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
