An Oath of Brothers

CHAPTER TEN

Thor stood at the bow of the small sailing vessel, his brothers standing behind him, his heart pounding with anticipation as the current carried them straight toward the small island before them. Thor looked up, studied its cliffs in wonder; he’d never seen anything like it. The walls were perfectly smooth, a white, solid granite, sparkling beneath the two suns, and they rose straight up, hundreds of feet high. The island itself was shaped in a circle, its base surrounded by boulders, and it was hard to think amidst the incessant crashing of the waves. It looked impregnable, impossible for any army to scale.

Thor held a hand up to his eyes and squinted into the sun. The cliffs seemed to stop at some point, to cap off in a plateau hundreds of feet high. Whoever lived up there, at the top, would live safely forever, Thor realized. Assuming anyone lived up there at all.

At the very top, hovering over the island like a halo, was a ring of clouds, soft pink and purple, blanketing it from the harsh rays of the sun, as if this place were crowned by God himself. A gentle breeze stirred here, the air pleasant and mild. Thor could sense even from here that there was something special about this place. It felt magical. He had not felt this way since he had reached the land of his mother’s castle.

All the others looked up, too, expressions of wonder across their faces.

“Who do you suppose lives here?” O’Connor asked aloud the question on all of their minds.

“Who—or what?” Reece asked.

“Maybe no one,” Indra said.

“Maybe we should sail on,” O’Connor said.

“And skip the invitation?” Matus asked. “I see seven ropes, and there are seven of us.”

Thor examined the cliffs and as he looked closely, he saw seven golden ropes dangling from the top down to the shores, glistening in the sun. He wondered.

“Maybe someone’s expecting us,” Elden said.

“Or tempting us,” Indra said.

“But who?” Reece asked.

Thor looked up at the very top, all of these same thoughts racing through his mind. He wondered who could know they were coming. Were they being watched somehow?

They all stood in the boat silently, bobbing in the water, as the current brought them ever closer.

“The real question,” Thor asked aloud, finally breaking the silence, “is if they are friendly—or if this is a trap?”

“Does it make any difference?” Matus asked, coming up beside him.

Thor shook his head.

“No,” he said, tightening his grip on the hilt of his sword. “We will visit it either way. If friend, we will embrace them; if foe, we will kill them.”

The currents picked up, and long, rolling waves carried their boat all the way to the narrow shore of black sand that surrounded the place. Their boat washed gently up, lodging on it, and as it did, everyone all jumped out at once.

Thor gripped the hilt of his sword, on edge, and looked about in every direction. There was no movement on the beach, nothing but the crashing of the waves.

Thor walked up to the base of the cliffs, laid his palm on them, felt how smooth they were, felt the heat and energy radiating off of them. He examined the ropes which rose straight up the cliff, sheathing his sword and grabbing hold of one.

He tugged on it. It didn’t give.

One by one the others joined him, each grabbing a rope and tugging on it.

“Will it hold?” O’Connor wondered aloud, looking straight up.

They all looked up, clearly wondering the same thing.

“There is only one way to find out,” Thor said.

Thor grabbed the rope with both hands, jumped up, and began his ascent. All around him the others did the same, all of them scaling the cliffs like mountain goats.

Thor climbed and climbed, his muscles aching, burning under the sun. Sweat poured down his neck, stung his eyes, and all of his limbs shook.

And yet at the same time, there was something magical about these ropes, some energy that supported him—and the others—and made him climb faster than he’d ever had, as if the ropes were pulling him up.

Much sooner than he’d imagined possible, Thor found himself reaching the top; he reached up and was surprised to find himself grabbing onto grass and soil. He pulled himself up, rolling onto his side, onto soft grass, exhausted, breathing hard, limbs aching. All around him, he saw the others arriving, too. They had made it. Something had wanted them up there. Thor did not know if that was cause for reassurance or for worry.

Thor took a knee and drew his sword, immediately on edge, not knowing what to expect up here. All around him his brothers did the same, all of them rising to their feet and instinctually getting into a semicircular formation, guarding each other’s backs.

Yet as Thor stood there, looking out, he was shocked by what he saw. He had expected to see an enemy facing him, had expected to see a rocky and barren and desolate place.

Instead, he saw no one there to welcome them. And instead of rock, he saw the most beautiful place he had ever laid eyes upon: there, spread out before him, were rolling green hills, lush with flowers, foliage, and fruits, sparkling in the morning sun. The temperature up here was perfect, caressed by gentle ocean breezes. There were fruit orchards, lush vineyards, places of such bounty and beauty that it immediately caused all of his tension to fall away. He sheathed his sword, as the others relaxed, too, all of them gazing out as this place of perfection. For the first time since he’d set sail from the land of the dead, Thor felt as if he could truly relax and let down his guard. This was a place he was in no rush to leave.

Thor was baffled. How could such a gorgeous and temperate place exist in the midst of an endless and unforgiving ocean? Thor looked about and saw a gentle mist hanging over everything, looked up and saw, high above, the ring of gentle purple clouds covering the place, sheltering it, yet also allowing the sun to streak through here and there—and he knew in every ounce of his body that this place was magical. It was a place of such physical beauty that it put even the bounty of the Ring to shame.

Thor was surprised as he heard what sounded like a distant screech; at first he thought it was just his mind playing tricks on him. But then he felt a chill as he heard it again.

He raised his hand to his eyes and looked up, studying the skies. He could have sworn it sounded like the cry of a dragon—and yet he knew that was not possible. The last of the dragons, he knew, had died with Ralibar and Mycoples. He had witnessed it himself, that fateful moment of their deaths still hanging over him like a dagger in his heart. There wasn’t a day that went by when he did not think of his good friend Mycoples, when he did not wish she was back at his side.

Was it just wishful thinking, his hearing that cry? The echo of some forgotten dream?

The cry suddenly came again, ripping through the skies, piercing the very fabric of the air, and Thor’s heart lifted, as he felt numb with excitement and wonder. Could it be?

As Thor raised his hand to his eyes and looked up into the two suns, high up above the cliffs, he thought he detected the faint outline of a small dragon, circling in the air. He froze, wondering if his eyes were playing tricks on him.

“Is that not a dragon?” Reece suddenly asked aloud.

“It is not possible,” O’Connor said. “There are no dragons left alive.”

But Thor was not so sure as he watched the outline of the shape disappearing into the clouds. Thor looked back down and studied his surroundings. He wondered.

“What is this place?” Thor asked aloud.

“A place of dreams, a place of light,” came a voice.

Thor, startled at the unfamiliar voice, wheeled around, as did all the others, and was shocked to see, standing before them, an elderly man, dressed in a yellow robe and hood, carrying a long translucent staff, inlaid with diamonds, a black amulet at its end. It sparkled so bright, Thor could barely see.

The man wore a relaxed smile, and he walked toward them in a good-natured way and pulled back his hood, revealing long, golden, wavy hair, and a face which was ageless. Thor could not tell if he was eighteen or a hundred years old. A light emanated from his face, and Thor was taken aback by its intensity. He had not seen anything like it since he had last laid eyes upon Argon.

“You are correct,” he said, as he locked eyes with Thorgrin and walked right up to him. He stood but a few feet away, and his translucent green eyes felt as if they burned right through him. “To think of my brother.”

“Your brother?” Thor asked, confused.

The man nodded back.

“Argon.”

Thor gaped at the man, shocked.

“Argon!?” Thor said. “Your brother?” he added, barely able to get the words out.

The man nodded back, examining him, and Thor felt as if he were seeing into his very soul.

“Ragon is my name,” he said. “I am Argon’s twin. Although of course, we don’t look much alike. I believe I am the more handsome one,” he added with a smile.

Thor stared, speechless. He did not know where to begin; he’d had no idea that Argon had a brother.

Slowly, it all began to make sense.

“You brought us here,” Thor said, processing it all. “Those currents, this island, those ropes… You planned for us to come here.” Thor pieced it all together. “You’ve been watching us.”

Ragon nodded back.

“Indeed I have,” he said. “And I am very proud of you. I did control the tides here—it was my way of extending hospitality. Those who arrive here, on this isle, can only arrive because they deserve it. Being here is a reward: a reward to those who have displayed great valor. And you—all of you—have passed the test.”

Thor suddenly heard the loud, definitive screech of a dragon—he was certain this time—and he looked up and was in awe to see a baby dragon, its wingspan hardly ten feet, diving down low, circling. It screeched, a young dragon’s screech, and extended its wings as it flew in broad circles; then finally it landed, setting down just a few feet beside Ragon.

It sat there, facing Thor and the others, and lowered its wings, still and calm, staring back proudly.

Thor stared back in wonder.

“It can’t be,” he whispered, breathless, examining it. It was the most beautiful creature he’d ever seen. It looked positively ancient. “I saw the last of the dragons die. It saw it myself.”

“But you did not see the egg,” Ragon said.

Thor looked at him, puzzled.

“The egg?”

Ragon nodded.

“Of Mycoples and Ralibar. Their child. A girl.”

Thor’s mouth fell open in shock, and he felt tears well up as he examined the dragon in a whole new light, as he realized, for the first time, how much she resembled Mycoples. He knew there was something familiar about her.

“She’s beautiful,” Thorgrin said.

“You can pet her,” Ragon said. “In fact, she has been looking forward to meeting you, very much. She knows all about what you did for her mother. She’s been waiting for this day.”

Thorgrin stepped forward, one step at a time, wary of her, yet anxious to meet her. She stared back at him proudly, unblinking, with light-red scales and glowing green eyes, and stood perhaps ten feet tall. He could not tell if she liked him or not, and he felt an intense energy radiating off of her.

As he approached, Thor raised a hand and gently stroked the side of her face, his palm touching her long scales. She purred contentedly as he did, lifted her chin as if to acknowledge him, and then suddenly lowered her head and, to Thor’s delight, brushed it against his chest. With her long, scratchy tongue, she licked Thor’s face.

It scratched the side of Thor’s cheek, but he didn’t mind. He knew it was a sign of affection, and he leaned down and kissed her on the head. Her scales were strong and smooth, young, still needing to be formed, softer than her parents’ were. Seeing her brought back all his memories, made him realize how much he’d missed Mycoples—and made him feel as if he had her back again.

“I loved your mother,” Thor said softly to her. “And I shall love you just as much.”

The dragon purred again.

“You’ve made her quite happy, Thorgrin,” Ragon said. “The only thing she needs now is a name.”

Thor looked at him questioningly.

“Are you asking me to name her?”

Ragon nodded.

“She is young, after all,” he replied. “And no one has come along to name her. I could have. But the task, I knew, awaited you.”

Thor closed his eyes, trying to allow a name to come to him. As he did, he thought of Mycoples and Ralibar, and wondered what name they would have wanted, what name would best honor her parents.

“Lycoples,” Thor heard himself blurt out. “We shall name her Lycoples.”

Lycoples raised her neck and screeched, breathing fire straight up into the sky, a small flame, still young, and Thor jumped back, startled. She spread her wings wide, lowered her head, and she suddenly leapt up into the air, circling, flying high above, higher and higher, until Thor watched her disappear from sight, in wonder.

“Have I offended her?” Thor asked.

Ragon smiled and shook his head.

“On the contrary,” he said. “She quite approves.”

Ragon reached out and clasped a hand on Thor’s shoulder and began to lead him on a walk.

“Come, young Thorgrin,” he said. “We have much to discuss, and this isle is far bigger than it seems.”

Thor and the others followed Ragon, winding their way through the island, taking everything in as they went. Thor could not believe how comforted he felt being here, in Ragon’s presence, especially after their long sojourn across an endless, unforgiving ocean, after so many days with no hope or land in sight, and with their provisions running so low. And especially after emerging from the land of the dead. He felt as if he had been reborn, as if he had emerged from the deepest rungs of hell to the highest levels of paradise.

But there was more to it than that. Thor also felt deeply at home with Ragon, felt comforted in his presence, the same way he had always felt around Argon. In some ways he felt that having Ragon here was like having Argon back.

Thor also felt incredibly comforted by the sight of Lycoples, circling high above, screeching every so often to make her presence known. He looked up and spotted her and was thrilled to see her. It made him feel as if Mycoples were back with him again, as if a piece of himself had been restored.

And yet, even with all of this, there was still something more to this place, something else that Thor could not quite detect, lingering just beneath the surface. He sensed something here, a presence, something he could not quite put his finger on. He felt as if there were something here waiting for him, something that would make him whole again. He did not understand what it could be, here in this empty place the middle of nowhere, but it kept gnawing at him, his senses screaming at him that there was something crucial here, somewhere on this island.

They marched for hours, and yet strangely enough, Thor found that his legs were not tired in this place. It was the most idyllic place he’d ever seen, and they strolled through rolling hills, through lush fields of green, and Thor felt as if he were being cradled in the very arms of paradise.

They crested a hill, and as they did, Ragon came to a stop, and Thor stopped beside him. He looked out, and was shocked by the vista: there, in the distance, sat a castle made of light. It shone in the sun, sparkling, looking like a golden cloud, yet in the shape of a castle. It had a translucent feel to it, and Thor realized the castle was entirely composed of light.

He turned to Ragon in wonder.

“The Castle of Light,” Ragon explained.

They all stared, silent, Thor not knowing what to say.

“Is it real?” Thor asked, finally breaking the silence.

“As real as you and I,” Ragon replied.

“But it looks to be made of light,” Reece said, stepping forward. “Can one enter?”

“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.

“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.”