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| The Hunter of Voramis is no more. |
A
faceless, nameless assassin. A forgotten past.
The Hunter of Voramis--a killer devoid of morals, or something else
altogether? The Last Bucelarii--dark
fantasy with a look at the underside of human nature by Andy Peloquin.
Fans of Joe Abercrombie, Brandon
Sanderson, and Brent Weeks will love
the Hunter!
Excerpt
He filled his
lungs with the fresh night air. The taste of smoke mixed with the earthy scent
of loam. The warmth of the fire soothed and relaxed him, the hypnotic rhythm of
the dancing flames calming his mind. The fatigue of the day washed over him,
and he allowed his eyelids to droop.
The visions came
then; memories leapt out at him.
Within the bright
depths of the flames, he saw the hell he had glimpsed in the Serenii tunnels.
Lord Jahel's face appeared in the fire, laughing, mocking. Bone and skin
morphed into the faces of Lord Cyrannius and the First of the Bloody Hand.
Shuddering waves of flesh and gristle writhed, shifting, transforming.
Demons
roam Einan once more. People treat them as myth and legend, but I know the
truth.
The Hunter
retreated deeper into his blankets, his sword clutched to his chest. He told
himself it was out of habit rather than fear.
He had left
Voramis behind, not only to find the truth of the woman whose face plagued him,
but to discover the truth of the demons. Curiosity drove him to learn of his
past, and his own heritage as a Bucelarii—descendant of the Abiarazi horde.
The demon added
its voice to the swirling maelstrom in the Hunter's mind. 'He disowns his blood, all to play the hero, the protector.'
The Hunter was too
tired to fight it off.
I'm
no hero. If it was up to me, they'd all rot.
He had no desire
to save the world. He had no reason to save humans from themselves.
A vision of horror
flashed through his mind. Creatures of nightmares seized a screaming child,
tearing at pale skin with razor-tipped claws. Blood splashed across chitinous
armor as the demons ripped the child apart in their haste to devour the flesh.
The girl bore
Farida's face. She lay bloody,
mangled, discarded like refuse, gasping her last agonizing breaths.
Oh,
child. I am so sorry.
He wished he could
scrub the memory from his mind forever. With it gone, the sorrow would leave.
He needed no reminder that he was once again alone.
He turned his back
on the fire and buried his face in his cloak.
He could turn his
back on those who had feared and hated him, yet he had not the strength to hide
his face from the suffering of innocents. People like Old Nan, Ellinor, Little
Arlo. They would suffer most should the Abiarazi find their way into the world
once more.
The demon
whispered in his mind. 'Why must you protect them? You are not one of them,
after all. You are Bucelarii.'
They
do not deserve such suffering.
He squeezed his
eyes shut and pushed back against the demon's voice.
I'm
doing this for them.
He pictured Farida
the way he had seen her that day in the Temple District, with that same bright
smile. She was happy. That was what mattered, and that was what he would
remember.
I'm
doing this for her.
Buy It Today!
Author’s Bio
Andy Peloquin--a third culture
kid to the core--has loved to read since before he could remember. Sherlock Holmes, the Phantom of the Opera, and Father Brown are just a few of the books
that ensnared his imagination as a child.
When he discovered science
fiction and fantasy through the pages of writers like Edgar Rice Burroughs,
J.R.R Tolkien, and Orson Scott Card, he was immediately hooked and hasn't
looked back since.
Reading—and now writing—is his
favorite escape, and it provides him an outlet for his innate creativity. He is
an artist; words are his palette.
His website (http://www.andypeloquin.com) is a second
home for him, a place where he can post his thoughts and feelings--along with
reviews of books he finds laying around the internet.
He can also be found on his
social media pages, such as:
Twitter: https://twitter.com/AndyPeloquin
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/andyqpeloquin
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