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.