The Knights of Sheba Episode 2: "Demons" B

 The Knights of Sheba 102 B…Start

 

            Claude’s stay in town has been filled, thus far, with mixed disappointment and luck.  The owner of the hotel—a tall, thin man named Thomas—was as kind, if not kinder, than Claude was told he would and gave Claude a discounted rate, but there were no jobs to find.  Claude has limited work experience and has always relied on his family to help him through most things.

            After weeks without employment the hotel owner approaches him and says, “Listen, Claude, I like you.  You’re a good sort of kid.  Seem earnest.  So, here’s the thing.  I recently had to let go of a dishwasher, and I know you’re down on your luck.  So, what do you say, I let you take the job and take your ‘rent’ out of your pay until you can get back on your feet.”

            “Thomas, I couldn’t.”  Looking back on it later, Claude feels like he could have fought back more.

            “I insist,” Thomas had said, and he patted Claude on the back.

            After that, Claude worked for him.  The hotel is mid-sized and hosts a rather impressive buffet.  The food, Claude has come to find out, is delicious.  He has to pay for his own meals and clean up after himself—conditions he imposed on Thomas before he would agree.  It feels like it isn’t enough, but Claude’s wallet is thin, and he doesn’t have the luxury of pride.

            Claude sits in the hotel lobby, a newspaper unfolded on his lap, and he stares out the front door.  Cars zoom by.  The city is so much bigger than his home, and everyone seems so much busier.  Where he comes from everyone knew his family and everyone was a friend.  Here, he is a number and an insignificant one at that.

            Thomas enters the room.  He moves stiffly as he walks but always with a smile.  It broadens when he sees Claude, and he approaches and eases himself into the chair.  His cowboy boots, embroidered brown leather, click on the tiles with each step.

            He pats Claude on the knee.  “Find any places yet?”

            Claude sighs.  “Nothing I can afford,” he says, folding the paper up and setting it to the side.  “Sorry I’m hanging around like this.”

            “Nah, you’re fine, son.  It’s your first day.”  Thomas gives him a smile.  “Excited yet?”

            “A little, I guess,” Claude says.  His stomach keeps twisting up.

            Thomas laughs.  “You’ll do fine.  It’s just dishes.”

            Claude nods.  “Thomas, I just want to say, thanks.  You’ve done so much for me, so much more than you had to do.”

            “I didn’t do nothing a good Christian wouldn’t do,” Thomas says. “Besides, you’re a good kid.  Done right by me to this point.  Just down on your luck, and when people are down, all they need is a hand up.”

            Claude smiles.  “Thanks,” he says, and he looks around the lobby and peeks into the dining room.  Despite the hotels modest size, there are always people.  Claude leans back.  “You guys are staying busy.”

            “We’re off the highway, good location,” Thomas says.  “Also, we get a small supper crowd.  Might surprise you, but some people come by just to eat Eddie’s cooking.”  Thomas looks at Claude.  “Eddie’s our chef.  You’ll meet him today.”

            “Okay,” Claude says, rubbing his sweaty palms on his pants.

            Thomas laughs.  He pats Claude on the knee again and then pushes himself to standing.  His body unfolds in an arthritic sort of way, and he groans with each movement.  “Well, I won’t keep you.  You’ll be getting to pretty soon.  If you need anything, just ask Eddie or come find me, okay?”

            Claude nods and says goodbye.

            Alone again, he stares out the window and thinks about recent events.  His life has changed so much, so rapidly.  He doesn’t like taking advantage of Thomas’ hospitality, but also knows how lucky he is to have it.

            He checks the clock.  “Almost time,” he thinks, standing.  “Just get in, do my work, and do it right.  I’ll make it up to him, and then I’ll get out of here.”  He takes a deep breath and turns toward the kitchen.

 

            After school Geneva waits by her locker.  She stands there, trying her best to look inconspicuous as the halls drain around her.  In all her life, she has never had to wait for friends after school and somehow it feels like an elaborate prank where Kit pretends to be friends with her for three years, kisses her, and all so she can get her with the fake-ride-home gag.

            “Worst. Prank. Ever,” she thinks to herself.

            The students thin and then disappear altogether, and Geneva stands alone, holding the straps of her backpack and staring at the empty halls.  It reminds her of summer school.  “Maybe she’s still in I.S.S,” she thinks, “Maybe she punched Lana again.”  She smiles.

            Geneva starts down the hall, in the direction of the I.S.S. room, or in the direction she hopes the I.S.S. room is in.  She entertains the idea that there will be signs on the way, starting a few halls out.  “I.S.S. room three halls down.  Home to the World’s Richest Delinquents.”

            After wandering aimlessly for a few minutes, she starts hearing strange noises.  Scuffling and scratching like desks being moved, chaotic echoes carrying down the hall.  She stops and listens, and then she hears a scream.  Without thinking, she runs toward it.

            She comes to a stop near an open door.  Inside, she hears a woman crying, begging.  “No, please, no.”  It is choked and horrified.  Geneva goes to the door just as the woman inside shouts, “Please, someone, anyone, help me!”

            The classroom interior is a disaster.  Desks are tipped and windows broken.  Chairs are scattered to the edges of the room and, kneeling in the far corner away from the door, is a small, blonde woman with thick, wavy hair and running mascara.

            In the center of the room is a small, green creature, vaguely humanoid in shape and possessed of a surly, wiry frame.  Large, yellow teeth protrude from its mouth, and a sizable, hooked nose balances them out.  It stares at the woman in mix of fright and anger.

            “Martians,” Geneva thinks, staring.  She hides beside the door and watches as the creature stalks forward.  “What in the world is it,” she thinks, “And what is it doing here?”

            The creature’s gait is hunched, predatory.  It is closing in and preparing to strike, and despite its size, it looks able to kill.  Geneva hides back in the hall, stares at the white walls and considers the situation.  She is just a sixteen-year-old girl, but she is the only one who can help.

            She stands and steps into the doorway and, before she can second-guess herself, she shouts, “Hey, you, ugly thing!  Get away from her.  Now!”  And she kicks a nearby desk as a form of intimidation.

            The creature leaps back and hisses at her.  Geneva takes a chair and slides it toward the creature as hard as she can.  It catches the chair and throws it to the side, shattering it against the wall.  By then, Geneva is urging the woman forward and out of the door.

            “Come on, let’s go,” Geneva shouts as she yanks the woman into the hall and pushes her forward.  They sprint as hard as their legs will take them.  Geneva stumbles and staggers.  The woman, still sobbing, can hardly keep her breath.

            They take a turn down a hall and keep running until Geneva collapses.  She gasps for air while the woman kneels beside her and cries.

            “Are you okay,” Geneva asks while pulling herself back up.  She can hear the thing howling and following them.  “Can you stand?”

            “What is it,” the woman asks between sobs.

            “It doesn’t matter,” Geneva says, pulling the woman up.  She leads her to a nearby classroom and shoves her inside.  “You go in here and hide.  I’ll lead it somewhere else, okay?”

            “But…”

            Geneva closes the door.  “Lock it, don’t let it in!”

            “Thank you,” the woman says, staring at Geneva through the glass.

            “Yeah, yeah, just hide.” Geneva turns just in time to see the monster.  It is partway down the hall and approaching, squat and growling.  Geneva holds her hands up.  “Whoa, there.  I know I took your person-sized ragdoll away and all, but let’s be honest, you weren’t playing very nice with it, now, were you?”

            The creature shouts and lunges at her, and Geneva is quick to sprint away.  She runs down to the other end of the hall and stops at the stairwell.  Even with her head start, she only just gets the door open as the creature reaches her.  It grabs her book bag and pulls hard, tearing one strap and causing her to spin as she approaches the stairs.

            She grabs at the handrail and manages to stop herself from tumbling.  Her legs give out, and she rolls down two stairs before regaining her footing.  As she stands, it is on her.  They fall together to the bottom, and she slams hard against the wall.

            It staggers to its feet above her and howls.  Despite its size, it is very strong.  She stares up at it, into its yellow, sickly eyes, into its red irises, and into its drooling, demonic face.  It grabs her, first by the shoulders, and then moves its hands up to her neck.

 

            After work, Nina stays in her office to fill out paperwork.  Mostly, she has tests to grade.  When given the job, she expected to spend most of her time outside.  However, upon seeing the meager requirements established by the school for Physical Education, she decided to give an overhaul to the program.  As a result, her students are learning about their bodies and their physical health, and she has schoolwork to grade.

            She is on her last five sheets when her phone goes off.  She answers, “Hello, Nina speaking.”

            “Nina, huh?”

            She sits up.  “Sir.”

            “They’re here.”

            She drops her pen and stands from her desk.  “Where?”

            “In your school.  We found it playing around one of the nearby fields and gave chase, but we couldn’t take any shots.  It’s in your domain now.  Take care of it.”

            Nina opens her desk drawer and pulls a pistol from the false bottom.  She checks the clip.  “I will, sir.”

            Erak hangs up on her, and Nina pockets her phone.  She checks her gun once more and puts a bullet in the chamber.  Then, she sets the safety and slips it into the waistband of her pants.  She pulls her shirt over it and leaves the office.

            The halls are empty.  Even most teachers have left by this point.  Those that have stayed are keeping to their classrooms.  Nina walks the halls slowly, keeping an ear and eye out for trouble.  Further down, she hears sobbing and finds a woman leaning against a set of lockers.  She is doubled over and out of breath.

            Nina rushes to her.  “Are you okay?”

            “No,” she says, looking Nina in the eyes.  Tears run down her face.  “Yes, I mean—It’s after a student. It’s…”

            “Which way?”

            The woman points down the hall.  “I saw her go down the stairwell.”

            Nina touches the woman’s shoulder.  “You stay here.”

            The woman nods and grabs Nina’s hand.  “She saved me.  The girl, she saved me.  Risked her life so it wouldn’t…”

            “I understand,” Nina says.  “Don’t worry, I’ll save her.”

            “Thank you.”

            Nina pulls free and sprints down the hall.  She takes a turn and runs straight for the stairwell.  She hears a yell and some scuffling.  On the way, she draws her pistol and flips the safety off.  Then, she kicks the door open.

            At the base of the stairs Nina finds a small, brutish demon hunched over a student. She takes a step forward, plants her feet, breathes deeply, and levels her gun.  Then, she pulls the trigger twice.  The shots echo around the stairwell and make her ears ring.

            The demon jerks.  Red spots bloom on its back.  It turns, howls, charges.  Two more bullets and it falls.  Thick red streams of blood pool on the stairs, run down them slowly.  When the demon dies, it reveals Geneva behind it, her back to the wall, and panting in pain.

            Nina checks the demon first, making sure it is dead. Then puts away her gun.  She kneels beside Geneva.  “Ms. Oaks?”

            “Ms. Olivia?”  Geneva looks at her.  She is wincing and holding her arm.  “Why is it that whenever I fall down you’re always there, standing over me?”

            “I don’t know,” she says.  She checks Geneva’s eyes.

            Geneva points.  “Look.  A Martian. You killed it,” she says.  “How’d you know I was here?”

            “I got a call.”

            “I was calling you?  Weird.”

            “No,” she says.  “Ms. Oaks, I think you may have a concussion.”

            “Makes sense.  I’m feeling kind of sleepy.”

            “No, Ms. Oaks.  Don’t fall asleep, try and…”  Geneva slumps over into Nina’s grasp.  Sighing, Nina lays her down and stands.  She looks at the demon and pulls out her phone.  “Sir?  I found the demon.  We need clean-up and fast.”

 

            Geneva wakes up later in Ms.Olivia’s office, stretched out on a foam mat.  Her neck feels stiff and her head aches in the back.  She sits up slowly, and Ms. Olivia comes to her side to help her.  Together, they rest Geneva’s back against the wall.  “Are you okay,” Ms. Olivia asks.

            “Been better,” Geneva says, taking account of her various pains.  Her ankle pulses when she tries to flex it and her left arm feels tender.  “What happened?

            “You passed out.  Most likely from trauma and stress.”

            “Yeah, makes sense,” Geneva says, “I never had much constitution.”  She looks at Ms. Olivia.  “So, Martians are real.”

            “Well, no.  And yes.  Not Martians.  Demons. But that is not important.  Here.”  She hands Geneva a small paper cup filled with water.

            Geneva looks at it and sets it to the side.  “It attacked me.”

            “We took care of it.”

            “You shot it, didn’t you?”

            Ms. Olivia pauses, gives Geneva a long stare.  “Yes, I did.”

            “And it’s dead.”

            “Yes.”

            Geneva takes a deep breath, and when she exhales, she tries to go limp.  Her body won’t.  It is stiff and tight, coiled, prepared for the worst.  She meets Ms. Olivia’s gaze again.  “And the teacher, is she okay?”

            Ms. Olivia almost smiles at that and says, “She is fine.  Only superficial damage.”

            “Then what are you?  Who are you?”

            “That is a very complicated question, Ms. Oaks.”

            “Then give me the uncomplicated version,” Geneva says.  “You know, if you want.”

             “Drink the water, and maybe I’ll tell you.”

            Geneva picks up the cup and looks at it. She shrugs and gulps it down.  Ms. Olivia gives her a refill and waits.

            “I am an elf,” she says once Geneva finishes the second cup.  “I come from Alfheim or the Realm of Light as we call it. And…”

            “Short version, please.  My head is killing me.”

            “Well, we’re here to watch your world, and to protect humanity from outside threats.”

            “Like demon-Martians.”

            “Yes and no.  The demons were not considered a threat.  Not until recently.”

            “And what in the world does that mean?”

            “It means they’ve returned,” Ms. Olivia says.  “No one knows how, but their gate tree was closed for nearly three thousand years.  Until two days ago, in fact.”

            “Ah-huh,” Geneva says.  “That’s interesting and all.  Crazy, but interesting.  Anyway, I think I’m in shock, so…”  Geneva braces against the wall and eases herself up.  Her legs shake, her back pops, but she limps her way up to standing.  “I think I need to make a few calls, get home before my parents do.  They’re worriers.”

            “That is sweet of them.”

            Geneva gives Ms. Olivia a very serious look.  “You’ve clearly never seen a Jewish mother worry.  There’s nothing sweet about it.”

            “Yes.  Well, if you require transportation, I can be of assistance.”

            “Normally, I’d say no, but considering circumstances.”

            “Yes, but first.”  Ms. Olivia goes to her desk, removes the false bottom from the top drawer, and then takes a box from inside.  It is small, wooden, and otherwise non-descript.  She returns to Geneva and hands it to her.  “Open it.”

            Geneva stares at the box in her hands and is reminded of so many proposals in movies.  She slides the lid off and stares at the ring inside.  It looks like polished ivory, smooth and gleaming.  The top is flattened and etched with a foreign sigil.  To Geneva it looks almost like a pair of wings.  She slides the lid back into place and tries to return the box.  “Listen, I appreciate the thought, but I feel like we’re moving too quickly.”

            Ms. Olivia knits her brow.  “You’re a very strange girl.”

            “So I’ve heard.  But seriously, I don’t want this.”

            “You don’t even know what it is.”

            “I know it’s jewelry. That you’re giving me.  You.  A teacher.”  Geneva shrugs.  “I know I don’t want to know that it is.”

            “That is the white signet.”

            “Some sort of ancient, old world magic then?”

            Ms. Olivia laughs.  “Please, Ms. Oaks.  Magic doesn’t exist.”

            “Right, and neither do demons.  Anyway, what’s so special about this,” Geneva gestures with the box, “thing?”

            “The signet is, as you previously said, quite ancient.  It houses an armor inside, an extremely advanced tool used long ago to fight the demonic threat.  I think that, if the demons are returning, then humanity should once again be given a chance to defend itself.”

            “Ah-huh.  And you’re giving it to me,” Geneva points at herself, “A sixteen-year-old girl.”

            “Yes, I am.”

            “Yeah, see, you’re a pretty poor judge of character.  I’m not much of a protector.  Hell, I’m barely even a student.”

            “So you say, but in the short time I’ve known you, I’ve seen you protect two people.  In fact, most recently, you even risked your life to do it.”

            “Yeah, well—that’s different.”

            “I don’t believe it is,” Ms. Olivia says.  She pushes the box toward Geneva.  “Just keep it for now and think on it.”

            Geneva looks at the box, sighs.  “Fine, fine.  Now, will you take me home?”

            “Yes, of course.”  Ms. Olivia returns the false bottom to her desk and then scoops up her keys.  She looks back at Geneva. “Let’s go.”

            They leave her office.  On the way out, Ms. Olivia grabs Geneva’s book bag with the torn shoulder strap and carries it.  They stop to lock the office door, and then walk together across the gym floor with Geneva limping slightly behind. 

            “Are there other signet-whatevers?”

            “Yes,” Ms. Olivia says.  “Once, there was a whole knighthood. Now, we only have five rings left, including that one.”

            “And it was made up of all the races?”

            “No.  Only humans.”

            “And what happened to them?  Did they retire the rings when the demons disappeared?  Was it all noble and stuff?”

            “In a sense, but that is a very long story meant for later.  After you’ve had time to consider your situation.  For now, let’s get you home.”

            “But I want to know n—Ow!”  Geneva leans against a wall and flexes her right ankle.  She grimaces.  “On second thought, your plan works.”

            They leave the school together.  Ms. Olivia parked in the back lot.  They start across the hot asphalt when Geneva sees Kit, who comes running to her.  Geneva quickly takes her backpack from Ms. Olivia and jams the signet case inside.  Then, she waves.

            “Uh, hey, Kit,” she says once they are close, “I thought you would have went home already.”

            “I was just about to.  I thought you went home on the bus just to spite me.”  She looks at Ms. Olivia.  “Everything alright?”

            “Yeah, I was, uh,” Geneva looks at Ms. Olivia, too.

            “Ms. Oaks and I were just discussing some extracurricular assignments.  I’m sorry to have kept her so long.”

            “Yeah, what she said.”

            Kit looks between them.  “Okay. Well, you still want that ride?”

            “I didn’t want it in the first place,” Geneva says, “But sure.”  She turns to Ms. Olivia and says, “So, uh, thanks for your help.  And, we’ll, uh, talk later?”

            “Yes, Ms. Oaks.  You take care and get some rest.”

            “Yeah.”

            The girls leave Ms. Olivia and start towards Kit’s car.  Geneva limps along, and Kit steps in close, pulling Geneva’s arm over her slender shoulders.  “Hey, Genny, why’re you limping?”

            “Would you believe me if I told you that that I fell down the stairs?”

            Kit gives her a short stare and then laughs.  “You are such a ditz.”

 

            Seere arrives at Andromalius’ city by midday.  By then the rain is easing but the mud is still thick on the roads.  Ruka exits the carriage first and greets the city guard before they are let in.  From there, they ride the winding streets to Andromalius’ castle.  The demons here are well-fed and large by comparison to most.  Those on the streets wear the skins of the animals they hunt and eat.

            At the castle, Ruka exits again and gives the area a quick look over.  Then, he holds the door for Seere, who lifts his robe as he steps out onto the wet ground.  Together, they scale the long staircase, where two guards stop them at a set of large, molding wooden doors.

            “Who are you,” asks a guard in rusting armor.  He is tall and has his sword drawn and poised to strike.  The guard beside him, shorter and thinner but still quite stout, also has his weapon ready.

            Ruka looks between the two, and then Seere touches his shoulder.  He sighs and steps back, allowing Seere to take lead.  “I am Viscount Salamand of the House Seere, seventieth in line of the late king, Loki God Slayer, and I have come to call on my distant cousin, the mighty Count Serpens Andromalius, should he have time or interest in entertaining.”  Seere gives a low bow and does not rise until the guards respond.

            “You’re Viscount Seere,” the larger guard asks.

            “And how do we know it is really you,” the smaller guard says.

            “How do you know it’s not,” Seere asks, gracing the two with a smile.  “Were I not a lord, then why would I travel to your lands in the first place? And better yet, why would I travel with an escort?”

            “That don’t prove nothing,” the smaller guard says.

            The taller guard looks between them and nods.  “Yeah,” he says, “Don’t prove nothing.”

            “Really? Think on it a bit.  When last did either of you travel outside of your own lands?”

            The guards exchange glances.  “Well,” one says.  The other picks at the rust on his shoulder guard.

            “And, assuming you have travelled, would either of you travel with escort?”

            The tall guard taps his boot against the steps, testing the sole.  Beside him, the smaller guard says, “Well, that makes sense, I guess.  But then, ain’t we at war with them?”

            The tall guard looks up.  He lifts his blade slightly.  “Yeah, that’s right.  Ain’t we at war with you?”

            “When last did our nations do battle?  If we are, as you say, at war, we’re hardly doing it well,” Seere says.

            “Yeah, but then you might be here to kill the count and do it right.”

            “Yeah, right,” the smaller guard says, nodding firmly.

            Ruka growls and Seere looks back at him and sighs.  “Fine, have it your way,” he says, stepping to the side.

            The guards don’t have time to react before Ruka disarms them.  He smoothly bypasses their extended blades and yanks them free.  The smaller guard draws a thin, dull dagger from his belt and swipes wide, managing only to be kicked in the chest and knocked over the side of the stairwell.

            The taller guard doesn’t even get this.  Before he can respond at all Ruka has him pinned, face-first, against the door, with his arm twisted behind his back.  Leaning forward, Ruka growls into his ear, “If we were here for war, you would have already been killed.  Understand?”

            The taller guard nods as best he can with his head pinned to the door.

            “Good.  Then tell your lord that he has guests.  And be quick.”

            “R-right, of course,” the tall guard says, and Ruka releases him.  He looks back at Ruka and Seere before pulling one door slightly open and disappearing behind it.

            Ruka steps back and adjusts his cloak.  He rests his hands on his belt.  Seere looks at him. “Do you feel better now?”

            “Not better, but productive.”

            Seere shrugs.  “I suppose that is all one can ask for in life.”

            They wait together for a short time.  Minutes later, the guard returns and leads them inside.  They follow him down long, grey halls to a dilapidating audience chamber.  Pale, bleak light shines through dripping holes in the ceiling and through large, broken windows.  The chill from outside lingers in the air.  The walls of the chamber are barren, and a large, jagged throne sits at its center.

            Sitting on the throne is an equally large demon, largest of the lords Seere knows.  He is muscle on muscle, with the body of the gods from old stories, and his corrupted blood gives him the strength of twenty demons combined.  Upon seeing Seere, he crosses his enormous arms over his massive chest.  “Viscount Seere and his guard.  Welcome.  It is a surprise to find you waiting at my step.”

            Seere approaches and they join hands.  Seere’s hand is swallowed by the Andromalius’.  They shake, vigorously, and then Seere steps back, allowing Ruka to shake hands with the lord as well.

            “I heard a tale that you gave my guards a good beating.  Surprised someone like you remembers what it is to be demon, considering your lord’s love of words.”

            “Not all nobles share gifts given of flesh, Lord Andromalius,” Seere says.

            “Real nobles do,” Andromalius snorts, and he stomps back to his throne and slumps into it. Resting his head on one massive, balled fist, he says, “Now then, why exactly are you here?  You’ve long been withdrawn from the world.  What brings this change?”

            “Circumstances,” Seere says, “New ones.”

            “What circumstances?”

            “Well, if you insist on knowing, I had sent hunters out not long ago.  My people hungered, you see, and required fresh meat from the plains around my home.  My hunters, while following the trail of a particularly stout beast, stumbled onto your lands and became lost…”

            “Lost?  Must you always be so coy?”

            “Coy? I speak only the truth, lord, for I would never dream to lie to you,” Seere says.

            Andromalius growls.  “What did your hunters find?”

            “A tree.  The gate tree, to be precise.”

            Andromalius sits up, grips the arms of his throne tightly.  “I see.  And what of it?”

            “It was open.”

            “You mean to say,” Andromalius pauses, brow knitted.  “The gate is in my wood, and…” 

            “Yes, lord, I mean to say.”

            “I see.”  Androamlius rubs his chin and watches Seere.  He scrutinizes him for a time, then asks, “And why bring this information to me?  I would never have known if you were not so courteous enough as to tell me.”

            “I came out of respect, lord, and to warn you, lest you forget what happened to our forefathers.  A gate opened goes both ways.  If we know, then I’d wager our enemies do, as well.  Should the elves once again declare war on our people, it will be yours who die first.”

            “I see,” Andromalius says after a lengthy pause.

            “So, I had come in hopes of proposing not only a truce, but perhaps even an alliance, at least until the nature of the gate and those beyond it are better understood.”

            “And why would you want that, viscount?  Were I to fall, that would leave you one less rival for the throne.”

            “Maybe, but after you fall I may be next.  If I am not to get the throne, then I want one of my people on it regardless, not a smooth-skinned outsider with a grudge,” Seere says.  “These are our lands, and we do not welcome outsiders.  On that, at least, I am sure we can agree.”

            Andromalius grunts.  “Entirely.  A truce, then, as strange as it is.  But you have my ear.”

            “And that is all I ask for,” Seere says, wearing his most earnest smile.

 

The Knights of Sheba 102…End