Saturday, October 5, 2013

The Armory

The armory was only a few doors down from the staff wardrobe storage room.  It wasn’t too far of a walk and it wasn’t too difficult to find, but it did present us with an unusual problem.

We were standing around the door in a semi-circle, staring at it in confusion, when Torvin stupidly voiced what we were all thinking:  “Where’s the handle?”

I glared at him.  “It’s right where it is on every other door,” I snapped.  “Which is exactly why we’re all standing around trying to figure out how to get in.”

“Should we break it down?” Jaelin suggested.

“Gus?” I asked.  “You knew this was here.  Any thoughts?”

He shook his head.  “Sorry, Boss-Man, I’ve walked past the door a hundred times, but I’ve never actually had to use it until now.”

Jorge pushed on various spots on the door like he was testing it for a weakness.  “I don’t see any hinges,” he said.  “And it doesn’t feel like any part of it is designed to move.”

“Well, maybe there’s a trick to it,” I theorized.  “It contains weapons, so maybe it’s designed to not be easily accessible.”  I reached out to press on the door in the same way Jorge had.  As soon as I touched the smooth faux-wood surface, the door swung open.

We all stared dumbly at the open door for a moment.  “Maybe it only opens at the Devil’s touch so that the rest of us can’t grab a cache of weapons and stage a revolt,” Gus said.

“Well, that would make me feel a lot better,” I said, stepping inside and looking around, “considering how big this particular cache of weapons is.”

The room looked as big as a Wal-Mart and it was glistening with steel.  There were racks and tubs and bins and shelves of swords, daggers, scimitars and cutlasses.  There were spears, lances, pikes and javelins.  I saw hatchets, axes, halberds and tomahawks.  The room was filled with every kind of close combat weapon I could think of and plenty of weapons that I’d never seen before.  There was, however, a conspicuous lack of guns.  Hell used computers and mobile phones but seemed to eschew firearms.


That didn’t really matter, though.  What I needed was a blade, not a gun.  After a few minutes of gawking and dilly-dallying, I selected a rather ordinary-looking dagger and announced my intention of travelling to the Department of Torture. 

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