Book Spotlight + Giveaway: Quest of Fire series (Brett Armstrong) – Fiction Aficionado
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Excerpt from The Gathering Dark
He made his way over to a grouping of swords. None of them looked particularly magnificent or capable of the wonders ascribed to a Spiritsword. Several had some inscriptions on their blades. Gnawing on his lip for a moment, Anargen spared one more glance to ensure he was alone and then grabbed a sword and jerked it from its pine rack before he could talk himself out of it. A silly thing to do. The blade got stuck halfway out because of the poor angle. Anargen spent the next several seconds tugging at the blade as he was overcome with anxiety and frustration. When he realized it would do no good, he took a deep breath and freed it from the groove it was cutting into the rack’s wood and slid it out the rest of the way. Holding it up, he stared intently. Nothing happened. He got into a guard stance, mimicking what he had observed of other Knights. Muscles tensed, he stood as rigid and still as possible, holding the pose till he felt the gentle burn of his muscles tiring. Nothing happened. He swung the sword around. There was a slight rush of air and nothing more. Sighing, Anargen went through an entire series of slashes, guards, and stabs. Battling invisible opponents, he parried and countered, sortied and delivered finishing blows. One imaginary foe after another fell to the sword. At length, he was breathing heavily and had only three swords left to choose from. Even as he put back his most recent choice, he noticed it. One sword, slightly longer, double-edged and gleaming with an argent nobility. Well-polished, it was adorned in so many characters of small and precise script, Anargen could scarcely read them. A padded leather hilt showed little use and in the cross-guard and pommel were carvings of a lion, or was it a radiant lamb? In an instant, his heart knew what his mind was more slowly coming to accept. This was a Spiritsword. The one he had been looking for all this time. He drew near slowly, in fear. Not fear as of a snake that could strike an incautious palm, but a reverent fear. Swallowing and gnawing on his lip, he reached out with ginger fingers to brush the hilt of the Spiritsword. For a split second Anargen thought he could feel heat rising off the blade and hear a crackle.
“Are you sure you’re ready to handle such a sword?” someone enquired from behind.
