his face. His wrists and elbows bore bronze bracelets big enough to encircle the head of most Gorons.
“How’re you feelin’, boy?” Bludo asked.
Yunobo removed his hands from his face. Only his eyes were small, giving his face a very innocent and expressive nature that contrasted greatly with his overwhelming presence.
“I’m all right, Boss,” the youngster mumbled. He absent-mindedly tugged on the sky blue cloth that encircled his neck, which was tied in a pair of knots below his chin. That cloth had belonged to Yunobo’s grandfather, one of the most legendary Gorons in history. Daruk’s size and strength were a source of pride in Goron City, even one hundred years after Vah Rudania had proven to be the Champion’s demise. Bludo looked into the face of Daruk’s grandson and saw not the wild bravery of his grandsire, but the timid worry of a far gentler creature. Well, he couldn’t inherit everything from a legend, but he had inherited enough.
“Ya did good out there, boy,” Bludo said encouragingly. “If it weren’t for you, we’d all be done fer, and that’s a fact!”
Yunobo looked up, momentarily cheered. Then his meek uncertainty returned.
“It’ll come back, won’t it?”
Bludo almost winced. Gorons came from rocks of all kinds, but by and large, none were hewn from fear, and that was what he heard in Yunobo’s question. Bludo had tried to prop up the young Goron countless times, with everything from special assignments on digs to personally overseeing his work. Nothing seemed to chip away at the lad’s timid shell. It was the last thing he wanted to hear right now… but hearing that was probably the last thing Yunobo needed after what he’d done for Goron City. Better to pat his back than break it, the Goron chieftain thought.
“Aye, it’ll come back, but when it does, we’ll be ready fer it! Between my cannons and yer Protection, we’ll drive that metal beast off as often as we have to!”
Yunobo considered his Boss’ bravado as deliberately as he considered anything. The lad was a slow one, seemingly afraid to do anything too fast or rash for fear of breaking something by accident. Bludo almost wanted to shake him by the shoulders and tell him, “It’s fine, boy! Break something! Break a cache of sapphires if it’ll get you feelin’ like a real Goron!” But for some reason he couldn’t say, Bludo knew that would only make the lad feel worse.
Now, however, Bludo was surprised to see Yunobo’s great eyebrows gather in decision. The young Goron stood, and if his fire wasn’t his grandfather’s, at least it was warm. If he couldn’t light others with it as Daruk had, at least it flickered in himself.
Yunobo looked at his overlarge hands…and pounded his fists together. Immediately, a bright and transparent shell of orange surrounded him. Through it, Bludo could see Yunobo gauging his magical shield -- the same gift Daruk himself had wielded two generations earlier -- and nod in satisfaction.
“I’ll be ready, Boss!” Yunobo declared with a fair attempt at sounding brave.
For now, Bludo thought, that would do.
***
Icy winds swirled the sand and cloaks around the ankles of two women as they dismounted outside the broad, stone walls of Gerudo Town. The sand seals they had ridden did not shiver, nor did their riders. The former boasted thick fur that by some miracle of Hylia kept them warm at night and cool during the day. The coat-less women did not tremble at the cold because they had known the harsh, dual climates of Gerudo Desert their entire lives.
Without a word, they handed off the reins of their mounts to a waiting woman of considerable height, who wordlessly left to lead the bulbous sand seals toward the northwest side of the city.
The duo did not follow, but instead made for the only gate on this side of the city. One of them was twice as tall as the other, and she strode very close to and slightly in front of her smaller companion. A guard, another woman, stood sentinel at the open arch in the wall. The guard eyed the pair carefully until they removed the hoods of their cloaks to reveal sun-darkened skin, bright red hair and emerald eyes similar to her own.
“ Sav’saaba ,” the guard neutrally greeted.
The taller woman nodded curtly, then strode quickly through the archway, her companion not far behind. It was clear she preferred to walk even faster, but the shorter woman’s gait was clearly setting the pace.
“She did well to keep her wits and not say our names aloud,” the smaller woman noted conversationally. “Remind me to commend her when I see her again, Buliara.”
The taller woman, Buliara, snorted through her large, hawkish nose. “Lashley does no more than is her duty, Lady Riju.”
Makeela Riju, Chief of the Gerudo, decided not to look askance at her captain of the guard’s coldness toward her own sister in arms. Buliara was a cold woman, all but wed to the massive claymore she carried because she refused to marry a voe .
More important to Riju, however, was how she herself was viewed by her captain and her people. As the youngest Gerudo ever to be named chief, she must earn the respect her station implied. To do so, Riju had vowed never to betray any emotion that might be seen as an indulgence to her youth. Impatience, anger, tears, passion, sarcasm. She had shed all of it the moment Buliara delivered news of her mother’s passing, grieving only when none could see.
“Duty is difficult in the face of disaster,” Riju said, still speaking casually despite her captain’s tone. She wondered if Buliara had ever snorted at her mother. She doubted it. “Lashley remembered to ignore ceremony and prioritized secrecy despite being stationed in plain view of Vah Naboris, a sight that would cause many to panic.”
“She would not be part of the guard if she were prone to panic.” A pause, then she added in a softer, albeit still gruff, tone, “I will remind you as you have asked, Lady Riju.”
The young chieftain made sure to nod without the slightest hint of satisfaction, though she felt it blossom in her exposed stomach all the same. Riju had temporarily discarded her royal skirts and silk, sleeveless top in favor of the more practical, voluminous pants and tightly bound halter worn by most Gerudo. Her long red hair, normally worn loose beneath the golden Scarab Crown, was tightly bound in one long braid. It was far easier to sand surf that way.
The two made their way through the night-shrouded city, silent save for the soft murmuring of water running swiftly through straight, raised channels of the same stone that comprised the outer walls. The ancestors alone knew how such a miracle had come to be, but the presence of water had, according to the histories, allowed the Gerudo to cease their nomadic lifestyle. Here they had built their white stone city, in the middle of the vast Gerudo Desert that swallowed the southwestern portion of Hyrule. Only one road led to the four-walled town, a winding dirt track packed down from the steady use of travelers on foot since no horse could survive the harsh climes of the region. It ran northeast, toward and ultimately between the snow-capped Gerudo Highlands and Spectacle Rock with its accompanying mesas.
Inside the city, the small alley in which the pair walked spilled into a central plaza, where renowned Gerudo vendors sold their wares every day. Gerudo traveled for two reasons: goods and voe , and that was enough to ensure many of them were always out and about in Hyrule. That meant a steady stream of business flowing into and out of their homeland, to which its people -- and female members of other races who braved the journey -- flocked daily.
At night, however, the square was silent. Neither chief nor captain took any chances, clinging to the shadows along the closed and shaded storefronts until they were forced to ascend a broad set of stone steps at the northern side of the square. They did so swiftly, not stopping as they usually did at the first landing that led to the throne room, but rather continuing up a second flight all the way to Riju’s private chambers.
A giant bed, made and waiting for its owner’s rest, sat with curtains drawn on a raised square of stone in the center of the room. Stone walls with shelves carved into them framed the chamber. Taking up much of the floor space were richly colored carpets and -- most impressive of all -- a small channel of water, continuously fed by seal-shaped fountains built into the back wall.
Just in front of the bed squatted a stone couch made soft with colorful cushions, blankets and pillows. There Riju sat, finally acknowledging the fatigue and stress of her journey with one long sigh.
Buliara began pacing in front of the couch. Between the women sat a small stone table on which rested an open book and plush toy made to look like a sand seal. In as casual a manner as possible, Riju closed the book. She could allow her captain of the guard to see the toy, a gift from her mother when she was small. She could not bear, however, the thought of Buliara glimpsing her diary, the only emotional outlet she allowed herself.
Back and forth the muscular Gerudo paced until, unable to restrain herself, she stopped to face her chief and give vent to what Riju knew was coming.
“You could have been killed!” Buliara hurled the words like a lash. “What good would you be to the Gerudo dead? You have no daughter! No heir to the throne! If your mother knew where you went tonight, what you did, you would be striped like a soldier who dropped her spear in the training yard!”
Riju let the tantrum wash over her, understanding that anger was not the only emotion feeding heat to that voice. Buliara was not motherly, but Riju knew she felt indebted to protect the new chief in her mother’s absence. It was not love, not exactly, but perhaps it was as close to it as Buliara would ever feel. This was the only reason she forgave her captain this outburst, but she must be careful. Allow this to carry on too long, and the line between fierce, motherly concern and captainly duty would become blurred beyond saving.
“I did what I felt was necessary for my people, Buliara. We must know what we are facing.”
“Then send me, or another of the Guard to investigate. Anyone but yourself! You are too important! You must learn to delegate so that--”
“Stop whining, Buliara. Keep it up, and I shall think you are pining for a voe ’s touch.”
Buliara’s eyes widened until they were the size of saucers. Riju stifled a giggle, which would not do at all now that she had her attention.
“I went,” Riju continued before Buliara could recover, “because I am the best sand seal rider among our people. No other could surf through the storm Vah Naboris stirs. I saw what we needed to know, and that alone was worth the risk.”
Visibly chastened, Buliara swallowed her offense and gathering what propriety remained her. “And what did you learn, Lady Riju?”
“That if it came to Gerudo Town, we would be helpless. “It spit forth sand and lightning the moment I entered the storm that surrounds it. Were it not for Patricia’s speed, I would be as dead as you feared. If Naboris comes here, I’m afraid all of us will be.”
Buliara swallowed, then spoke with a note of respect Riju felt was a marked improvement.
“How did you come to be as I found you, unconscious in the sand?”
“As soon as Naboris attacked, I made to return straight away.” Riju thought it slightly unnecessary to comfort Buliara this way, but she had already been brought low. Her mother had taught her that not sparing the whip was important, but not sparing the hydromelon juice afterward was no less so. “Unfortunately we ran into a pack of bokoblins while fleeing Naboris’ storm. Patricia balked and pitched me into the sand. That is the last thing I remember before you found me.”
There was an awkward pause at this, for both women knew that had one not found the other, the Gerudo might be without a chief. The night cold alone could kill a person not keeping his or her blood moving, and if that didn’t, bokoblins or lizalfos or -- ancestors forbid -- a molduga surely would.
The moment passed. Buliara straightened her stance and then – causing Riju to experience another small thrill – responded as she would in the royal court.
“I am pleased that you are not harmed, Lady Riju,” the Captain of the Guard said militantly. “What is it that you command?”
Riju was about to respond when a clamor sounded from below. With strength superior to most voe , Buliara picked up her diminutive charge with one arm and hurled her to the bed before placing herself between her chief and the entryway. The Gerudo warrior unsheathed her enormous sword, her emerald eyes alight with battle fire.
“Captain Buliara! Lady Riju!”
The voices, clearly those of her own people, caused Buliara to lower her blade slightly, though her eyes narrowed. Riju knew what she was thinking. Gerudo guards barging noisily into her private chambers in the dead of night? Something was wrong. Riju rose and stood beside the bed, well behind Buliara so it was clear they would answer to their captain first, but close enough to make their chieftain's presence felt.
Barely had the pair of Gerudo soldiers breached the doorway when Buliara immediately called them to attention.
“Stand and report!” she ordered harshly.
Though they had undoubtedly sprinted up the stairway, neither Gerudo was breathing hard due to their extraordinary physiques. If a Gerudo guard was tired, she was likely on the doorstep of death. Both wore their red hair in high tails similar to Buliara’s, but only one removed the veil covering her nose and mouth to answer.
“Captain Buliara, the Thunder Helm has been stolen!”
Riju was not aware of sitting down, but she found herself on the couch just the same. Before the guards’ arrival, her next words to her captain were to have been completely centered on the ancient relic of her people, handed down from generation to generation. Worse, losing the Helm meant losing the symbol of her right to rule. Who among the Gerudo would follow Makeela Riju, the Chief who lost the Thunder Helm?
Spoken words began to pierce Riju’s despair.
“It must have happened no earlier than two hours ago, Captain.” One of the guards was answering a murderous-looking Buliara. “We do not know who or how, only that when we arrived for our watch, the Helm was gone. The previous guards were questioned and searched, but they do not know the whereabouts of the Helm.”
“We’ll see about that!” Buliara snarled.
“Buliara!”
Already at the doorway, the Gerudo captain stopped, arrested by the stern tone of her Chief. Riju had risen from her bed , and now she looked directly up at Buliara. Curse the sands, but I wish I was taller!
“You will not harm the guards, Buliara,” Riju commanded. And it was a command. The actions of Divine Beasts and thieves were not her fault, but she would die before allowing her captain to sow distrust among her people. “You will question them. You will explain why you must search their homes before you do so. After that, you will bring them before me, so I may ask them about the Helm… and how you treated them.”
Buliara’s throat constricted, but she swallowed and nodded. Riju returned the nod, and that was all the permission her captain needed to resume her flight through the doorway, followed closely by the guards who had delivered the news.
Alone for the first time since Buliara had found her, Riju sank into her couch, hugging her toy sand seal tightly to her chest. Oh Mother , she thought desperately, have I failed already?
***
The old man stood with a groan, his back knuckling as he stretched to fully wake himself from the unplanned nap he had taken at the base of a thick chickaloo tree. A squirrel, no doubt searching for one of the tree’s namesake nuts, scurried away at the unexpected interruption.
Thick trousers and boots, a shirt and vest, heavy cloak and woolen gloves kept all but the man’s face covered, and even that was shrouded by a magnificently thick, white beard. Above it rested a broad nose, soft amber eyes and thick, white eyebrows. He gazed skyward to gauge the sun’s position, which was nearly at its noon peak. Nodding to himself, he retrieved his haversack and a staff nearly as tall as himself. Tying the haversack to his broad leather belt, the old man used the staff to assist his steps. From the forest in which he’d slept, a path cut its way through wild grass and up a sizable hillside.
The old man’s eyes rested on the high side of the hill where the path ended, but he would not be going that far. Instead, he halted about halfway up, where a collection of discarded slabbed stone formed a small overhang. Good. The small pile of wood he had left behind some days earlier was still there, undisturbed. Unpacking his supplies, the old man kindled a fire and once again rested his weary body, this time against the inside of the stone lean-to. A knife was brought out, which he used to deftly whittle the end of a nearby branch down to a sharp point. The old man then dug out an an apple from the haversack, speared the apple wiith it, and lazily propped the crude meal over the fire.
The old man’s eyes closed briefly, but he was careful not to fall asleep. Every now and then his eyes would open long enough to keep watch on the hillside path. Soon now, his patience would be rewarded and he would have to wait no longer. Soon.