Part 6
The world held its breath in the moment between the release of the stone and its impact. From his perch high on the cliff, Link watched the small, dark pebble arc through the night air, a silent messenger of chaos. It struck the precarious ledge with a small, sharp click. For a heartbeat, nothing happened. Then, with a low groan, a key rock shifted, and the entire edifice of loose scree gave way.
The rockslide was not a thunderous avalanche, but a dry, rasping roar that tore through the night. It crashed down on the far side of the encampment, a wave of stone and dust that sent the Bokoblins' crude supply barrels flying. The effect was everything Link had hoped for. The camp erupted into pure, panicked chaos. The Bokoblins, their simple minds incapable of comprehending a natural event, shrieked and roared, brandishing their weapons at the shadows. The hulking Moblin bellowed a furious, guttural order, and the entire horde, driven by their leader's rage and their own stupidity, rushed towards the source of the noise to fight whatever phantom enemy they imagined. Their backs were now completely turned to the cage.
This was his chance. The window would be terrifyingly brief. He had a sturdy length of thick, wild vine, prepared for this purpose, tied to a rock outcropping. He threw the end over the side and began his descent. He moved with the practiced silence of a spider on a thread, his bare feet finding purchase on the sheer rock face. The sounds of the monsters' confusion below—roars, snaps, the angry clang of a club hitting a rock—were a perfect cover for his own quiet movements. A small stone dislodged under his foot, and his heart leaped into his throat as it skittered down the cliff, but it was lost in the greater cacophony.
He landed in the deep shadow at the base of the cliff, a ghost in the firelight. He was just feet from the cage. The air here was thick with the foul, coppery smell of the monsters and the scent of old blood. He moved to the cage door. The lock was a heavy, thick log slid through two iron rings that had been hammered into the main posts. A crude but effective pin, a sharpened piece of metal, was driven through the log to hold it in place.
He pulled at the pin. It was wedged tight, the wood around it swollen and damp. It wouldn't budge. A prickle of cold sweat ran down his back. He could hear the Moblin's roars changing in tone, the confusion giving way to an angry suspicion. His window was closing. He braced his feet, gripped the pin with both hands, and pulled with every ounce of strength in his small body. For a moment, nothing. Then, with a loud, groaning shriek of protesting wood, the pin came free. He quickly and quietly slid the heavy log out. The cage was open.
He slipped inside. Elwin lay on the dirt floor, his breathing shallow, a feverish sheen on his face. One of his legs was bent at an unnatural angle, crudely splinted with branches and strips of his own uniform. Link gently shook his shoulder. The postman's eyes fluttered open. They were glassy and unfocused, struggling to make sense of the small, green-clad figure kneeling over him in the flickering darkness.
"The… the forest boy…?" Elwin whispered, his voice a dry rasp. He coughed, a pained, rattling sound. "Am I… dead? Have the spirits come for me?"
Link put a finger to his lips, his expression conveying an urgency that cut through the man's delirium. He helped Elwin sit up, and the postman let out a sharp gasp of pain. He was a large man, and Link was a small boy. Getting him to his feet was a monumental struggle.
It was too late.
A single, furious roar, far louder and closer than the others, split the air. The Moblin. Its brutish cunning had won out. It had realized the rockslide was a diversion. Link looked up and saw its massive silhouette turning from the chaos, its glowing red eyes fixing on the open, empty cage. The trap had been sprung.
"RUN!" The word was a silent, desperate command in Link's eyes. He hauled Elwin to his feet, throwing the man's heavy arm over his own shoulders. They burst from the cage and began to move, a slow, agonizing, stumbling limp towards the darkness of the wilderness.
The Moblin's roar alerted the entire camp. The Bokoblins, seeing their escaped prisoner, abandoned the phantom enemy and charged, their roars a wave of bloodthirsty fury. The escape was now a desperate, running battle. Link was no longer just a boy with a sword; he was a shield, a guardian, a shepherd protecting the most vulnerable member of his flock.
The first Bokoblin reached them, its club swinging. Link, still supporting Elwin's weight, couldn't dodge. He twisted, putting himself between the blow and the injured man, catching the full force of the attack on his enchanted shield. The red birds blazed with a brilliant flash of light, and the Bokoblin stumbled back, shrieking and clawing at its blinded eyes.
They were being surrounded. There were too many. Thinking fast, Link shoved Elwin behind a large boulder, his eyes commanding him to stay put. He then turned to face the horde alone. He was a tiny island of green in a sea of snarling, monstrous faces. He would not win. But he could buy time.
He fought not like a duelist, but like a cornered animal. He was a blur of motion, a whirlwind of desperate defense. He used his shield's magic to blind and stun, his slingshot to create openings, and his sword to disarm and disable. He swept the legs out from under one Bokoblin, sending it crashing into another. He parried a clumsy spear thrust and used the weapon's length to trip its wielder. He kicked a flaming brazier into the path of three more, creating a temporary wall of fire. He was not trying to kill them; he was trying to survive, to be a chaotic, unpredictable force that kept them off-balance.
But the Moblin was coming, its heavy, thudding footsteps shaking the ground, its massive iron spear held ready. It strode through its lesser minions, batting them aside. It was the true threat. It raised its spear for a devastating thrust that would surely impale the small boy.
Link did something unexpected. He stopped fighting. He brought his whistle to his lips and blew a single, piercingly sharp note, a perfect imitation of a hawk's hunting cry, amplified by the acoustics of the rocky amphitheater. The Bokoblins, creatures of base instinct, flinched at the sound, their heads jerking up to scan the cliffs for a predator that wasn't there.
The Moblin did not fall for the trick. But the momentary hesitation of its troops was the only opening Link needed. He didn't charge the monster. He charged past it, towards the narrow, rocky entrance of the camp through which they had come.
The Moblin, bellowing in rage at the boy's audacity, turned to follow, leaving Elwin's hiding place momentarily forgotten. It was exactly what Link had hoped for. He had made himself the target. He led the brutish commander on a short, desperate chase around the bonfire before ducking back towards Elwin's hiding place.
He grabbed the injured postman. "Now!" he seemed to hiss with his eyes. They made a break for the darkness. But the Moblin, realizing it had been duped, was there, blocking their escape. Its massive form filled the narrow exit.
Link shoved Elwin past him, into the relative safety of the wilderness. "Go!" his fierce gaze commanded. He turned to face the hulking beast alone, his sword and shield held ready. It was David versus Goliath. The Moblin thrust its spear, a move meant to crush him. Link was too small, too fast. He ducked under the attack, the spearhead scraping against the rock wall with a shower of sparks. He was too close for the creature to use its spear effectively.
He remembered his father's voice in the pre-dawn gloom. Every piece of armor has a joint. Every monster has a weakness. He could not pierce the Moblin's thick, leathery hide. But as it struggled to recover its spear, he saw the taut, exposed tendons behind its knee. He lunged, his own sword a mere needle against the monster's bulk, and drove the point deep into the back of the Moblin's leg.
The beast's roar of pain was deafening. It dropped its spear, clutching at its hamstrung leg, and collapsed to one knee. It was not dead, but it was crippled. It could not pursue them.
The remaining Bokoblins, seeing their champion fall, hesitated, their courage faltering. That was their chance. Link did not wait. He spun around and sprinted into the darkness, back to Elwin's side. He hauled the stunned, feverish man to his feet and, supporting his weight, they plunged into the unwelcoming dark of the wilderness.
They half-ran, half-stumbled through the night, the furious, pain-filled roars of the Moblin and the enraged screeches of the Bokoblins echoing behind them. They had escaped the camp. They were free. But they were far from safe. They were now two fugitives, one a gravely injured man, the other an exhausted boy, on the run in a hostile land, hunted by a horde of vengeful monsters. Their ordeal was just beginning.