The Knights of Sheba, Ep. 18: "Moxie" A

Episode Eighteen: Moxie

 

            “I hate waiting,” Nina says.  She is sitting in the driver’s seat of her SUV with Viness beside her in the passenger’s seat.  Each has a fast food burger balanced carefully on their laps, drinks in hand, and sharing fries straight from the bag that is set between them. Viness smiles around his burger while Nina grimaces at her own.  “And I also hate this food.”

            “Now you’re starting to sound like Erak.”

            Nina groans.

            “Anyway, it’s the best we can do since you refuse to go home to make an actual meal.  Or bathe.  It is going to be a very fragrant welcome,” he says, sliding down into his seat and resting his feet on the dashboard.  Nina gives him a sharp look, which he meets with a smile.

            Outside, the night is cool and black.  The sun set hours ago, and they left their spot only long enough to get food.  At Nina’s instance, they can’t go more than few miles away.  Bathroom breaks are taken, quickly and discreetly, inside of the school.

            “They’re going to come back,” Viness says.

            “I know.”

            “Really,” he says.  “They’ll be fine.  That girl is…”

            “Clueless, impulsive, and in over her head.”

            “Yes, yes, and yes, but she’s also got—what’s the word?”

            “Spirit?”

            “Moxie.  And she’s come this far, hasn’t she?”

            Nina takes a deep breath, and then she smiles.  “Yes,” she says, and she stares down the hill, into the forest.  The gate tree looms, swallowing the light, stealing focus.  It extends endlessly into the sky, burrows infinitely into the earth.  “Yes, she has.”

 

-The Knights of Sheba-

 

            Geneva pulls Claude around a corner and sprints ahead with him trailing.  Her signet armor gleams under the dull light of the candles lining the castle walls while the grey stones that compose said walls seem to swallow the light cast on them.  Their foot falls echo around them as they run.

            “So, uh, sorry about that,” Geneva says, glancing over her shoulder.  In the distance she can see a group of pike-bearing demons cresting the stairs.  “I didn’t think they would see me.”

            Claude glares ahead at her.  His face is bruised and dried blood is smeared just under his nose.  “They wouldn’t see you? Your armor is white!”

            “Hey, no one ever accused me of being smart.”  Geneva slides to a halt and grabs the wall to steady herself before taking another corner.  She pulls Claude after her and starts down another long hallway.  At the end she can see an opening.

            They enter another crossroad, where four halls meet and part in different directions.  At the far end she can see another set of spiral staircases leading higher.  Behind them, she can hear the scraping of steel and the angry shouts of demons in pursuit.

            Geneva braces against her knees to catch her breath.  “Great, now what?”

            “We were going for the tower, right?” Claude points at the stairs.  “Then, let’s keep going up.”

            Geneva looks forward, and then shakes her head.  “No,” she says, taking his hand and dragging him after her.  “Always go right.”

            “What?”

            “I’m right-handed.”

            They follow right-hand hall to another set of stairs, where Geneva smiles triumphantly, and then take those stairs up.  She shoves Claude forward from behind while he wheezes and struggles to keep pace.  The pallor of his skin is returning and, at the top of the stairs, he stumbles and falls forward.  Geneva stops long enough to pull him back onto his feet.

            The chase comes to a stop on a long, narrow bridge high above the castle proper.  Another tower stands in the darkness, its roofing collapsed but its stonework solid.  From where they are, Geneva sees it as broken tiles and stone, and she can see rooms inside exposed to the elements.

            She can also see a hole in the bridge, where it had collapsed long ago.  It is nearly fifteen feet missing, and she hangs her head and curses.

            “What?”  Claude is braced against the bridge’s railing, wheezing desperately for breath.  He looks head, grimaces, and then glares at her.  “Always go right?”

            “I’m right-handed?”  She goes back to the entrance and listens.  The demons are still in hot pursuit.  She can see droplets of blood from Claude’s nose on the stairs.  Another curse, and she turns back to Claude.  “Okay, we need a quick solution across, because I so can’t fight my way back down and you can’t—Well, you can’t do much.”

            “I’m fine.”  He leans his full weight onto the railing, which crumbles under him.  Geneva catches him before he can fall. “Why is everything in this world falling apart!”

            “Seen many architects around here?”  She looks over the edge now.  The tower is tall, and the drop is substantial.  Even in her armor she would suffer a few broken bones, and Claude would be made into liquid and bits.  She leans back and rubs her helm.  “Then again, even if we did see one, would we recognize it?”

            “What in the hell are you going on about now?”

            “Just saying, public works would probably help their economy.”

            “God.  Please, can you just think of something?”

            “I am.”

            “Something useful.  They’re almost here!”

            “Right, right, sorry, nervous habit.”  Geneva looks ahead, at the broken bridge, at the tower in the distance.  The wind whips against her, flatten Claude’s shirt to his chest.  She can feel it vaguely through her armor, its presence muted by the weave.  “Claude,” she says, drawing her wand, twirling it with one hand, “How do you feel about flying?”  The serrations in the blade whistle.

            “I’ve never flown.”  He watches her blade with growing trepidation.  His voice cracks.  “Why?”

            She grabs him by the arm and pulls him forward, shoving him toward  the edge of the bridge.  Then, spinning on heel, she thrusts the blade forward and sends the demons falling back down the stairs.  “Right, well, get ready.  Trays up, luggage, and all of that,” she says, spinning her wand faster and then swinging up.  A gust of air catches Claude and throws him up high and toward the gap.  Then, Geneva runs forward and leaps off the edge of the bridge.

            She conjures her wings but waits to open them.  Midway down, her wings unfold from her back and catch the air.  She glides back up and catches Claude on his way down.  They spiral through the air and land on the other side of the bridge together, where they roll to a stop.  Claude ends up with a bruised shoulder and a frown, while Geneva manages to land on her feet

            No one can see it, but she is smiling under her helm.  On the other side of the bridge, the demons have gathered and are screaming.  She stands and sheaths her wand, and then she tries to dance.  For once, she doesn’t care if people are watching.  “Oh yeah! Who’s awesome? I’m awesome!”

            Claude groans and glares up at her.  “Never. Again.”

            “Eh…”  She pulls him up, dusts him off.  “Right, sorry.  But, I saved us.”

            His frown deepens.  “Never,” he says, and then he leans against her for support so they can move on.

            Together they make it cross the bridge and reach the far tower, only to find the tower’s interior collapsed.  So, they forge ahead, Geneva nearly dragging Claude by this point.  A third tower rises in the distance, obscured by fog.  Thunder echoes overhead, shaking the stones beneath their feet.

            Upon arriving they stop to rest.  Geneva leans Claude against the tower wall while looking over the railing.  Below, a dirty glass dome is built into the mountainside, and while she doesn’t know much about ancient, demonic architecture, Geneva feels safe in assuming it is the observatory.

            “I think Shirley is down there,” she says, helping Claude to stand and look at it.

            “Then we need to take the stairs down.”  Claude steps away from her and braces against the tower. He peeks his head inside and stops there.  Below, he hears growls.  He looks back at Geneva, who is waiting beside him.

            “What?”

            “There’s more.”

            “More?”  Geneva stomps and screams quietly to herself.  “How can there be more?  Seriously, how many guards can one guy have?”

            “I don’t know, but we need to find another way down.”

            “I know, I know,” she says, pacing near the railing.  She looks over the side again and stares at the foggy glass below.  It smudged and yellowed with age.  Through it, she can see a murky shadows that look to her like what once might have been a garden, overgrown and long neglected.

            “Claude,” she says, reaching back and drawing her wand, “Do you trust me?”        Claude, resting against the wall and listening as the demons scuffle their way up the stairs, swallows.  “Uh, what?”

            She faces him, her hand extended and wand ready.  Her armor gleams. “Do you trust me?”

            He looks her in the helm, glances at her wand, and then stares into her helm again.  “Honestly, no.  Not really.”

            “Oh.  Well, too bad.”  She leans forward and grabs him, and she pulls him to her.  Then, leaping over the edge, she spreads her wings and hurls her sword into the glass below.  They descend in a wide, lethargic spiral as her wand shatters the glass.

            Geneva folds her wings and drops into the hole, which is narrower than she estimated.  Hanging shards of glass catch her wings and tear them like fabric.  Gravity seizes her then and pulls her hard to the ground.  She holds Claude tight but loses grip on the landing.

            They crash with enough force to fall apart.  Claude lands heavily in the dirt while Geneva falls back into the lush, green foliage around her.  She sits up and stares at Claude, who is unconscious but breathing.

            She sighs.  “Well, went better than expected, but not as good as I had hoped for.”  She stands and finds her wand, slipping it back into place on her armor.  Then, she grabs Claude and pulls him onto her back.  His arms hang limply over her shoulders.

            “Now to the observatory,” she says, and she looks at Claude’s closed eyes, at his head resting on her shoulders.  “Where I get to find a way to save both of you.  Yay.”  She sighs and carries him ahead, into the depths of the castle.

 

-The Knights of Sheba-

 

            Geneva carries Claude down darkened, empty halls.  Voices echo after them, sinister growls of pursuing demons hunting her even into the depths of the castle.  The walls here are dark grey and seem to swallow the light, and they show considerably less wear or tear than the rest of the building.  It is becoming increasingly clear to Geneva that this part of the castle is not so abandoned as the others.

            At the end of one particularly long, narrow hall she finds a dark, muddy carpet unfurled.  It leads deeper inward, to a domed room cut out of the mountainside.  A foyer opens out of the far wall, where she can see large telescope with a stool set before it.  The room is a perfect circle and standing at its center is a lone figure.

            The figure is tall and, Geneva imagines, demonic.  It is wrapped in thick black robes and has a steel mask covering its face.  Its head is down and, in one hand, it carries a large, curved sword.  When she enters the room it looks up and whistles, and from nearby entryways cut into the wall, five demons enter.  They spread evenly across the wall, each brandishing their own blades and cudgels.

            Geneva sighs and settles Claude on the ground.  Then, she takes a few steps away from him.  “So, I’m assuming you’re the one in charge here.”

            “I am,” the masked demon snarls, “I am Duke Dantalion, ruler of the duchy and of the castle you are standing in.”

            “Right, so, boss fight then.”  Geneva cocks her hips to one side and tries to be sassy.  It feels poorly fitted to her, but she figures it is the closest to intimidation she will get and sticks with it.  “So, here’s the deal: we’ve been stirring up a bit of a commotion, I know, and you might be wondering why.  Well, it’s because, and we have this on good authority and all, you kidnapped a friend of ours.  And we want her back.”

            “We took the human girl to lure you here.”

            “And it worked.  Now, seriously, just give her back.  I don’t want this to get ugly.  Or, uglier.”  Geneva tilts her head to one side.  “Why are you wearing that mask anyway?”

            Dantalion growls again, his voice muted by the mask.  He points to the side with his blade.  “You want her, you can have her.”  Another demon appears from one of the many entryways cut into the walls, and he drags Shirley after him.  She is bound and gagged, and when she sees Claude, she struggles against her confines.  The demon tosses her to the ground and plants a foot on her back.

            Geneva glances at Claude, still unconscious, and then at Shirley.  “Hey, Shirl, don’t worry, Claude’s fine, just sleepy.  It’s been a long, LONG journey for both of us.  Oh, and don’t worry about the whole being held hostage thing.  We’ll get this worked out, promise.”  To Dantalion, she says, “Okay, listen, Count Chocula.”

            “Duke. Dantalion.”

            “Captain Crunch.  Whatever, you’ve got my friend, and I’m taking her back.”

            Dantalion lifts his blade overhead, and it gleams in the torchlight.  “Then take her.”

            With the aid of her armor, Geneva can see the surface of the blade in detail.  She can see the scratches along its length, the dents from old battles past, the dried blood of the enemies it slayed and the glossy remains of their fat.  It has seen a lot of use over the years.

            She reaches back and draws her wand.  “One last warning, cause I don’t know if you know, so if you don’t know, I’ll let you know,” she pauses to sort her thoughts.  “Anyway, you know the big guy, forked tongue, red hair, liked to throw things, name was Count Androgynous or something like that.  Anyway, he was the last one of your demons to start trouble with me, and guess what happened to him.”

            “Count Andromalius.  And he was killed in battle in the human realm.”

            “By a certain little human girl wearing white armor.”  Geneva points at herself.  “Yo.”

            “You do not intimidate me.  Andromalius, while strong, was a fool.  I am not.”

            “You sure about that?  Because you’re picking a fight with me.  You know, the person wearing a magical super armor basically designed to kick all kinds of demon ass.”

            “You talk too much.”

            “You know, everyone keeps saying that, and I just don’t hear it.  For real, though, last chance.  Let Shirley go.  Let us all go.  Then, go back to doing whatever it is you do alone, in a room, wearing a mask and a robe.  It’s brooding, right?  Because I feel like it’s got to be brooding.”

            Dantalion looks around the room.  “Kill her.”

            “Not the answer I was hoping for.”

            A demon approaches from her left and Geneva meets it with a lunge.  The tip of her blade finds soft green flesh and parts it smoothly.  It stops, stares wide-eyed at her as blood oozes through its armor.  Then, it gurgles and holds the wand.

            Geneva stares into its eyes as they go lifeless.  “I’m sorry,” she whispers, and she takes a deep breath and withdraws.  Turning, she deflects an incoming attack from another demon and walks a smooth circle around it while it stumbles passed, and meets the third demon after.

            The third demon swings its heavy, wooden cudgel overhead and brings it down on her.  Geneva catches the attack with the flat of her blade and tilts it to the side, sending the demon falling forward.  Then, she brings her blade up and into its chest.  The steel plate it has roped on parts and blood spreads across her wand, but the blow is shallow enough to leave it standing.

            Third stumbles back, looking more frustrated than hurt, and lifts its cudgel overhead again.  Geneva steps in and elbows it in the face, knocking it to the ground, unconscious.  Meanwhile, the demon behind her has regained its footing and returns with its weapon ready.  It hits her hard across the back, knocking her forward and shattering its blade on impact.  Geneva turns and, with a shout, punches it in the face hard enough to render it unconscious.

            The two remaining demons flank her while Dantalion watches.  They keep at a distance, walking a wide circle around her, and Geneva turns with them, keeping both in her periphery.  When one finally swings, she blocks it, catching the blade with het left bracer and then countering with her wand.  The blow clips it shoulder, and she has to kick it in the chest to finish it.

            The last demon attacks now, using a thin dagger to pierce her side.  It slips in through the weave but fails to go deep before the fine fibers catch it.  The wound is shallow but painful.  Without thinking, she jerks back and hits it in the gut with the hilt of her wand.  It doubles over, coughing and soiling itself.

            When she turns, it looks up at her, small and sobbing, and it holds it hands up as it shuffles away.  “I’m sorry.  I’m sorry!”

            She glares and looks her bloodied side.  Then, she nods toward the door.  “Go.”

            “But they’ll kill me.”

            “You just stabbed me.  I’ll kill you, you jerk.”  The demon pauses, thoughtfully, and then nods before retreating.  Geneva turns to Dantalion and takes a deep, painful breath.  “Now that that’s done, can we go?  This isn’t fun anymore.”

            “After that?  No.”  Dantalion lifts his blade and twirls it in hand.  It isn’t like the other weapons.  It is weathered, yes, but also cared for, and he knows how to use it.  There is skill there, effort, and more importantly, strength.  “I expected more from someone who killed Andromalius.  You didn’t kill a single one of them.”

            Geneva points at the first demon.  “I stabbed that one.”

            “He is still breathing.”

            She sighs.  “Listen, just because I CAN kill doesn’t mean I want to.”

            “And your kindness led to your injury.”

            Geneva puts her hand to her side and then looks at it.  Blood drips from her gauntlet.  She shakes her head.  “Nah, that’s just me being stupid.”  She meets Dantalion’s gaze again, helmet on mask.  “Really, though. I don’t want to fight you.”

            “Then lay down your weapon and die like the coward you are.”

            “Option C, please?”

            Dantalion grunts and closes distance.  His movements are more graceful, natural than the demons before it.  Its robes flutter around him.  He reaches her shortly and steps in with his right, then left, the robe following like an after image.  Geneva lunges forward and catches the robe and nothing else with her wand.

            He grabs her by the wrist and twists the wand from her hand.  It bounces across the floor.  Holding her in place this way, Dantalion sweeps with his curved blade.  It scrapes across the face of her helm.

            Geneva wriggles free and falls back, rolling to a stop and onto her knees.  Dantalion follows, stabbing forward and driving his blade at her.  It catches her in the side, not with enough force to break the weave but she does feel a pinch.  She grabs him by the wrists to hold him there, and he laughs.

            “Now, you’re defenseless.”  He whispers the words, his voice tinny through the mask, and he puts his foot to her wounded side and applies pressure.  Her grip fades, and Dantalion withdraws.  Once away, he leaves her to fall, clutching her side and groaning in pain.  He paces in front of her, blade flashing.  “And soon, you’ll be dead.”  He lifts his blade and holds it over head.

 

The Knights of Sheba 118 A…End