The Knights of Sheba, Ep. 17: "Into the Belly of the Beast" A

Episode Seventeen: Into the Belly of the Beast

 

            Tree-trunk sized roots stretch overhead, touching the sky and covering it entirely.  The ground is soft and wet.  Thick, green grass grows, dew-damp and knee high.  Their foot falls squelch as the mud tries desperately to swallow their shoes.

            The crossing is exhausting, sapping both energy and will from them for a time.  Upon arrival, Geneva bends at the waist to catch her breath and to keep from falling forward.  The world, a hazy, indistinct blur of light, sways dizzyingly around her.  She can’t see the sun, only infinite darkness folded into the series of endlessly braided roots

            In the darkness she can see things taking shape, familiar things made unfamiliar by her imagination.

            Claude, who is similarly doubled over beside her, pushes himself up.  A thin layer of sweat cools against his skin.  “You okay,” he asks between heavy pants.

            “Fine,” Geneva says, sinking into the wet grass and feeling the damp seep into her pants. “Or sick.”  She leans back onto her hands and stares up at the sky. “Feels like I ran a freaking marathon.”

            “Yeah.”  Claude puts his hands on his hips and surveys everything before them.  “Must be a side effect of moving between worlds or something.”  He looks back, stares into the darkness.  “Uh, Geneva, don’t you remember a forest behind us when we left?”

            “Yeah, why do you,” Geneva looks back, “…Ask.”

            The area immediately behind them is very much like everything surrounding them—endless darkness bordered only by roots, enormous roots that grow larger every time she sees them.  Those immediately before her shimmer faintly in the darkness, looking more like skyscrapers than tree trunks now.

            Geneva stands and turns slowly, wiping her wet hands on her equally wet rear.  “There, uh, was a forest here.  I’m not crazy.  Right?”

            Claude shakes his head and sighs.  “This whole thing is crazy.”  Gathering himself, he pulls his satchel around and draws a map from it.  “Okay, now that we’ve caught our breath, let’s see where we are, and where Shirley is.”

            “Right.”  Geneva moves in close and looks at the map alongside Claude, who holds it stretched carefully between his two hands and is mindful not to let it tear.  He squints at it while she points at what looks like a tangle of roots.  “Think that’s where we are?”

            Claude looks at where they came from, or where he thinks they came from at least, and then back at the map.  “Probably.  Suppose it’s our way back?”

            Geneva appraises the roots now.   “Sure.  It looks kind of...Earthy.”

            “Okay, so if that’s our landmark.”  He draws a trail across the map with his eyes.  “Then we need to go that way,” he says, looking left.  “Let’s call it West, I guess.”

            “West-I-Guess, got it,” she says, covering her eyes and squinting into the distance.  “You know what’s weird?  It’s like I can see and not see.  Like I’m wearing 3D glasses that cover everything in shadows.”  She looks at Claude, who shrugs.

            “Whatever it is, we can ask them about it later, when we come back with Shirley.”

            “Good point,” Geneva says, and she follows Claude away from the root, down a very light slope and deeper into the darkness.

 

-The Knights of Sheba-

 

            They walk for hours in the darkness, and Geneva is surprised by the warmth of the air and the smell of it, too.  It is as if she is walking through a field of flowers, wet from a fresh spring rain.  There is no sunlight, but she can feel its warmth on her skin and in her lungs as she breaths.

            As she walks, she watches the sky and sees small, pinpricks of light nestled among the canopy of roots.  She squints at them and counts them and does anything to keep herself from considering where they—Claude and herself—are and where they are going.  So far, she hasn’t felt afraid of their daunting task, but she figures that’s mostly because she’s still in shock.

            Claude leads the way, stopping to check the map every few minutes.  He has a silent focus that leaves little room for conversation.  That silence is just something else putting Geneva on edge.

            Another hour passes and Claude brings them to a stop.  He kneels down in the grass and creeps forward, and Geneva mimics him.  Ahead there are voices and, walking in a cleared path cut through the grass, are a group of soldiers, clad in green and black uniforms and carrying with them what looks like an oil lantern.  There are three in total, each with a rifle.

            Claude sits in the grass, letting it swallow him to the shoulders.  Geneva sits beside him, quiet.  When the voices pass, Claude looks at her.  “Elves.”

            “Looks like.”

            “We should be careful.”  Claude unfolds the map and squints at it.  Even in the darkness they can see.  Things here, Geneva realizes, somehow produce their own light.   A lantern would be unnecessary, but Geneva can see why the elves have it.  Even though she can see just fine, her eyes seem to doubt the information they are receiving.

            “We’ll avoid the roads,” Claude says.  He points to a place on the map.  “I figure we’re about here, though there’s no real way to bring it all to scale.”  He rolls up the map and peeks over the grass.  When he is sure it is clear, he stands and turns.  “We’ll cut across this way and hopefully won’t run into any more patrols.”

            “Sounds good to me,” Geneva says, standing alongside him and patting her damp rear with a frown.  “Anything to keep from making this harder than it has to be.”

            They move quietly through the grass, half-bent to hide from view.  Again, they walk for what feels like empty hours, though Geneva is beginning to doubt her perception of time.  The sky doesn’t change, though she can a change around her.  The air grows wetter as they travel, and she can see a light up ahead, can smell fresh, clear water.

            Claude brings them to a stop again and surveys the map.  His frown is telling, as is the stiffness of his posture.  They are lost.  Geneva doesn’t say anything.  She just stands there, hands behind her back, and waits for him to announce it.  Even when he does, she doesn’t have advice to offer.

            They stand in the tall grass, staring out at the darkness together, their energy dwindling.  Geneva still feels tired from passing through the gate tree, but she doesn’t want to say anything.  Somewhere, Shirley is waiting, captured or worse.  They both know it, and Geneva knows that it is all Claude is thinking about.

            She asks to see the map and looks it over.  It is crudely drawn and deeply wrinkled.  She traces her fingers along it while surveying the area around them.  A light in the distance catches her eye, makes it harder to see.  Like the gate trees, it seems to siphon the light of its surroundings.  Geneva turns her back from it, hoping to see more clearly that way.

            Holding the map up, she compares it to the landscape around her.  The problem she is facing is that there are no directions, no latitude or longitudes, just vague figures and foreign symbols.  Her ring bestows her with the knowledge of language but not with artistic interpretation.  Even the root that they found earlier on the map can just barely be called a root.

            After a few minutes, she purses her lips and hands the map back to Claude.  “Okay, I got nothing.”

            “Yeah, thanks for that.”  Claude jerks the map open and starts doing his own search for landmarks.

            “Hey, you got that magic-knowing thing, don’t you?  So, why don’t you use it and just know where to go?”

            “It’s not magic.  It’s intuition.”

            “Then be intuitive.”

            Claude sighs and holds the map up in his hands, resuming his search.

            Geneva waits, too, and she watches him while doing it.  She starts tapping her foot.  “You can, uh, do it whenever you like.”

            “No, I can’t,” Claude says, eyes fixed on landscape.

            “And why not?”

            “Because my gifts don’t work here.”

            “Oh, of course they don’t.”

            Claude slouches, lowering the map and staring at the damp grass.  Watching him, Geneva realizes that Shirley is the only thing keeping him standing, like he is failing himself as much as he is failing her.  “I didn’t know,” he whispers.  “It wasn’t until the elves appeared. I tried to use my gifts, to make an illusion around us and,” he sighs, looks at her, “It’s not there.”

            “Oh.  Well, what happened?”

            He shrugs.  “I think I lost my connection,” he says.  “My powers, my gifts, they come from my connection to the world.  I can feel the current and, for brief periods, direct it.  I can’t feel it anymore.”

            “Well.  Crap.”

            Claude takes a deep breath.  “And that’s why I can’t just use my intuition.”  He lifts the map again and examines it.  “This map is the only hope we have of finding the demon realm and finding Shirley.”

            “No, it’s not,” Geneva says, a smile blooming on her face.  “We know where the demon realm was before, right?  Why not just start walking in that direction again?  It should take us right there.”  Geneva turns and turns again.  “It’s, uh, somewhere, right?”

            “That won’t work either,” Claude says.  “This map is sketchy, at best.  It uses no form of measurement, and we don’t know what scale it was drawn to, if there is even a formal scale.  So, there’s no way to know if we’ve passed it or even where we are now.”

            “Okay, then we go back to the road.  Follow it.”

            “Can’t,” Claude says.  “The elves are walking the road.  They might see us, and that will only complicate things.”

            Geneva takes a deep breath and holds it.  She releases her frustration as she exhales and then hurries to his side.  “Landmarks it is, then.  So, you pick one and I pick one.”  She points at the map.  “Like this. I’ll look for this here, what?  Honeycomb?”

            “Honeycomb?”  Claude frowns at the map, tilts it sideways.  “I don’t know.  I don’t think—that’s definitely not a honeycomb.”

            “Sure it is, and if you think it looks weird, imagine the bees that come from it.”

            Geneva turns her back on him and resumes staring into the darkness.  Claude, still frowning, lowers the map and stares ahead, looking for nothing in particular.  While Geneva wanders away, he sees something in the distance and his breath catches.  He takes a few steps, squinting to see through the haze of light to his right, and he says, “Geneva, I think it’s a city.”

            “City?  Like, an elven city?”  Geneva turns and starts squinting at his side.  Hanging from the underside of the roots, built into the bark and winding wood, is a withered city populated only by shadows.  “No way those are elven.”

            “Maybe not but,” Claude checks the map, smiles.  “They’re a landmark.”

            “That they are,” Geneva says, shielding her eyes now with her hands.  Beyond the short, squat building she can see something else.  A set of eyes, each the size of a mountain, watching her as she watches them

Geneva pats Claude’s arm.  “And I think maybe we should get going.”

            “Huh? You okay?”

            “Yeah,” Geneva says, tearing her eyes away.  “Just, Shirley’s waiting, right?”

            “Right.”

            “So, where to next?”

            Claude pulls up the map again and finds the honeycombs.  He traces his finger between the area Nina had circled and then turns his body accordingly.  “I think we can go this way.  We’ll have to cross a road, but if we’re careful, I think we can avoid detection.  And, if our estimations are right, then we’re not that far off.”

            “Good,” Geneva says, turning to glance back at the city and finding the eyes still there.  “Then, let’s go.  There are heroics to be had.”

 

-The Knights of Sheba-

 

            The air outside is cool and wet, and though the sun is shining, Seere can see storm clouds gathering in the distance.  Thunder’s roar precedes them.  He watches their slow approach through his chamber window, parchments scattered and forgotten on the desks behind him.

            A map of the kingdoms lies stretched beneath the parchments, held in place by four knives wedged deeply into the wood.  Markings written in ink are scratched into the map’s ancient face, noting battles fought long ago and marking boundaries lines still standing

            Yima enters through his open chamber door.  She is wearing her muddy, tattered travel cloak and, a rarity these days, her own face.  He turns and meets her with a smile, and she returns with a tired, haughty stare.  Without asking, she crosses the room and pours herself a glass of fresh water, and she drinks it swiftly before pouring another.

            “Thirsty,” Seere asks, pulling his shutters closed and returning to his table.

            She turns to him, glaring while holding the second glass to her lips.  She drinks it fast and then slams the glass down.  Then, she joins him at the table.

            “You seem in a mood.”

            “They failed.”  She pulls her hood back and fishes out her long, dark braid.  While unknotting her cloak, “The fools failed!”

            Seere’s expression sobers.  He fans his long, thin fingers out and pressed them onto the table.  “Oh?”

            “They grabbed the wrong girl,” she says, tossing her cloak onto the floor.  She leans forward onto the table, resting on her balled fists.  Deep, old scars mark her toned arms, running up the sides of them and melding into the ones hidden on her back.  “I explained everything to them, everything!  And they grabbed the wrong girl.”

            Seere smiles now and chuckles quietly.  He stops when he hears Yima’s growl and he feels her glare on him.  “Yes, yes, it is all very serious,” he says, lifting his hands in defense.  “But still, you must see the humor in it.”

            “No, I really, really don’t.”

            “A knight’s duty, if my memory serves, is to protect all humans,” Seere says.  “And this girl they took.  Is she in anyway connected to our knight?”

            Yima waves her hand, huffs.  “Vaguely.  She knows someone close to her or something of the like.  At most, they’ve spoken on occasion.”

            “Then it may still work.”  Seere gathers his papers and starts sorting them carefully into piles by battle.  “So long as the girl knows, then it will be sure to draw her out.”  Seere shrugs.  “And even if it doesn’t, then it is just greater leverage we have.”

            Yima pushes up from the table, crosses her arms, and maintains her glare.  Her jaw is tight, but her tone stays civil.  “You never fight your own battles.”

            “I am a lord,” Seere says, folding his parchment and binding it carefully before returning it to the proper shelves.  “And like any proper demon lord, I have soldiers who fight for me.”

            “But they don’t fight for you, either.”

            Seere pauses, nods, and resumes his work.  “Well, why waste good soldiers when I can have someone else die instead?”

            “And what if they don’t die?  What if Dantalion succeeds, kills the knight, and it makes him bold? Or what if the knight wins, and it makes the elves bold, and they begin to come and go as they please, bringing greater trouble to our doorstep?”

            “Then we prove them wrong before it can,” Seere says.  “If the knight succeeds then we lose Dantalion.  If the knight fails, then she is dead.  If either means to bring trouble to us, intentional or otherwise, then we kill them ourselves.”

            “This is foolish.  Even should she hear of the girl’s kidnapping, she won’t go through all of this for a mere stranger.”

            “If your reports are to be believed, then she will.  Besides, humans are idealistic and live in a world where that doesn’t kill them.”  He smiles.  “It must be nice.”

            “Nice?” Yima sneers.

            “Oh.  And the maps?”

            “They have them.  The fools didn’t mess that up, at least.”

            “Good,” Seere says.  “Then all we have to do is sit back and see how our schemes twist.”

            “Right.”  Yima takes a deep breath and gathers her cloak.  She fastens it around her neck again and pours herself one last glass of water.  After drinking it, she wipes her mouth and goes to the door.  “Then, I should be on my way.”

            “Yes, you should.  See that whatever happens, happens in our favor.”

            Yima grunts and sees her way out of the room.

 

-The Knights of Sheba-

 

            “I think we’ll be there soon,” Claude says.  He stands now atop a hill.  His estimations are still vague but the landmarks are helping.  The landscape itself varies little, but they can feel a significant change in the atmosphere.  This area is colder and perhaps somewhat darker.  They can still see, but everything seems ill-defined and edged by deeper shadows.

            Geneva watches the sky as they walk.  The sparkling lights are faded but the city remains ever in the distance, immobile.  She can’t see the eyes anymore, though she isn’t sure that they aren’t still watching her.  Up, high above, she can hear scratching and, the longer she stares, she is sure the shadows are moving, winding between the roots.

            They keep going until they find snow.  The grass is frozen into blades that crunch under their feet.  The path leads them to a great root, ten-bodies-wide, that is covered in hoarfrost.  Their breath steams as they stand nearby and regard it.

            Geneva points at it.  “Claude, I think that’s it.  I think that’s the gate.”

            He looks at her, then at the root, and scratches his chin.  “You think?”  He checks the map.  “Could be, I guess.  What makes you think that, though?”

            “I don’t know, I just—there was a giant root like this when we left our world.”  Geneva eyes the icy root.  It is thawing, slowly, and she can see the water softening the soil beneath it.  Following the root up, she can see where it coils into the other roots high above.  The wood looks soft and discolored, like it is bruised or sick. She swallows.  “It’s definitely here.”

            Claude takes a deep breath.  He looks at her, at the signet shining on her finger, and then rolls up the map.  “I see.  Well, then, here we go.  Come on.”

            He takes a step forward, and Geneva stops him.  “Wait.  Are you feeling better?”

            “Better?”  Claude puts his hands in his pockets, shivers.

            “Your ma—your gifts?”

            “No,” he says.  “Not really.”

            “Will you be okay?  I can do this alone if you...”

            “I’m saving her,” he says, and he closes distance to the tree.  He stops in front of it, shivering in the cold.  There is snow here, up to his ankles.

            Geneva follows him, coming to a stop beside him.  “Wonder why it’s so cold here,” she says, gazing at the frosty grass and frozen flowers.  The ice looks thicker on the root, like liquid glass with air bubbles frozen into the surface.  “So, how do we?”

            Claude shrugs, and she does, too.

            “You know,” she says, “Feels like mission control kind of halfed it, doesn’t it?”

            “They gave us the map, and that was a big help.  This, we’ll have to figure out.”  Claude eyes the root, stares into the grooves within the bark that spread like veins.  He follows them up into the darkness until he cannot see them anymore.  Experimentally, he touches the ice, and a cold bite parts his skin.  He pulls back to find blood smeared across his palm and curls his fingers over the damaged flesh.  “Okay, didn’t work.”

            Beside him, Geneva stands silent and still, and she stares at the bark until she doesn’t even see it.  There is a woman in front of her, hazy like a dream, with dark hair and bronze skin.  She is wearing a suit of white armor, and she is bleeding against the gate.  Ice grows around it, around her, climbing the tree faster than a person ever could.  It surrounds the tree like a shell, like a prison.

            Geneva blinks away the apparition, she reaches forward.  “It didn’t because you touch the wrong spot,” she says, placing her hand flat on the bark.  The world around her blurs into a singularity and then into darkness.  She is dragged through things, each part of her separated at a quantum level.  When she reappears the cold is gone, replaced by stifling humidity.

            She falls forward, landing on her chest.  Wet earth breaks her fall and thunder growls in the distance.  Trees, large, black-barked trees with leaves in colors and shades she can hardly describe, stand tall around her.  She sees swaths of yellow and brown mingling with bloody reds in the foliage.

            Her legs are weak, and she is breathless.  It takes effort to stand and time to keep from vomiting.  When she can, she looks back to find a tree.  It is enormously tall, its branches brushing the sky, perhaps even reaching through it.  Claude is there, too, with her, stumbling from the tree just in time for her to catch him.

            They fall together.

            Geneva holds him while he coughs, and she pats his back.  “I think we made it,” she says, and she helps him stand.  Claude steadies against her.  He is pale and sweating, and no matter how hard he tries, he can’t catch his breath. 

            Geneva wipes her forehead.  Her entire body is broken out into a cold sweat, but the air around her is damp and warm. She tugs her blouse and fans herself.  “Maybe we should take a break real fast.”

            “No,” Claude says, stumbling forward.  “There’s no time.  We have to save her.  We have to…”  He gets that far and three steps away, and he...

            He sees a blue dot, surrounded by vast darkness.  It is a marble, a speck, a tiny thing small enough to balance on a single finger.  He towers over it, floats it between his hands, and despite its miniscule size he can feel within it infinite power and importance.  He can feel warmth and life, and it glows in the darkness, in his palms.

            Swirls of white and smears of green can be seen, set into the surface of it.  Looking closer, he can see shifting waves and stalwart stone.  He can see surging clouds and people, the size of molecules, moving and living.  The dot spins in his palm, and the people spin with it, held there by inertia and by something else infinitely more powerful.  Claude can feel them breathing, thinking, living, and he can feel the world around them doing the same.

            It shrinks, condensing into a pin-prick, fading into something less.  Then, it is nothing at all.  Only the light remains, and soon that is gone, too.  Now, he is alone in the dark, cold and empty, without breath.  He reaches out, tries to seize something, anything, but there is nothing left for him there.

            Cold creeps into him and holds him there.  It drags him into the shadows, which swallow first his legs and then his arms, pulls him in by the limbs and engulfs his torso.  He tries to scream but there is no sound.  Shadows fill his mouth, his nostrils, his lungs.  He suffocates, and he, too, fades away.

            Then, he is gone.

 

The Knights of Sheba 117 A…End