The Knights of Sheba, Ep. 7: "Fight or Flight" A

 Episode Seven: Fight or Flight

 

           The weekend comes, and, before work, Shirley drags Claude out to look for apartments.  They see four in total, with three that they like.  Shirley leads the charge, pen and notebook in hand.  Claude, meanwhile, trails somewhat melancholically behind.

            After each tour he finds himself growing more anxious.  Each apartment is smaller and more expensive than the last.  Their budget is not what he wants, and he sees no way of improving the situation without imposing further on Thomas or frustrating Shirley.

            After the last appointment they return to Shirley’s car.  It is a long uphill hike, the apartment being far from the parking lot where they parked.  The previous Midwestern warmth has been drained by the early stirrings of winter.  Claude can’t quite see his breath, but he expects to each time he exhales.

            As they hurry across a crosswalk, Claude says, “You know, I’ve been thinking about this moving thing, and maybe we should wait a bit on it.”

            “Wait?  Claude, you’ve been at that place for months.  It’s time for you to get a place of your own.”

            “But it’s not my own place, it will be our place, and you only just got here.”  Claude rubs the back of his neck. “Besides, none of those apartments had more than one bedroom.”

            “I only just got here, but I have a job already.  A good job.  Also, one bedroom isn’t a problem.  We’ve been to the beach before, so nothing we haven’t seen, and for the stuff we haven’t seen, we’ll just change in the bathroom.”

            “Still, I don’t want to rush this.”

            “We’ve already had this conversation,” Shirley says, stopping on the sidewalk and turning.  “And I won’t stay there, Claude.  I don’t feel right living like that.”

            “He insisted.”

            “Until we find a place,” Shirley says.  “And he thinks we’re dating.”  Claude blushes and stuffs his hands into his pockets.  He moves, passing her and leaving her to catch up.  “Listen, we’ve got income, and I have money saved up.  There’s no reason not to do this.”

            “It’s just too fast.”

            “I know, I know, it’s a lot of change.”  She matches his stride and looks him in the eyes.  “Listen when I say this, and I mean really listen, we can’t just sit around and wait for things to happen.  We have to make them happen ourselves.”

            “I know, I agree, but it just doesn’t feel right,” Claude says.  “You know my intuition.”

            Shirley shrugs as they reach the parking lot.  They keep to the sidewalk on the way to her car.  “Yes, but sometimes it’s wrong.”

            “When have I ever been wrong?”

            “You came up here without a job or any money, Claude.”

            “And that worked out.”

            “Because of luck and someone else’s kindness.” She sighs.  “And that’s only if you consider a complete dependency on another’s selflessness working out.”

            Claude rolls his eyes and waits by the passenger door.  “Shirley, I have other things to worry about.”

            “Your destiny, I know.  Righting wrongs, saving worlds.”  She unlocks the car.  “And how is that going?”

            “I’ve been doing good here,” he says before getting in.

            She joins him inside and turns the car on.  “I know, I’m sure you have.  I just think we should really move out.”  She looks at him.  “It’s all part of growing up.”

            “I am perfectly grown up,” Claude says, crossing his arms and slouching in his seat.

            “Claude.”

            He sighs.  “Right, sorry.  I just need time to think.”  He stares out the window and watches the clouds roll by lazily.  “Can you take me back?  I have to get to work.”

            Shirley stares at him silently for a few seconds and then shifts into reverse.  “Yeah, sure.  I’ll have you back in a few.”

 

-The Knights of Sheba-

 

            Dantalion’s duchy lies directly to the north of Seere’s viscounty and, where Seere holds the plains and Andromalius the forests, Dantalion commands the ports.  What goods that were shipped to the south always passed through his lands.  Since the current duke took the throne, however, the ports have been closed and trade stropped entirely.

            Some say that Dantalion is the cause for southern stagnation, though Seere believes differently.  He blames the lingering effects of the war with the elves, the legacy of the gate tree.  Whatever the cause, Seere knows that he needs to unite the south to save it, and so he has eyes set on the duchy.

            Seere travels, this time on foot, with a small assortment of guards, Ruka among them.  He wears a grey travel cloak and looks very much the common traveler.  Dantalion’s city is built upon a foundation of stones and lies, and so Seere must be careful.  He must keep to shadows and make his presence known only when it suits him.

            They enter the city through the front gate, earning only light scrutiny.  The guards here are as hungry and tired as the people making lives and dying in the streets.  Decades ago, Dantalion pulled most of his military from the city itself and barricaded them into his keep.  Yima’s reports say that the people are starving, that there are whispers of revolution.

            Looking at the broken streets now, Seere finds that doubtful.  Buildings crumble, stone laid paths swell with weeds, and demons lie in the streets hungry, tired, and hopeless. They watch him as he passes and know him as an outsider.  They can see the meat on his bones, the life in his eyes, and know he doesn’t belong.

            Seere’s soldiers close rank and keep close watch.

            Dantalion’s keep overlooks the city from a cliff, within the safety of an inner wall.  Seere makes the long climb up unattended stone stairs to the gate and stops, partway there, to take in the decaying city. From here, he can see all of the rooftops, collapsed by negligence and old age, and he resolves to fix them, each of them, however he must.

            He is met at the gate by attentive, well-fed guards, each tall and stout.  Seere stays in the center of his entourage, making himself known only after questioning.  He presents proof of his ancestry and his sigil, and they send word.  Sometime later, Seere is granted entry.

            They follow a group of guards through the courtyard and see a personal garden inside, food kept for lord alone.  As they move through the foyer more guards appear, and soon Seere is surrounded on all sides by Dantalion’s men.  Each looks grimmer and hungrier than the last.

            Inside, the keep is well-kept, much more so than Seere’s own.  The halls are wide, with a high and angular roof.  Sturdy pillars line the walkwasy and banners fly, bearing the antler and mask, sigil of the duchy.  From what Seere can see, there are no leaks or collapsed walls.

            They are led to the meeting hall at the far end of the keep.  The interior is wide, empty, and meticulously clean.  The walls are hung with gold-trimmed, blindingly red banners.  Each bares the house sigil.  Sitting on a high-backed throne, wearing a horned crown, is the duke.

            The duke Dantalion is a tall, lean demon wrapped in dark robes.  He covers his face with a steel mask and wears dark gloves over his thin hands.  When Seere enters and bows before him, Dantalion folds his hands calmly on his lap and speaks in a small, quiet voice.

            “Viscount Seere.  What brings you to my keep?”

            “Don’t you wish to see proof of my lineage before you bestow me such titles?”  Seere offers his damp pedigree.

            Dantalion waves it off.  “Such things may be forged.  I would rather see with my own eyes.”

            “And do your eyes find proof of my regality?”

            “Your bearing proves it.  No demon could stand in the presence of a noble with their head held high, save for those of nobility.  You are the Viscount Seere, as you claim.  I have no doubt of that.”

            Seere smiles faintly and pulls back his hood.  Then, he lifts his long hair from his cloak and drapes it over one shoulder before looking Dantalion straight in the mask.  “Now, now, we both know that is not true.  Why, a demon pauper could look a noble in the eye, were they brave enough, or well-trained.  And I have proof of that.”  Seere nods at Ruka, who hurls a long, thin blade at the throne.  It lands just shy of the Duke’s head.

            Soldiers surround them, pikes drawn, but Seere simply stares.  The Duke pulls the blade from the throne and turns it over in his hands.  “And they are say you are clever.”  The Duke stands from his throne, unfolding as he does.  He looks taller now, and larger.  “You come here, to my city, to my home, and try to assassinate me before my guard?  Perhaps there is something I do not know.”

            “We both know, but I will play along.”  Seere steps forward and pushes one of the pike men to the side.  “Excuse me,” he says absently while approaching the throne.  He stops at the base of the throne and holds Dantalion’s gaze.  “You are no duke, but a pauper playing the part.  The duke is watching from the rafters, aren’t you, Dalton?”

            Seere looks up to the booth set high into the wall to his right.  Hidden behind a curtain is another tall, thin demon dressed in all black and wearing a steel mask.  The demon on the throne slumps back into his seat and watches Seere turn his back to him.

            “My business is with you, not with your players, admirable though his performance was.”

            An attendant pulls the curtain to the side, and Dantalion stares down at Seere for a few quiet seconds before speaking.  “How did you know?”

            “Call it intuition or perhaps a matter of regal bearing.  Now, dear Dalton, if you would join us.”

            “Speak, if that is what you came for, but I will not lower myself to your level.”

            Seere laughs.  “Oh, you may yet.”  He waves to Ruka, who brings him a satchel.  “I’ve come with gifts, an offering of peace, if you will.  For far too long the demon lords have warred with each other, for a throne that has already eroded.  Our people are tired, and our nations are burning.  I believe it is time to bring an end to all of this chaos.”

            “And how do you propose we do that?”

            “We all wage war in hypotheticals, each us too frightened to open our borders or mobilize our armies for fear of what will pass in their absence.”

            “And yet you stand before me, a lord without his nation.”

            Seere smiles.  “I am of a foolish stock.”

            “And I am inclined to agree.”

            “And there it is, the Dantalion wit.”  Seere reaches into the satchel.  “I’m sure you’ve heard news of the gate tree, of its reopening.  The demon realm is no longer a world adrift but has been reconnected.”

            “My scouts brought me rumors, yes.”

            “The south will be first to fall, should the enemy come, and they will come.  I believe that we should be ready, so I come seeking peace.”  From within the satchel, Seere extracts the broken spear brought by the scavengers.  He arranges the pieces, carefully, on the floor and steps away.

            “You bring a broken spear to offer peace?  Your symbolism is as empty as your gesture.”

            “This is no simple spear.  It is grungr, the lance of a god.  Once thrown, it will always find its target, and it will always kill.  Once, it was a mighty weapon used to slay our ancestors, and I believe that it is meant only for mighty hands to wield.”

            Dantalion is quiet, and Seere can see him thinking.  After consideration, he says, “It is broken.”

            “You possess resource enough to fix it, I am sure.”

            “And what would I do with it? I am a merchant, Seere, not a warlord.”

            “Yes, and that is our greatest weakness, is it not?  Scholars and merchants have little place in a world of warlords and kings.  Andromalius has the gate, and beyond it, limitless worlds of resources and ancient, divine weaponry.”

            “What are you suggesting?”

            “I’ve sent scavengers to search the old worlds, to find relics of the past, and return with them to me.  And they have brought me a great many things. I suggest we combine our resources, conquer Androamlius quickly and keep the gate for ourselves, so that we may use it freely, and so that we might keep watch for signs of invasion.”

            “And so, we will be first to fall.”

            “We stand better chance with Andromalius gone,” Seere says.  “And consider this, his forests are thick with game.  Our people would eat like kings, grow fat and strong and loyal as we feed them.  Warlords we’re not, but in time we might have a proper army.”

            Dantalion pauses again, ponders the suggestion.  “And should I agree, we will then lay siege to his keep?”

            “In time.  For now, we will wait, and watch, and prepare, and when the time is right, we will take his lands.  And, of course, you may keep the spear as proof of our treaty.”

            Again, Dantalion goes quiet.  When he speaks, he says, “That I can agree to.  We have an alliance.”

            “Good. And another thing, before I leave these halls.  I would like proof of your commitment.  You see, I have given you the lance, but you have offered me nothing in return.”

            “I see,” Dantalion says.  “I haven’t the resources to offer divine weapons in return.”

            “But you do have something else to offer.”  Seere snaps his fingers, and Yima steps forward from the within soldiers’ ranks, dragging a thin, fair featured figure with her.  She throws the figure down and stomps him into silence before pulling her hood back.  The figure’s hood falls from his face, revealing golden hair and pointed ears.  An elf rests there, pinned beneath her foot, his nose broken and his face stained with blood.

            “You’ve the gift of language, and I am in great need of that gift for now.  If you could, please teach my demoness friend here the elven language, and then we may finalize our treaty.”

            Dantalion stares and then waves his hand.  “Fine, but not here.  I do not trust your men.  We will meet in my private chambers, with my personal guard in attendance.”

            “That sounds fine,” Seere says, and he turns to the imposter on the throne.  “Lead the way, if you would, my lord.”

 

-The Knights of Sheba-

 

Geneva tumbles and lands flat on her back.  She is breathless, sweaty, and all around humiliated.  The elves left nearly half an hour ago, bored from watching her fail, and went outside to resume their own training.  The flailing of the little human girl playing knight isn’t even entertaining to them anymore.

            Panting, Geneva forces herself to sitting and wipes her brow.  “Are we done yet?”

            “No. There is still much to do.”  Ms. Olivia takes Geneva’s hand and pulls her to standing.  Then, she hands off her own wooden sword to Geneva.  “We can retire the swords for now, however.”

            “Thank Zeus,” Geneva says.  “I mean, no offense, but I’m not sure you kicking my butt from one end of this room to another is teaching me as much as you like to believe.”

            “You will learn in time.  Until then, I’m at least teaching you how to take a hit.”

            “Hardy-har, teacher’s got jokes,” Geneva says, hanging the swords on the wall.  “So, what’s up next? You want to practice throwing me down some stairs?”

            “Actually, I was hoping to have you conjure your armor,” Ms. Olivia says.

            “Oh.”  Geneva rubs her arm self-consciously.

            “You haven’t done it since that day.”

            Geneva holds out her hand and stares at the ring.  According to the books Ms. Olivia gave her, the ring has insinuated itself into her body, linked to her nervous system.  She can’t take it off even if she wants to, and after a day of trying and a tub of butter, she is inclined to believe that. She shrugs. “I haven’t had much reason to.  I mean, no more demons.”

            “For now but should more appear, I would like to be ready.”

            “Oh,” Geneva says, “That’s why we’ve been playing that game where you try to crack me open like a piñata.  I thought it was some sort of elven tradition.”

            “Ms. Oaks, please do try to be serious.”

            “I am trying. I promise,” Geneva says.  “But, even if I am serious, I don’t know how to turn this thing from a ring into armor. I don’t even know where to start.”

            “And that is why we must train.”  Ms. Olivia paces around the room.  “Unfortunately, the literature is limited.  Few elves believed the knights would be necessary after events transpired.”

            “Yeah?  Well, I’ve got a suggestion.”

            “Yes?”

            “Why don’t we call it a day?  Let me go home and take a nap, and we’ll see if the armor is on when I wake up.”

            Ms. Olivia stops and looks at her.  “Ms. Oaks.”

            “Hey, at least I’m coming up with ideas.”

            Ms. Olivia folds her arms and stares at the floor.  “Try to focus on it.”

            “On the ring?”  Ms. Olivia nods.  “Okay, like, how?  Just stare at it really hard until my head hurts?”

            “No, it is a part of you now, isn’t it?  Try to move it.”

            “Try to move it?  It’s on my finger, but it’s not a finger.”

            “Ms. Oaks.”

            Geneva sighs.

            “If you can’t do that, then try to remember how it felt when you put the ring on.”

            “I don’t know how it felt.  I mean, I was in the forest, I was running, I heard a scream, and then I just kind of put it on.  And got my butt kicked in.  Not much thought involved.”

            “So, when you put it on, what were you thinking?”

            Geneva shrugs.  “Wasn’t.  I saw the demon-thing, I knew how strong it was.  I mean, not specifically how strong IT was, but I have experience.  You get the point.  Anyway, I couldn’t leave those people alone to fight it.”

            “Fight or flight.”

            “What?”

            “Ms. Oaks, I’ve an idea.”  Ms. Olivia turns her back to Geneva and crosses the room to the shooting range.  There, she grabs a pistol.

            “Uh, Ms. O?  What’re you doing?”

            Ms. Olivia grabs a clip and slips it into the pistol. Then, she turns and trains the weapon on Geneva.  “If you cannot use the ring, Ms. Oaks, then we must find someone else who can.”

            Geneva freezes.  She stares, wide-eyed, and lifts her arms defensively in front of her.  Deep down, she knows they can’t stop a bullet.  “Okay, fine, that’s good and all.  So, just tell me how to take it off, and I’ll go on my way.”

            “Unfortunately, that is impossible.  Even if there was a way to remove the ring from your living body—which there is not—you still know too much.  I told you from the start, there is no turning back.  So, you either conjure your armor.”  Ms. Olivia cocks the gun.  “Or you die.”

            Geneva backs away, with Ms. Olivia following, until she meets a wall.  She looks back, to confirm that she can go no further, and then faces Ms. Olivia again.  Her legs feel weak, so weak that they give out.  As she speaks, her voice cracks.  “You can’t be serious about this!  You’re the one who told me all of those things.  It’s not my fault.  I didn’t want any of this.”

            “Perhaps you’re right.  If so, then it is my mistake, and so I must fix it.  Goodbye, Ms. Oaks.”

            “Please.  Don’t.  I’m trying, I’m serious, I promise.  I’m trying so hard!”

            “It’s not good enough.”  Ms. Olivia pulls the trigger, and Geneva closes her eyes and holds her breath.

            A gunshot echoes through the basement.  Geneva can feel the vibrations ring through her chest and keeps her eyes closed, counting the passing seconds.  There is no pain and, soon, there is only silence.  Geneva wonders if it is shock and, after a few more seconds, opens her eyes.

            She is fine.  Not only is she unharmed, her armor has appeared, the beige mesh clinging tight to her form while white plates gleam.  She looks to her side to find a small hole in the foundation, and then she looks back at Ms. Olivia, who is smiling. “You!”

            “I had no intention of shooting you, Ms. Oaks, and I do apologize for the theatrics.  When you told me that the ring activated on its own before battle, it gave me the idea.”  Ms. Olivia returns to the firing range and puts the gun away.  “You see, it was triggered by your fight or flight response.  When you decided to run into battle, the armor reacted.  In the very same way as it reacted now to protect you.”  Ms. Olivia looks back at Geneva, who is still pressed firmly against the wall.  “That is the trigger.”

            “Yay.  Yippee.  That’s good and all,” Geneva says, standing.  Her legs still feel weak.  “Whenever I need to put it on, I guess you have to shoot at me.”

            “Maybe.  It seems to require a mindset for battle.  If we can capture that, then you will able to conjure it at any time.”

            “Yeah, well, great,” Geneva says, crossing her arms.  She is glaring through her helmet and is upset that Ms. Olivia can’t see her disapproval.  They stand in silence for a moment, and then Geneva asks, “So, what are we going to do until the armor goes away?”

            “I am not entirely sure.  I hadn’t thought that far ahead.”

 

-The Knights of Sheba-

 

            After conjuring the armor, Ms. Olivia and Geneva wait thirty minutes for it to recede.  Seeing no changes coming, they return to training, and Geneva finds herself able to keep up, even if she is still technically outclassed. She is able, with luck and the advantage of the armor, to disarm Ms. Olivia once.

            Afterward, a surprise kick to the gut leaves her on the ground and feeling humbled.

            While they continue their training, Ms. Olivia informs Geneva of the benefits of the armor.  Not only does it offer protection to the user, but it increases their strength by nearly five-fold.  According to texts, while wearing the armor, Geneva also has heightened senses, can breathe underwater, and can read and speak any known language.

            As they cool down from the workout, the armor melts from her body like warm ice cream and solidifies around her finger.  By this point, Geneva is breathless and sore.  As an apology, Ms. Olivia takes her home early.

            Just under an hour later, Ms. Olivia parks in front of Geneva’s house and asks, “I will see you tomorrow, yes? After school?”

            “What, worried you’ll miss target practice?

            “Ms. Oaks, I think that will hardly be necessary now that we have figured the trigger out.”

            Geneva frowns. “Trigger, real funny. Yes, I’ll be there, okay?”  As she climbs from the car, she mutters, “Not like I have a choice.”

            “Good.  Then, have a nice night, and get plenty of rest.”

            “Rest!”  Geneva laughs.  “Yeah, that’ll happen.”  She waves after shoving the SUV door shut.

            Inside, the first thing Geneva does is drop her things in her bedroom and go for a shower.  Afterward, she wraps herself in a robe—once pink and long since faded, a hand-me-down from her mother—and slumps down onto her bed so she can stare at her ceiling.

            This is her life now, early mornings, long classes, evening training sessions, and late nights studying.  The deeper in she goes, the less she believes in herself.  Protecting people is important, but there is a great amount of violence involved in it, and she doesn’t feel cut out for it.

            She isn’t a soldier.  She’s just a seventeen-year-old girl.

            She rolls onto her side and sulks.  The decision is made.  Ms. Olivia may have been putting on a show, but she said it straight.  Geneva can’t turn her back now any more than she can remove the ring.  She made her decision and now has to deal with the consequences.

            Sighing, she sits up and reaches for her nightstand.  Pulling the ancient books from her desk, she finds where she left off and starts reading.

 

-The Knights of Sheba-

 

            The phone rings, and Geneva jerks into wakefulness.  She wipes sleep from her eyes on the second ring and answers the phone just before the third.  “Hello, Oaks residence, this is Geneva speaking.”

            “Aw, that’s darling.  Is that how you answer the phone?”

            Geneva smacks her lips.  “Oh.  Hey, Kit, what’s up?”

            “Nothing much, just wondering, what’re you doing this weekend?”

            Geneva folds the book she was reading shut and sits up in bed.  The room spins gently, and she blinks and yawns to clear her head.  “Why?”

            “What do you mean, why? I want to hang out.  Maybe catch a movie?”

            “Depends, who’s throwing it,” Geneva says, and when Kit doesn’t laugh, she says, “Yeah, I’d like to go.”  It isn’t until she speaks that she remembers Ms. Olivia and her knight’s training, and by that point, she can already hear the excitement in Kit’s voice.

            She decides to try and get another day off or otherwise plan around it.

            “Cool. We can meet in the afternoon on Saturday, I guess?  I still can’t stay out too late, being grounded and all.”

            “But you can go to movies?”

            “My parents are busy.  Speaking of which, they just got home.  I should go.  See you soon, sweets.”

            Geneva smiles.  “Bye.”

            After hanging up the phone, Geneva marks where she was and hopes she can remember where she fell asleep.  Then, she sets the book aside and reaches for her backpack.  Despite Ms. Olivia’s promises, her homework isn’t getting done while training.  Sighing, she pulls a large stack of books and stray sheets of paper from inside and lays them across her pillow.

            She stares at it with the forlorn hopelessness of a teenager.  Sometimes, it doesn’t feel like there are enough hours in the day.

 

 

Knights of Sheba 107 A…End