Gateway to Nifleheim by Unknown

silvered blade, it glowed with a soft white light. Similar blades filled the chest—all well-kept and shining, without a hint of rust or decay.
    The men gasped at the sight of that eldritch blade, ensorcelled as it was with some forgotten magic of bygone days to luminesce so.
    “Sorcery,” shouted one knight as he drew his sword.
    “Witchcraft,” cried another, backing up. Most of the others did much the same.
    “Hold,” boomed Gabriel. “There is no danger here. This blade and its kin are weapons for us to gird, not foes for us to fight. Cover your blades. Now.”
    Fear and doubt filled many a face, but the men complied.
    “What’s this humbug, Gabe?” said Ob. “We've no need of fairy magics; we have honest steel to gird us,” he said, patting the hilt of the sword that hung at his hip.
    “And honest steel is all one needs when facing mortal man or beast,” said Gabriel. “But today I fear we face something more.”
    “Bah,” said Ob. “Don't spout me children’s stories of monsters. That be all bunk and bother. If there are enemies skulking about out there, they are made of flesh and blood, same as us, so our weapons will work just fine.”
    “You've never known me to meddle with magic, and normally I don't,” said Gabriel to the men, “but sometimes, it’s a tool that must be used, just like an axe or a hammer. So long as we’re mindful that it can cut us just as quick and deep as our enemies, we can make good use of it if it's needed, and if Ob’s right, we won’t need to use it at all.”
    “Sir Gabriel speaks wisely, as always,” said Par Tanch. “We're facing something whose howls carry for miles, that spouts evil fog, and waylays our finest men. To face such an enemy, we need a bit of the arcane, I think.”
    “Well, I will have none of it,” said Ob, waving his hand before him. “Nothing but rubbish.”
    “I will not touch those things,” said one knight.
    “Nor will I,” said another.
    “I will take one,” said Claradon, as he and Theta moved toward Gabriel. The knights looked surprised and made way for Claradon. Claradon reached for the glowing blade.
    “Dargus dal is mine,” said Gabriel as he sheathed it and reached down into the chest. “But you may have its twin.” Gabriel pulled another wondrous blade from the chest and handed it to Claradon. “It is called Worfin dal,” he said, pointing to the runes inscribed on the side of the blade, “which means the lord's dagger in the old tongue.”
    “Asgardian daggers,” said Theta. “I thought them all lost long ago.”
    “Not all, my Lord,” said Gabriel. “Some few remain. I regret that I cannot offer you one, for of them I possess only two.”
    “What makes them things special, besides the weird glow?” said Ob.
    “Legend says they were forged by Heimdall himself during the Dawn Age,” said Gabriel. “And ensorcelled by Tyr.”
    “Daggers of the gods?” said Claradon.
    “Oh boy,” said Ob, shaking his head. “That is a tall one, if I've ever heard.”
    Gabriel reached into the chest and withdrew another dagger. This one was longer and thinner than the first two. Its scabbard and pommel were less ornate, and although it glowed, its luminescence paled in comparison to the first two. He presented it to Theta.
    “This one, and all the rest in these trunks are of the finest Dyvers steel and ensorcelled by the archmages of the Order of the Arcane. No finer blades are forged in Midgaard today.”
    Theta nodded his thanks.
    “These blades will protect us from the fog and blind our enemies with the light of Tyr,” said Gabriel. “There are enough for each of you. Each man will take one, like it as not. That includes you, good Castellan.”
    Ob narrowed his eyes, set his jaw, and glowered at Gabriel.
    The men grumbled and grunted in protest, but in the end, each dutifully girded one of the daggers about their waist or leg.
    “You should've come to me when you wanted these made,” said Ob. “I could’ve