Title: The Tale of Three Thieves

Author: Alex Foster

Feedback: Send any comments to .net

Category: Drama

Rating: PG-13

Summary: When three thieves trick Link into helping them escape justice, they inadvertently open a door that will either lead to their salvation or to their deaths.

Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by Nintendo. No money is being made and no infringement is intended.

Author's Notes: I'm not sure how the reader will receive this story. It would be nice to say I sat down to write an allegory of redemption and owning up to one's actions, but in reality I simply wanted to craft an interesting tale of three strangers that Link happens to on the road. If, in endeavoring to do so, this ended up as a moralizing story, then so be it. The story must know what it's doing. I hope, no matter how the reader interprets this story, he or she will walk away having been entertained. Thank you for reading.

Willa Cather, The Song of the Lark, 1915

Evonne hoped it had all been a dream. She had prayed to any god or goddess that would listen for the last two weeks to have not happened. That she hadn't spent each night on the hard ground with sticks and rocks for pillows. That the existence she'd known since birth had not ended with one foolish mistake.

But the hand that clamped over her mouth, jarring her awake, told her that the past two weeks were very real, and that she was about to leave her dreams to find a nightmare waiting.

Evonne opened eyes crusted from sleep and found a large man clad in a hooded shirt of chainmail standing over her. She didn't need to look at his coat of arms to discern his sovereign; there was only one person who would send armed men after a simple kitchen girl. The large blue-eyed man was one of Duke Volo's loyal soldiers.

"On your feet, bitch." With little show of strain, the man pulled her to her feet. Evonne swayed slightly as her body struggled to awake up. Her simple hand-stitched gray dress, torn from bramble and smudged with dirt from sleeping on the ground, hung heavy on her thin, bony body.

Looking across the same small camp that had seemed so warm and safe the night before, she saw one of her two traveling companions held captive by another soldier. Clad in brown trousers, white shirt, brown vest, and stolen boots, Dermot Westlin was a short man with a not so short face. He scowled at the guard holding him, at the fate that had befallen him, and at Evonne.

Unkempt blond hair half covered his gaze, but Evonne could still feel his eyes piercing into her. She felt a rush of unmerited guilt. Something inside of her cowered like a frightened child from that gaze.

Bramble rustled and two other guards leading another captured man appeared. One soldier looked nearly the same as the other two with his polished mail, but the one next to him was clearly in charge. He wore a red shirt over his chainmail and had not raised the armor's hood. A band with several strips on it was wrapped around his left arm—Evonne knew that band represented a ranking but did not know which grade.

The man being led forward by the ranking officer was dressed the same as Dermot, and when he raised his head the brotherly resemblance was stunning. Darby Westlin was taller than his brother but did not rise to a great height. Dark circles ringed his brown eyes and spoke of his hours spent watching over their camp. His duty had been to keep watch for any of the Duke's men and raise alarm before they could approach the camp. He didn't look to his brother; his gaze sought only Evonne's.

Darby did not scowl at her. He did not make something inside her cower; he made her feel warm and, despite the soldiers around them, safe.

Evonne wanted to tell him that she wasn't angry he hadn't seen the approaching soldiers, but didn't. In the presence of the Duke's men, she didn't dare speak unless spoken to.

The soldier with the armband looked the three of them over. His was a hostile gaze. He looked at Dermot, Darby, and Evonne with the same regard one might give a mushroom while debating if it would be useful for dinner.

"Where is it?" he asked in a baritone voice.

Dermot raised his chin defiantly. "Where's what?"

The soldier with the armband moved faster than Evonne could follow. In a blink the man lashed out and struck Dermot with enough force to throw the smaller man to the ground.

Darby took a step forward and cried, "Brother!" The mail-clad soldier behind him grabbed his arms and yanked him back into place.

The man with the armband drew his belt knife and pointed first to Darby then to Dermot. "Tell me where the pouch is, boy, or I cut out your brother's tongue!"

"That seems rather extreme," a calm voice said from the edge of the camp.

All eyes turned to find the owner of that voice. The man stood at the edge of the small clearing appearing to have melted from dark places the just risen sun had yet to touch. He was clad in a brown cloak that reached the tops of his boots. His hands were discreetly hidden within the folds of the long garment. The hood of his cloak was pushed back to reveal the freshly scrubbed face of a young man. Lines born of stress and hardship around his mouth and eyes belied that youth.

Through the center part of his cloak, Evonne could see that he wore dark trousers and a green tunic. His clothes were simple enough to denote him as someone used to traveling, but he held an air of dignity that was far from simple.

"It seems extreme that you would feel the need to do that," he said. His tone was soft but carried a weight Evonne couldn't quite discern. "They are at your mercy. You need not torture them for something you can easily look for yourself."

"This is none of your concern, stranger," the soldier with the armband said. His tone was hard and meant to intimidate.

The stranger didn't flinch. "Yes it is, Sergeant. I am a simple traveler in this land and need to know if I should fear the soldiers that protect me instead of the brigands who eye my purse."

"You'll have nothin' to fear if you obey the law," the sergeant said.

"And what was their crime?"

"They stole an item of great value."

The stranger considered this for a moment. Evonne felt her heart pounding furiously in her chest. "Have you looked for this item?" the stranger asked.

"Doin' it when you came up," the sergeant said angrily.

"No."

The sergeant's face flushed red. "'No' what?"

"You were not searching," the stranger calmly replied, "you were torturing. Thieves or not, you have no right to harm these people unduly. They are in your custody, I doubt they could overpower you and your men."

The sergeant had run out of patients. "Leave now, sir. I have answered your questions and can assure you that these people are criminals. Dangerous criminals. It is not your business how the Duke chooses to deal with his offenders."

"It is my business." The stranger took a step from the shadows that had concealed him. His cloak parted revealing the hilt of a sword. Evonne was accustomed to seeing soldiers and their broadswords from a life spent in the Duke's manor, but this man's sword made her draw a breath in surprise. This was a king's sword. An elegant winged crossguard arched down over the bloodcatch of the blade. The hilt was well wrapped and looked as though it had been called to its owner's hands countless times—though why anyone would carry such a sword instead of hanging it proudly on the wall of some ruler's great hall was a mystery to Evonne.

An emblem of three triangles was gilded in gold on the sword's hilt. Evonne felt sure they were meant to symbolize something, but did not know what. The sword moved easily with the man's hip; a gesture of someone familiar with its presence.

"My name is Link," he said. His tone still holding the same commanding softness as before. "I am from a land called Hyrule. There I hold the title of Knight of the Triforce. It is my sworn duty to see to the safety of all—even criminals."

The soldier guarding Darby eyed Link's sword hungrily. "Maybe this guy is with the other three, Sergeant. I think we should take him in, too. Just to be safe, that is."

A chuckle rippled through the soldiers. Evonne saw Link roll his eyes. She felt sorry for him.

Darby's guard started toward Link. "Hand over your blade...and your coin purse—don't know if you have a knife in there or not."

Link's cloak twirled slightly about his legs as his left hand moved underneath the folds. "I would gladly give you my sword, but I don't think it will like you very much. As for my purse, I can assure you I have no weapons hidden in it."

The soldier wrapped his hand around the short sword at his hip and pulled it free. "You wouldn't be thinkin' about resistin' the law, would ya?"

Evonne wanted to look away; she had seen the same brutality happen to so many people and she didn't think she could bear watching it again. She expected the man named Link to pull his king's sword and try dueling with the guard, but he didn't. He didn't move at all.

"If I were with these three," Link said calmly, "why would I have returned to the camp? You didn't see me while you were surrounding this clearing, and I doubt you would have seen me escape into the woods."

"I want your sword," the solider said and lunged forward, short sword raised.

Moving so smoothly he seemed to glide across the ground, Link stepped to the side and brought his left arm up.

A wet smack followed by a loud snap filled the clearing.

The soldier's lunge went awry. He hit the ground next to Link's feet with a groan. Evonne's eyes went wide. The guard's nose bent at an unnatural angle and blood flowed down his chin from his open mouth.

"He broke my nose!" the downed guard yelled.

In his left hand, Link held a tree branch. It was as long as Evonne's forearm and as wide as her hand and split down its center from the guard's face. "Turn on your stomach, soldier," he said, throwing the branch away, "or you'll choke on your own blood."

The guard next to Dermot abandoned his prisoner, drew his short sword, and ran toward the Knight of the Triforce.

With the grace and speed of a dancer, Link spun to the side, grabbed the charging soldier as he passed, and threw him to the ground. Keeping his weight centered on spread legs, the Knight recovered from his spin. He backpedaled so he wasn't in between the bloodied guard and the one who had charged him.

The former climbed to his feet and wiped his chin with the back of his hand. "You think that's funny, stranger? Why don't you try fighting like a man?" Sword raised, he charged again.

The same dodging trick wouldn't work twice. Link stood his ground and ducked under the soldier's wide swing. Coming up fast the Knight caught the guard's sword hand with his, hooked a leg around the guard's knees, and again threw him to the ground.

With a look that was empty of satisfaction or anger, Link rounded the edge of the camp and drew his sword. The sound of sharpened steel against well-tooled leather was a frightful noise. It was an announcement to the world that a dealer of death was about to carry out justice.

Link dropped into a battle stance and brandished the sword. "Stand down, soldier," he said. "Stand down before you hurt yourself."

The soldier in the hooded shirt of chainmail didn't seem to hear him. He crossed the camp in two long strides and swung at the Knight.

The two swords met with a spray of hot sparks. The guard quickly reversed his swing and came in low. Link stepped back and met the attack with his blade.

With a battle cry, the Knight slipped his king's sword from the soldier's and struck out in a furious attack. The guard stumbled back trying to parry each deadly precise swing before it could reach through his defense.

In the middle of the camp Link hooked the tip of his sword through the crossguard of the soldier's and forced the sword downward. His leg came up and he side kicked the guard squarely in the chest.

With a huff of breath leaving his lungs, the guard fell back to the ground. The Knight spun and brought his sword about.

'He's going to decapitate the soldier,' Evonne thought. She wanted to look away but couldn't force her gaze from the drama in front of her.

The king's sword sliced through the air with a sharp whistle. At the last possible moment, the Knight turned his wrists and the flat end of the blade struck the soldier's head. The guard toppled onto his side, dazed.

Link whirled about and pointed his sword at the lead soldier and said, "Leave here, Sergeant! Gather your men and leave here.

"The King's own men are the brigands I must fear! I doubted only your methods, Sergeant, not your accusation of these three people. But your men and their disgraceful display have made me doubt your reasons for stopping them.

"If these three are indeed criminals, then I shall bring them to your sovereign. Leave here, Sergeant—they are my concern now." He lowered the sword but did not sheath it.

The air in the camp crackled with power. The sergeant was no longer in control of the situation; Link was, and both men knew it. The sergeant's throat bobbed up and down as he swallowed. A long moment stretched between them. Finally, the man with the armband called out, "On your feet and move out!" Quietly to Link he said, "we will be back, Knight."

"I would expect nothing less, sir," the tall stranger replied.

Within minutes, Duke Volo's men were gone.

Dermot rose to his feet and smiled that false looking smile of his. "Thank you very much, Sir Link. We are forever in your—"

"Sit down," the Knight ordered.

Dermot sank back down.

Link studied each of them for a full minute without saying a word. He walked to Evonne and bent down.

She felt her stomach knot when those blue eyes met her green-eyed gaze. An aura of deadliness was palpable around the man and his bared blade. She suddenly wished for the sergeant and his brutes to come back.

"Are you hurt, madam?" he asked with surprising gentleness.

Not trusting herself to speak lest she blurt out a full confession of why Duke Volo wanted them, she shook her head.

He gave a nod and moved on. He asked Darby something, but she couldn't hear what. Darby shook his head, waited for the next question, then nodded. Link moved to Dermot.

"Why did those men stop you?" he asked.

Evonne wondered if Link could sense that Dermot normally did the talking for them. And if he could sense that Dermot was the better liar of the three.

"We were servants at Duke Volo's estate," Dermot began. He went on to weave a tale that surprised Evonne with its inventiveness. Listening to his smooth tone interlace part truth and lie, she could almost forget that the sergeant hadn't been wrong in his accusation.

Dermot told Link that Volo had taken an unrequited interest in Evonne, and he and his brother had gotten into a scuffle with Volo's personal guards when they rescued her from his chamber.

Link nodded thoughtfully. "How did you get away?" he asked.

"Darby used to work the stables and we managed to sneak down to them using the corridors set aside for messengers."

"You stole horses?"

Dermot hung his head. "Yes, sir, we did. But we left them at the end of the trail when we came upon these woods." In truth, the horses had gone lame and they had had to leave the rides behind.

"That was not smart," Link said. "Commendable, but not smart. That was probably what led those men to you. Why did they say you stole something of great value—surely horses couldn't have been worth that much."

"Pride, Sir Link," Dermot said. "We stole the Duke's pride. He wanted Evonne in his bed, but she didn't want to go. We stopped him and took his pride. To somebody as arrogant as the Duke, there is no greater thing of value."

Link nodded again. "Where are you bound for?"

"Lathander," Dermot and Darby said together. Both men had different reasons for choosing that town.

Link laughed and sheathed his sword. "That is my destination, too. I'm sure you won't mind traveling together, will you?"

The three thieves shared a glance. Traveling next to a man who forced four fearsome fighters to back away from their prize was the last thing the thieves wanted.

"Of course not," Dermot said with another false looking smile.

"Maybe you could teach me some of those sword moves, Sir Link," Darby said.

"Are you a swordsman?"

The quartet had been traveling most of the day. They had stopped once the sun was past the point of providing enough light to see by in the increasingly thick wood. Link had mumbled something about there still be a good hour of light left, but not enough to work through the dense ceiling of leaves.

Their small fire quivered in its circle of small stones. Link crouched next to the fire and worked diligently over a small pan from the shoulder pack he had carried with him. Evonne discovered he'd left the pack tucked in the shadows of their old camp before confronting Volo's men.

From the pack he had withdrawn four carefully wrapped sausages and several jars of spice that he was now using to flavor the meat.

Setting the pan on a stone in the center of the fire, Link replaced the spices and cinched the pack closed.

"No. I used to watch the guards practice in the courtyard, though," Darby said. "Something about swords always fascinated me."

"Well, if you'd like," Link said, "I can teach you some forms, but there's more to a sword than just ways to stand. A blade is a very heavy responsibility. It's the responsibility of life and death.

"It would amaze you how easy it is to lose control and commit an act that is yours to carry for life." He poked the sausages with the point of his knife. Pink juice ran from the puncture marks.

A thin cloud of smoke rose from the pan and wafted across the camp. Evonne's stomach growled at the wonderful smell of spices and pork.

Darby heard and smiled at her. She smiled back. He always had a smile for her; even while they were lowly servants at Volo's estate, he could look to her and spark a feeling of lightness in her.

It was a mystery to Evonne why a handsome man like Darby took an interest in a frumpy kitchen washgirl like her. Self-conscious, she ran a hand down her dull brown hair. Her hair hung limp from her scalp and framed her small face that always seemed too narrow whenever she looked into a mirror.

"I think I could handle the responsibility," Darby said.

Link turned the sausages as they cooked. "After dinner I'll show you some forms."

"It'd be a waste of time," Dermot said, walking from the brush with a stack of broken sticks balanced on his folded arms. "You shouldn't listen to my little brother, Sir Link." He deposited the firewood on the ground next to the fire. "Darby's been begging me to teach him how to use a sword for years now."

"You're a swordsman?" Link asked in a neutral tone.

Dermot gave a wide smile and sat on a tree stump at the edge of the camp.

"He was a serf for one of Volo's knights," Darby said softly.

Link looked from one brother to the next. "Why didn't you teach him, then?"

Dermot cackled. "Tell the man, little brother."

Darby just studied his boots.

Evonne sighed and leaned toward Link. "Dermot says Darby is too stupid to learn how to use something like a sword." She hated seeing Darby belittled by his brother, but she hated even more that Darby believed what Dermot said about him.

"Nonsense," Link declared. "I haven't known you long, Darby, but I suspect you are a person of great empathy. And intelligence is required to be empathetic to another person."

Darby looked up. His eyes shining with the adoration of a child being praised. "Really?"

Link nodded. "I'm sure Evonne would agree with me."

Evonne felt her face grow warm as the eyes of everyone in the camp turned toward her. Why couldn't she have just kept her mouth shut? Because Darby was being insulted, a voice said in the back of her head. "Ah, y-yes," she stammered.

"There, you see?" Link gave a nod that finalized the subject before Dermot could raise objection. "Are you done readying those sticks, Evonne?"

"Yes." While he had been rummaging for the sausages, Link had asked Evonne to hew the ends of three sticks down to a sharp point. She gathered the sticks up and handed them to him.

He thanked her as he took them. The thanks caught her off guard. At Volo's estate, people rarely thanked her—or any other servant—for anything.

Using the edge of his knife, Link cut the ends of the sausages off and then skewered each sausage with a stick. Lifting the still smoking meat from the pan, he shook the excess juice off, and handed the stick to Evonne. He did the same for Darby and made Dermot come down from his tree stump to eat next to the fire.

With the sleeve of his cloak wrapped around his hand, Link removed the pan from the fire and set it aside, leaving the ends of the sausages to sizzle in the pool of hot drippings. He stabbed the remaining sausage with the point of his knife and sat back to eat.

Following his lead, Evonne bit into her sausage. The taste of well-seasoned meat made her eyes water with pleasure. It had been two weeks since her last meal that did not involve leaves or berries.

Once finished with her sausage, Evonne asked Link why he had cut off the ends.

"Well," he said, "I plan on making a broth tomorrow night and the ends will lend flavor. I figured the three of you wouldn't mind giving up a bite of meat if it meant having a pot of soup that would last us until we reach Lathander."

Dermot leaned over and peered at the still smoking pan. "You could have asked us."

"Do you really think we'll reach Lathander that fast?" Evonne asked.

Link smiled and jerked a thumb toward his pack. "If that man that sold me his maps of the area was honest, yes, we should be just about there. Plus, I know some tricks to traveling in forests so we should make good time tomorrow."

"You seem to know a lot of tricks," Dermot said. "What is a man of your rank doing way out here? What did you say your title was again?"

"Knight of the Triforce," Link answered softly. "And I'm just a simple traveler. I hold no better rank than you or anyone else."

"Where are you traveling to? Besides Lathander, that is," Darby said.

Link smiled slightly. "I'll know when I get there."

"Yes, but—" Dermot began.

"We're running low on daylight, Darby," Link put in. "If you want to learn some forms, I would suggest we begin now."

"Okay." Darby jumped to his feet. "I'll find a branch that I can use as a blade. Oh, unless I could...?" He gestured to Link's sword.

"I don't think so," the Knight said. "It wouldn't like you." He stood and followed the younger Westlin brother into the thicket.

Evonne's gaze went to Dermot, but quickly turned away when she discovered that familiar scowl waiting for her.

That night Evonne lay with her back to the built up fire. Link had stacked plenty of wood on the blaze so it would last until Darby's watch was over.

There had been an augment over who would take which watch, or rather who would not take any watch. She hadn't meant to listen, but had heard the three men discussing whether she would be required to watch the camp. Darby had said no, but Dermot insisted that she be made to take middle watch—the hardest, for the one on that watch would sleep only two hours before being shook awake, and then it would be another few hours of rest before morning.

Link had finally called truce and said he would take middle watch. Evonne was grateful, but too scared to thank him for she did not know what he would require of her in return for his sacrifice.

She watched through half-closed eyes as Link readied his bedroll.

"I'd be dead several times over," Link said finally, "if I hadn't learned how to recognize when people were feigning sleep. Ask your question, Evonne."

She sat up with a start. "I-I don't have a question."

"You should." He settled on the bedroll. "I would have a hundred questions."

"Well...ah...I was just wondering why you stopped. Why you helped us."

"Because it was the right thing to do," he said. "Because I like to think you or one of your companions would do the same if the table were turned."

"Oh." She didn't think she would have helped; she wasn't brave enough. She didn't know about Dermot—maybe if there was enough money involved—but she was sure Darby would have. "Thank you for doing so," she said before conscious thought caught up with her.

He smiled. "Thank me by remembering today if you ever come to a crossroads. The reward for aid given just might be your own salvation. Goodnight, Evonne."

"Night." She moved to turn away from him. His words of salvation had sparked a surge of guilt stronger than the guilt caused by Dermot's scowl.

He said her name causing her to look back. "Yes?"

"You worked in the kitchen, didn't you?"

The strangeness of the question puzzled her. "Yes," she answered. "How did you know?"

He smiled again. "You have brass underneath your fingernails. I assumed from scrubbing pots."

Evonne's heart missed a beat in fright. She gave a single nod and a smile that she hoped didn't look too nervous and turned away from him.

Evonne waited until the count of one hundred before slipping her hands out of her blankets. In the warm glow of the blazing fire, she picked at her fingernails. Flecks of gold, not brass, and not from pots, fell to the ground next to her mattress of sticks and pine needles.