An Oath of Brothers

by Morgan Rice

  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.

  “It is magnificent,” he said.

  Ragon smiled.

  “It is your reward, not mine,” he said. “The best gratitude is to use it well in battle. Protect those who are too weak to protect themselves. And protect your brothers.”

  O’Connor slid it over his back and it fit perfectly, as if it were meant to be.

  Matus, beside him, stepped forward and reached up and placed both hands on a long golden studded shaft, at the end of which dangled a long golden chain and three spiked golden balls. It was the most beautiful flail Thor had ever seen, and Matus held it up, chains rattling, and slowly swung it over his head. He marveled at the weight of it, and looked in wonder to Ragon.

  “A hero’s weapon,” Ragon said. “That is no ordinary flail. Its chains expand and contract as needed, sensing your enemy’s distance, keeping you out of their reach, and its balls detect their master, and will not strike you, or any of your group.”

  Matus swung them and they were dazzling in the light, making a soft whooshing noise as he spun them, so silent it was as if they were not even there.

  Elden reached up and gingerly removed from the wall a long shaft—as long as he—with a small, gleaming golden axe-head at the end of it, its blade shaped in a razor-sharp crescent. He held it up and turned it, reflected in the light, not quite sure what to make of it.

  “It’s so light,” Elden said. “And so sharp.”

  Ragon nodded.

  “Long enough to kill a man from ten feet away,” he said. “Your enemies shall not be able to approach you, and you can strike a man down from his horse before his lance can touch you. As a battle axe, it is unparalleled, longer, sleeker, and stronger than all others. You can cut through men or you can cut through a tree—always, in one chop. This axe never fails—and its blade never dulls.”

  Elden swung it overhead, and Thor felt its wind even from here as Elden seemed to swing it effortlessly, the longest axe he’d ever seen.

  Indra reached out and grabbed hold of a long spear, resting horizontally on the wall, and carefully took it down. She held it up in the light, its shaft comprised of a translucent gold material, studded with diamonds, and ending in a long, sharp diamond tip. She turned it over in her hands, examining it in awe.

  “There exists no sharper spear,” Ragon said. “It is a spear that can fly farther than any other, that can pierce any man, any armor. It is befitting of you, a woman with skills to rival any man of the Legion.”

>   “It is magical,” she said in hushed tones.

  “And loyal,” he replied. “You can never lose it. With each throw, it shall return to you.”

  Indra examined it, even more impressed, clearly speechless.

  Reece stepped forward and grabbed the most beautiful halberd Thor had ever seen, its three golden prongs glistening in the light, lodged into the end of a shaft of gold.

  “A halberd to rival no other,” Ragon explained. “Some call it the devil’s pitchfork—yet in a true knight’s hands it is a weapon of honor. It is also incomparable in hand-to-hand combat. It is also deadly in the air: throw it, and its diamond shaft will dazzle and blind your enemy, stunning them. Take aim, and it will pierce anything in your way. And it will always return to you.”

  With only Selese left amongst the group, Ragon turned to her.

  “For you, my dear,” he said to her, holding out a small sack.

  Selese held out her palm and he placed it inside it, and she looked down, and held it up. She opened it and poured it on her other palm, and Thor could see that it was fine golden sand. It fell through her fingers, back into the sack.

  “You are not a fighter,” Ragon explained, “but a healer. This sand will heal any man from any wound. Use it wisely: there is less in this sack than you think.”

  Selese bowed her head, eyes tearing up.

  “A great gift, my lord,” she said. “The only gift greater than the gift of death is the gift of life.”

  Thor looked over all his brothers and Indra and Selese, all of them decked with new weaponry, and he almost did not recognize them. They each looked, with their glistening, magical weapons, looked like formidable warriors. They looked like seven titans, like a group of warriors that any foe would be wise to stay far away from. Especially after emerging from the darkest hells, Thor felt as if they had all been reborn, ready to face the world.

  And they had not yet even approached the wall of new armor.

  Ragon looked them over approvingly.

  “These are weapons to help find your way in a fierce world,” he said. “Weapons to wield with honor, weapons of light in a sea of blackness, weapons strong enough to face the demons. Honor God and fight in His name, in the cause of the just, the cause of the oppressed, and you will prevail. Fight for power, or for riches, or for greed, or for lust, or for conquest, and you will lose. Stray from the light, and no weapon can save you. You shall wield these weapons only as long as you shall merit them.”

  Ragon turned to the wall of armor.

  “Now go choose your armor, splendid armor, armor to match these glorious weapons.”

  One by one they all fanned out across the room, each looking up at the rows and rows of golden armor. Thor was about to join them, when suddenly he was struck by something. A sixth sense.

  He turned to Ragon.

  “I sense there is something more,” he said, “something else you are withholding. Some great secret.”

  Ragon smiled wide.

  “My brother was right,” he said. “The power is indeed strong within you.”

  He sighed.

  “Yes, young Thorgrin. I have one more surprise for you. The greatest surprise, and the greatest gift, of all. In the morning. You will stay the night here, all of you, in my castle. And in the morning, you will not believe the joy that is coming your way.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Godfrey, on guard, kept his eyes peeled as they rowed in their small golden vessel down the canals of Volusia, the current taking them slowly, weaving in and out of the back streets of Volusia. Everywhere, he looked for a place to stash the gold. He needed some place reliable, some place discreet, some place where they would not be watched, some place he would remember. They could not stash it in the boat, and as the tavern loomed up ahead, he knew their time was running short.

  Finally, something flashed and caught his eye.

  “Stop rowing!” he called out to Merek.

  Merek, standing at the rear, used his long oar to slow then stop the boat, and as he did, Godfrey pointed.

  “There!” Godfrey said, pointing.

  Godfrey looked down and saw, up ahead, something beneath the water. Sunlight cut through the water, and perhaps six feet down, Godfrey could see the hull of a vessel, capsized long ago, sitting on the bottom of the canal. It was just shallow enough to spot, and yet just deep enough to be discreet. Even better, beside it, on the shoreline, was a small golden statue of an ox—marking a spot he could not forget.

  “Down there,” Godfrey said, “beneath the water.”

  They all looked over the side of the boat.

  “I see a capsized boat,” said Akorth. “Stuck at the bottom.”

  “Exactly,” Godfrey said. “That is where we shall leave our gold.”

  “Underwater!?” Akorth asked, flabbergasted.

  “Have you gone mad?” Fulton asked.

  “What if the current carries it away?” Merek said.

  “What if someone else finds it?” Ario chimed in.

  Godfrey shook his head as he hoisted a sack of gold, so heavy his arm shook as he lifted it, ensured it was tied tight, and dropped it in the water. They all watched as it sank quickly, resting cozily inside the bottom of the hull.

  “It’s not going anywhere,” Godfrey said, “and no one’s going to find it. Can you see it from here?”

  They all peered into the water, and clearly they could not. Godfrey himself could barely make out the outline of it.

  “Besides, who is going to go combing the waters for gold?” he asked. “Especially when the streets are paved with it?”

  “No one touches the gold of the streets,” Merek said, “because the soldiers would kill them. But free loot is another matter.”

  Godfrey reached out and dropped a second sack.

  “The currents won’t take it anywhere,” he said, “and no one will ever know where it is—but us. Would you rather carry it into the tavern?”

  They all looked out to the looming tavern up ahead, then back beneath the water, and finally, they all seemed to agree.

  One by one, they each leaned forward, held out a sack, and dropped it.

  Godfrey watched as they all sank. Then, suddenly, the brilliant sunlight shifted, hidden behind a cloud, and the waters became murky again. There was no visibility whatsoever.

  “What if we can’t find it?” Akorth asked, suddenly panicked.

  Godfrey turned and looked over, and they all followed his glance to the towering statue of the ox on the street beside them.

  “Look for the ox,” he replied.

  Godfrey nodded to Merek, and they continued rowing, and soon they turned a bend, and the waters brought them right to the tavern, straight ahead, the noise from the patrons audible even from here.

  “Keep your heads down and your hoods lowered,” Godfrey directed. “Stay close together. Do as I say.”

  “And what of drink?” Akorth said, panicked. “We’ve just hidden away all our gold. How are we supposed to buy a drink?”

  Godfrey smiled and held out a coin.

  “I’m not stupid,” he said. “I saved one.”

  The boat docked, and they all jumped out, quickly abandoning it, and merged into the bustling crowd. The noise grew as they approached the bar, the men rougher here, the Empire soldiers and patrons clearly all drunk, scores of them bustling outside, laughing and shoving each other. A few of them smoked a strange pipe Godfrey had not seen before, and the heavy odor hung in the air.

  Godfrey felt at home, finally, felt as he would outside any bar in the world. These people might all be miscreants, they might all have different colored skin than he, but they were drunk, carefree, and they were his people.

  Godfrey led the way, his men following as he pushed his way through the crowd, lowering his head, and entered the tavern.

  He was met by a rush of sounds and smells, similar to what he might find in any tavern anywhere: stale beer, old wine, men sweating the day away indoors. It was a familiar and s
trangely comforting smell. It was louder in here, the voices blending, people speaking multiple languages he did not recognize. The patrons seemed like a rough crowd, a mix of delinquent soldiers and the lower strata of the population. None of them, Godfrey was relieved to see, turned his way as he entered; they were all preoccupied with drink.

  Godfrey kept his head down and cut his way through the crowd, the others on his heels, until he made his way to the bar. It was an old weathered bar, the kind he might have found back in the Ring.

  He leaned an elbow against it, squeezing in between several patrons, reached out, and put the gold coin on the bar, hoping the bartender would accept it. It might be struck differently, but after all, gold was gold. As he saw mugs of ale being served, he began to salivate; he hadn’t realized how badly he craved a drink.

  “I’ll take five,” Godfrey said, as the bartender, a towering, humorless Empire man, approached.

  “I don’t drink,” Merek said.

  Godfrey looked at Merek in surprise.

  “Then four,” Godfrey corrected.

  “Make it five,” Fulton chimed in. “I’ll drink yours.”

  “None for me, either,” Ario said. “I never drank before.”

  Godfrey, Akorth and Fulton looked at him in astonishment.

  “Never drank!?” Fulton said.

  “Then today’s your lucky day,” Akorth said. “You will drink with us. Keep it at five,” he said to the bartender. “In fact, make it six. I want double, too.”

  The bartender stood there, annoyed, then picked up the piece of gold and examined it, suspicious. Godfrey’s heart pounded as he looked down at him, scrutinizing him.

  “What gold is this?” he asked.

  Godfrey felt himself sweating under his hood. He thought quick, and decided to act indignant.

  “Should I take back my gold then!?” Godfrey demanded, gambling.

  The bartender stared him down, then finally, to Godfrey’s great relief, he must have decided that gold was gold. He placed it in his pocket, and shortly thereafter delivered six pints of ale. Godfrey took his, Akorth and Fulton each snatched two.