A scheming demon sword and a wannabe knight band together on a (possibly wicked) quest in this fantasy, perfect for fans of Diana Wynne Jones and Terry Pratchett.
Intrigued? Well read on to discover the synopsis and an excerpt from Sarah Jean Horwitz’s The Demon Sword Asperides, which is out July 11th 2023.
For the past two hundred years, the demon sword Asperides has led a quiet life. While his physical form has been tasked with guarding the body of an evil sorcerer, the rest of his consciousness has taken a well-earned vacation. That constant need to trick humans into wielding him (at the price of their very souls, of course) was rather draining.
Nack Furnival, on the other hand, is far from satisfied with his existence. Nack has trained since birth to be a brave and noble knight—but, unfortunately, he isn’t especially good at it. Determined to prove his worth, Nack needs a quest. And to complete that quest, he’ll need the one thing no knight can do without: a sword.
When an attempt to resurrect the evil sorcerer throws Asperides into Nack’s path, the demon sword can’t help but trick the boy into making a contract to become his new owner. And with the newly undead (and very, very angry) sorcerer on their trail, Asperides and Nack find themselves swept up in a bigger adventure than either of them bargained for: saving the world.
The sounds of the battle rang in Nack Furnival’s ears. Swords clanging and scraping. People yelling and grunting—sometimes in anger, sometimes in fear, and sometimes in pain. It was hard to tell which in the heat of the moment. Even the sounds of the nearby sea permeated the battle. Somehow, the crashing of waves echoed in Nack’s head just as loudly as the violent din around him.
Or perhaps that was just the blood pounding in his ears.
He’d run inside Castle Clyffidil with the rest of the knights, encased in a protective crush of bodies. But now they had separated, the knight in front of him gone to fight one of Lord Solonos’s men, the knight to the side of him to ward off the blow of another, until it seemed that only Nack was left, clutching his sword and running down a darkened stone hall without the slightest idea of where he was going.
Time sped up—or maybe slowed down?—and suddenly the boy was in front of Nack in the small courtyard. His lip quivered and his eyes were wide but defiant. He was barely Nack’s age, if that. He had no sword of his own.
“Stop him!” cried a voice from somewhere above Nack’s head. He turned and saw Declan, armor glistening and face scowling, on a balcony a few floors above them. Declan turned, perhaps to fight an enemy of his own, and Nack faced the boy again.
The boy stood, frozen with fear, perhaps not even realizing he could have taken advantage of Nack’s distraction.
“S-surrender,” Nack stuttered. His sword shook in his hand as he pointed it. He never imagined he’d be pointing this sword—this sword that was destined to become an angel blade—at another person. “Surrender and come with me, and you’ll be taken prisoner with the others.”
“Just kill him, Nack!” Declan’s voice came again over the balcony, this time hoarse with exertion. “Do it now!”
“What?” Nack nearly choked in surprise, spinning toward the sound of Declan’s voice. This time, the boy seized his opportunity. He rushed Nack, ducking under Nack’s sword and sending them both crashing to the ground. For a moment, they were nothing but a confusing tangle of limbs—a pile of boy, thrown elbows and jabbing knees and scratching fingers. A few grunts and curses. Nack’s face pressed into stone and bits of dirt and straw; he spat some out and almost laughed when the boy made a noise that sounded suspiciously like, “Yuck!” And in the heat of the tussle, he quietly let the sword slip from his fingers, praying that neither of them would be so unfortunate as to fall on it.
He gave it a swift kick for good measure.
The boy paused above Nack, his fist raised, looking like he didn’t quite know what to do with himself.
“NACK!” Declan shouted.
“Go,” Nack whispered.
The boy’s eyes widened, but after one last shove that rattled Nack’s teeth, he clambered over Nack’s bruised body—none too gently, considering his life had just been saved, Nack thought—and ran pell-mell into the corridor beyond.
Nack closed his eyes and took a shuddering breath that turned into a cough. He groaned, opened his eyes, and looked straight up at Declan glowering down at him. He had never seen his older brother look more furious.
“BOY!”
The shout jolted Nack awake. His heart pounded in his chest as if his body still thought he was back in the heat of the battle, still running along the battlements of Castle Clyffidil. He wasn’t sure where he was . . . until the smell of horse dung gave him a swift reminder.
“What part of ‘we ain’t got no rooms to let’ told you, ‘go ahead and make your own room, then’?” The burly innkeeper stood in the stable doorway, his stocky figure silhouetted by sunlight. He held a rake in one hand, and it didn’t look like he was preparing to use it on the hay.
Nack rubbed the sleep from his eyes, wincing as he poked himself in the face with the hay that had stuck to his palms . . . and every inch of him, apparently. He spat some out and tried to brush the rest off his front, but it was a lost cause.
“I’m sorry, sir, but I didn’t have—”
“Does this look like a room for rent?” demanded the innkeeper. “Or perhaps a charity hostel, considering you haven’t paid?”
Nack stood quickly but kept his head down, unable to meet the man’s eyes. He knew the only reason the innkeeper wasn’t being even harsher was because Nack was still in the clothes of a young nobleman—a young nobleman down on his luck, perhaps, but a nobleman all the same. It wasn’t so long ago that if Sir Declan Furnival, Nack, and their retinue—and he’d definitely have had a retinue—had entered this inn, they’d have been given the finest rooms, perhaps even free of charge, if the owner noticed the knights’ angel blades.
But those days were behind Nack now. He was quickly running out of the small amount of money he’d been given, and he had no horse. Last night, he’d faced the choice of either sneaking into the stable for the night or being stuck out on the roads after dark. Even under the light of the two moons, he’d have been mad to travel along the wooded roads alone. If stray spirits or other creatures weren’t about—and that was unlikely—chances were, knights and soldiers involved with the interclan fighting were. And a warm bed of hay had seemed like the most comfortable mattress in the world after the past few days.
“I-I’m sorry, sir,” said Nack to the innkeeper. “I won’t trouble you anymore. I’m leaving right now. I just need to . . .” Nack glanced around his sleeping spot. His scabbard must be right there . . .
But the only thing in his dirty corner of the stable was a Nack-shaped indent in the hay.
“What you need is to leave my property before I set the dogs on you, boy!” threatened the innkeeper. He took a step forward and shook the rake in his hand.
“Sorry, I just . . . it must be here . . .” A cold, heavy feeling settled in Nack’s gut. He fell to his knees, feeling desperately in the hay for his sword. The sword his father had given him on his twelfth birthday. The sword he had sworn to protect House Furnival with. The sword that had been the only thing he was allowed to keep other than the clothes on his back. The sword that was his only hope of salvation if he wanted to regain his honor and return to his family.
His fingers met only dirt and more hay. It wasn’t until he felt the poke of the rake in his backside that he realized the innkeeper was still shouting at him.
“OUT. NOW.”
“Wait—ouch—no, I’m going, I just—”
Another shove. Nack was about to protest when he heard the unmistakable clang of steel on steel outside. He ducked out from under the reach of the innkeeper’s rake and made a beeline for the door.
“And may that be the last of you!” said the innkeeper behind him, but Nack was hardly listening. He had stopped short just outside the doorway of the stables. There in the yard was a group of older boys—locals, it looked like, and none wearing clan colors. They shoved each other, horsing around and laughing. In one of their hands was a sword that was unmistakably Nack’s.
