Morgan Rice - An Oath of Brothers

“As surely as you might enter any castle,” Ragon replied. “It is the strongest castle known to man. Yet its walls are made of light.”

“I don’t understand how that can be,” Thor said. “How can a castle at once be so light, yet so strong?”

Ragon smiled.

“You will find that many things here, on the Isle of Light, are not what they seem to be. As I said, this a place where only those who deserve it are allowed to enter.”

“And what is that?” Matus asked.

Matus gestured to another building, and Thor turned with the others and saw another building of light, opposite the castle, built in a low arch.

“Ah,” Ragon said. “I’m glad you pointed it out. It’s where I plan to take you next: the armory.”

“Armory?” Elden asked, hopeful.

Ragon nodded.

“It holds all manner of weaponry, weaponry which cannot be found anywhere else on earth,” Ragon said. “Weaponry meant only for the deserved.”

Ragon turned and looked at them all meaningfully.

“God smiles down on your valor,” he said, “and it is time for your reward. Some rewards are reserved for the next life—and some for this one. It’s not only the dead who get to enjoy themselves,” he said with a wink.

The others looked at him in surprise.

“Do you mean there are weapons in there meant for us—” O’Connor began.

But Ragon was already off, hiking down the hill with his staff, mysteriously fast, a good fifty yards away already, although he seemed to walk at a leisurely pace.

Thor and the others looked at each other in wonder, then they all turned and hiked down the hill, hurrying to catch up.

They followed him right up to the soaring, golden double doors to the armory, and they watched as Ragon reached out with his staff and tapped on the doors.

As he did, there came a tremendous bang, echoing as if he were tapping on iron with a battering ram. Thor couldn’t understand how it could be so; his staff had barely touched the doors of light.

Slowly, the doors opened wide, a light shining forth from the inside, temporarily blinding Thor, making him raise his hands. The light calmed and Ragon walked in, and one by one, they all followed.

Thor looked at the high-arched ceiling as he went, at the soaring room, a hundred feet deep, taking it all in in awe. An endless array of weaponry was lined up along the walls, rows and rows of it, weapons forged in gold and silver and steel and bronze and copper and metals Thor did not recognize. Beside this were all manner of armor, all brand-new, shining, shaped in the most unusual and intricate designs that Thor had ever seen.

“You have all been to the land of the dead and back,” Ragon said. “You have all proved yourselves. You left your friends behind; you left your families behind; you left your comforts behind. You ventured forth only for each other, your brothers. You upheld your solemn oath. An oath of brothers is stronger than any weapon in the world. And that is something you have come to learn.”

Ragon turned and gestured to the walls, to the rows and rows of weapons.

“You are men now. As much—even more so—than any other men, regardless of your age. It is time for you to have the weapons of men, the armor of men. This armory is yours, a gift from God. A gift from the One who watches over you.

“Choose,” he said, turning and smiling, waving his staff. “Choose your weapons and your armor. It will be the weapon you are meant to wield for a lifetime. Each weapon here has a special destiny, and the weapon you choose is meant only for you. It can be wielded by no other. You can choose no other. Close your eyes and let your weapon summon you.”

Thorgrin looked about the armory, and as he did, he felt his sword, the Sword of the Dead, vibrating in his hand. He drew it from its sheath and held it up, examining it in wonder, and as he did, he was shocked to see the skulls and crossbones around the hilt beginning to move, the mouth of ivory opening up as if it were crying. As he watched, he heard a noise emanate from it, and the mouth began to emit a moaning sound.

Thor looked down at his hand as if he held a creature squirming in it, and he did not know whether to throw it away or clutch it more firmly. He had never encountered a weapon like it; it was truly alive. It both intimidated and empowered him.

Ragon came up beside him.

“You hold one of the greatest weapons known to man,” Ragon said. “A sword even demons are afraid to wield. You are not mistaken: it is very much alive.”

“It looks as if it is weeping,” Thor said, staring at it.

“It is as alive as you are,” Ragon said. “That moaning you hear is the moaning of the souls it has taken; those tears are the tears of the dead. It is a hard weapon to wield, a weapon with a mind of its own, a history of its own. A weapon that must be tamed. Yet it is also a weapon that chooses, and it chose you. You would not be wielding it if it didn’t want you to.

“There is no weapon out there to rival it. Learn to wield it, and to wield it well. The weapons here are for the others, not for you.”

Thor nodded in understanding.

“I would wish for no other weapon,” he replied, sheathing his sword, determined to learn how to master it.

Ragon nodded.

“Good,” he said. “There is, though, armor here for you. Let it summon you, and you shall find it.”

Thor closed his eyes and as he did, he felt an invisible force take hold of him. He opened his eyes and allowed the force to lead him to the far wall, each of his friends spreading out throughout the vast room, as each was led in a different direction.

Thor stopped before a set of golden armor. He looked up and saw two long, thin plates of circular armor, and he wondered what they were for.

Ragon came up beside him.

“Go ahead,” he prodded. “They won’t bite. Take them down.”

Thor took them down off the wall gingerly and examined them.

“What are they?” he asked.

“Wrist guards,” Ragon replied. “Made of a metal you shall never know.”

“They are so light,” Thor observed, skeptical.

“Do not be deceived, young Thorgrin,” Ragon said. “These will stop a greater blow than the thickest of armor.”

Thor examined them in awe.

Ragon stepped forward and took them from Thor, and as Thor held out his arms, he clasped one over each wrist. They were so long, they went up Thor’s wrists and covered his forearms. Thor raised his arms, testing them, and he could not believe how light they were. They fitted perfectly, as if they had been made just for him.

“Use them to block an enemy’s blow,” Ragon said. “Just as you would a shield or a sword. Yet these are even stronger than the finest steel—and when you are in the thick of battle, they will anticipate your enemy, and will surprise you with unique qualities of their own.”

“I don’t know how to thank you,” Thor replied, feeling ready to battle an army by himself.

O’Connor stepped forward, his eyes alight with excitement as he pulled a golden bow and quiver down from the wall. The quiver held the longest, sleekest arrows Thor had ever seen, and on it there draped a golden archer’s glove. O’Connor held it up in awe and put it on. It was made of a super-light golden chain mail, its mesh designed to wrap around his middle finger and then to wrap around up his wrist and forearm. He closed and opened his fist, examining it in wonder.

He then raised the bow and held it to his chin.

“That bow is unlike any other,” Ragon explained. “Arrows shot from it will fly twice as far, and pierce any armor known to man. You can fire them more quickly, and the weight of the bow is the lightest known to man.”

O’Connor tested it, pulling the string, raising it up, and examining it in awe.