She charged down the corridor, dodging others fleeing from armor. Soldiers did what they could to stop the errant armor, using their swords as cudgels. The din was deafening. The suits of armor mindlessly lurched forward, impervious to the battering.
She came dangerously close to one suit of armor, which thrust its long sword at her. She scuttled out of its reach, so close to being disemboweled that the sword slashed her shortcoat.
She pressed herself flat into an alcove to avoid another swinging polearm and to catch her breath. The armor targeted anything and everything, even the very walls. One suit clunked into a wall, stepped back, clunked into the wall again, and stepped back, never averting its path. Another found her in the alcove. She ducked under its arm as its war hammer shattered a statue on a pedestal beside her.
She continued her race toward the throne room, leaping a suit of armor the soldiers had successfully dismantled. It was a nightmarish journey, running through a gauntlet of rushing steel, and a mindless but powerful enemy.
The throne room doors were wide open and several melees were in progress when she entered, both soldiers and Weapons engaged in combat. The king stood upon the dais, defending himself and his advisors with Sperren’s staff of office from a mace-wielding suit of armor. Sperren quailed behind the throne, and Colin lay sprawled motionless across the dais steps.
The mace cracked on the staff. The king, relieved of his heavy mantle, moved with the grace and skill he had displayed during their swordplay. He beat the armor with powerful strokes that would have felled any living, breathing opponent.
With a jab of the staff’s haft, the armor’s helm went flying, but the rest of it kept coming, undeterred. The mace flashed at the king, and he blocked it with the staff, which splintered to pieces in his hands. The king staggered back, now weaponless.
Without a single clear thought in her head, Karigan sprinted the length of the throne room, gathering speed and momentum, and leaped on the armor, grappling her arms around it and sending it off balance. It crashed to the floor, fell apart in her arms, and the life went out of it, except for one steel gauntlet that scraped toward her like an inch-worm. The king kicked it away.
“Karigan!” he cried, lifting plates of armor off her and tossing them aside. “Are you all right?”
She groaned. Her whole body throbbed, and she knew the worst of the aches and pains were yet to come. She definitely should have prolonged her nap.
The king knelt beside her. “Karigan?” His voice was urgent with concern.
She stared back at him, stupefied. “I—” she began.
“Yes?”
She swallowed. “I’m going to have,” she said, her voice wry, “some interesting bruises.”
He laughed suddenly, clearly relieved. Then just as suddenly, he sobered. “That was a very brave thing you did. Thank you.”
Others might have told her she had been foolish for endangering herself, but he did not. Others might have trivialized her act by claiming they had the situation in hand all along, but he did not.
When Karigan looked inward, she realized she acted out of fear for the king, not bravery. Fear, pure and simple. She couldn’t have just stood by while he was weaponless against the enemy. While fear might have paralyzed others, it made her act, confirming what the Mirror of the Moon had revealed to her about herself.
“Will you be all right for a moment?” the king asked. “I must see to Colin—”
His face and presence had so filled her vision and mind, the clamor of the fighting had fallen into the distant background. When he shifted, she caught the glint of steel over his shoulder.
“No!” she cried.
She wrapped her arms around him, and rolled him onto his back. She sheltered him with her own body, clenching her eyes shut in anticipation of the battle ax that would cleave through her spine. She waited an eternity.
“Karigan—” the king’s voice rumbled beneath her. “Karigan, as much as I’m enjoying this, I can’t breathe.”
She cracked her eyes open and realized she held him in a death grip. Hastily she rolled off him.
Helping hands lifted her to her feet. Weapons surrounded them and assisted the king to rise as well. The throne room was significantly quieter. Suits of armor stood in various positions, frozen in time, weapons caught in mid-swing. The armor that had come upon her and the king stood with its ax at its apex. Thinking about the old but sharp blade hacking into her spine made her lightheaded.
The Weapons caught her and supported her.
“The messenger service is wasted on this one,” said Donal. “She has the mettle to join the Black Shields.”
Other Weapons chimed in with their approval, and though light-hearted banter ensued, it held an earnest ring to it.
“I rather like her in green,” the king said, and he winked at her.
He took complete charge of the throne room. Colin was borne off to the mending wing by Weapons, and he ordered every suit of armor in the castle to be disarmed, dismantled, and locked up in the armory.
It was time, he told Karigan as an aside, for a change of decor anyway.
Runners and soldiers came in and out of the throne room updating him on conditions elsewhere. There had been some smashed furniture, but surprisingly few injuries, and thankfully no deaths.
Karigan thought he looked splendid directing the work, with his shoulders erect, and his fine waistcoat and cravat all in place, none the worse for the day’s events. She, on the other hand, felt battered and disheveled, and somehow inadequate.