Blade of the Destroyer: The Last Bucelarii: Book 1

by Andy Peloquin

  ~ Andy (andy.peloquin@gmail.com)

  Here is a sneak-peek at what's to come:

  I left my city in ashes. I burned the Blackfall to the ground, and every man of the Bloody Hand with it. I killed the Demon of Voramis and his Dark Heresy.

  A spark leapt from the fire, landing on the Hunter's hand. He heard the sizzle, smelled the reek of scorched flesh. Unmoving, he watched the ember's glow fade and die. He felt no pain; he hadn't felt a thing in days, not since leaving Voramis.

  The light of the campfire played tricks with his eyes. His gaze followed the hypnotic dance of the flames, but his mind was leagues away.

  He saw the city of Voramis as he had left it. Smoke from the burning Blackfall District darkened the clear skies. Chaos filled the streets—spilling over from the Beggars' Quarter into the Merchants' Quarter, disrupting commerce. The leaderless Heresiarchs scrambled to maintain order in the turmoil. Tension hung thick in the air as he rode through the North Gate. The guards hadn't spared him a glance; they were far too preoccupied trying to maintain order to care who left.

  That was days ago. He had traveled in a numb haze, his eyes unseeing, body unfeeling, mind uncaring. He had barely had the presence of mind to make a campfire tonight—the first since Voramis.

  A brisk evening wind buffeted him, but he felt neither warmth nor chill. He retreated into the depths of his hood. It hid his face from sight, and shielded him from the world.

  In the small clearing, without walls to surround him, the Hunter felt vulnerable. Darkness loomed on the fringes of a small circle of light cast by his pitiful fire. The forest around pressed on him, imprisoning him.

  Yet he had subjected himself to this fate willingly, if only to escape the horror he had left behind. Voramis was the only home he had known for decades. He had lived a comfortable existence. His skills had earned him the respect and fear of even the wealthiest nobles in Voramis, and he had even found a few to call "friends".

  Now alone. Always alone.

  The Hunter had believed himself alone before, but he was wrong. He had needed people around—Jak, Old Nan, Karrl, Ellinor, the others. When he had stripped his apartment in the Beggar's Quarter of valuables, he hadn't had the courage to face their cold, pale faces, their unseeing eyes. They accused him, silently cursing him for their deaths. His treasure-laden satchel weighed nothing compared to the burden of failure.

  A voice spoke within his mind. 'Your fault they died. All of them dead, because of you.'

  He wanted to ignore the voice, to refute its accusation, but could not. That inner voice belonged to the horror, the half of him that was less than human. He had tried to ignore it since leaving Voramis, but in the silence of his solitude, it had grown louder. It pounded in the back of his mind, ever present, filling his thoughts with horrors, seeking to transform him into the monster the Demon of Voramis had told him he was created to be.

  Darkness pressed in on the Hunter. All was silent, save for the rustling of the leaves, the moaning of the chill wind, and the crackling of his meager fire.

  He heard none of the noise that had comforted him in Voramis. Where there had been traffic and bustling pedestrians, now the world sounded oddly mute. The trees bent and swayed in the cool evening breeze, their leaves echoing the whispers he thought he heard carried on the wind. Nature muttered peacefully in his ears.

  The aromas of the forest disturbed him. He had grown accustomed to the odors of city life, yet now only the earthy scent of trees, leaves, and underbrush filled his nostrils. An undercurrent of rot and decay tinged the fresh smell of growing life—a reminder of the inevitability of death.

  Once, he thought he heard the stealthy footfall of a predator. He hadn't been able to bring himself to care. He felt only emptiness. He had lost too much, and leaving the city of Voramis—the only place he thought of as home—had been the final blow.

  A gust of wind tugged at his cloak, and the evening chill finally penetrated his gloom. Shivering, he rubbed his hands together and climbed to his feet.

  Time to get warm.

  The Hunter jogged around the small clearing, his legs numb, feet leaden. The light of his fire cast long, sinister shadows through the forest. He had encountered nightmares in Voramis, and now a part of his mind saw horror behind every tree.

  Fatigue of mind and body had plagued him since leaving the city. After a long day of riding, his body protested at the slightest exertion. Yet the exhaustion went beyond the purely physical. He would sit for hours, staring into the fire until the first sign of dawn showed in the sky. He had slept no more than a handful of hours in the last four days. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw those accusing faces, the empty eyes, and lifeless bodies. Sleep could not remove the overwhelming weight and emptiness.

  Slowly, warmth crept back into his limbs. He threw another log on the fire, wrapped himself in his blanket, and leaned against the hard trunk of the oak tree.

  Phantom pains flashed through his body. His flesh had recovered from his encounter with the demon, but his mind had not. His fingers played along the smooth, unmarred flesh of his chest. Scars once covered the skin, accumulated over decades of killing. Yet somehow, the scars had disappeared—all save the one above his heart. It was the final reminder of the demons he had killed in Voramis.

  The hypnotic gyration of the flames pulled him into their depths. His eyelids drooped with the dying fire, growing heavier with every breath, until the Hunter slipped into dreamless sleep.

  * * *

  Heavy clouds blanketed the dawn sky with a dull, lifeless grey that matched the Hunter's temperament.

  With listless movements, he broke his fast, packed the horse, and rode from the small clearing. An immense weight settled on his shoulders, filling him with languor. He retreated further into his brooding with the passing of the day. He rode in silence, ignoring the passing countryside and allowing his horse to set the pace. Aimless, with no direction, he traveled until his body demanded rest.

  He dismounted and collapsed in the shade of a beech tree. Exhausted, he could no longer keep the voices in his mind at bay.

  We must feed! Soulhunger's voice set his head throbbing.

  The Hunter pressed his fists into his eyes. He needed peace from the voices as much as he needed rest from his travels. If he could just find a moment of...

  'We will not be ignored, Hunter,' cried his inner demon. 'We are you, and you are part of us.'

  His fingers played with the scar on his chest. Dark mutterings whispered through his thoughts, but the voice of Soulhunger faded into a dull thrumming behind his eyes. He slammed the back of his head against the tree, as if it could drive the voices away. They would not be silenced.

  'Over there,' it purred, its voice wheedling. 'Easy prey.'

  His eyes lighted upon a farmhouse in the distance. A decrepit wattle and daub structure stood on a small parcel of tilled land. Smoke rose from the chimney, and with it came the scent of roasting meat. The smell of life.

  'It has been too long.'

  How long had it been? Five days—no, six—since his last kill. Six days spent fighting off Soulhunger's insistent pleas. Six days resisting the voice of his inner demon goading him to spill blood.

  The Hunter tried to push it out of his thoughts, to no avail. Before, only Soulhunger's voice had whispered in his ear, driving him to kill. Staving off its demands strained him, but he had somehow managed to put aside his urges until he had found the right target. In Voramis, finding a target to hunt had been as easy as finding droppings behind a horse.

  Yet since the death of the Beggar Priest—Brother Securus, his name was—the voice of his inner demon had added its insistence to Soulhunger's demands. It had grown more difficult to fight off the urges.

  'Why not kill them? As with all humans, they deserve it.'

  Clenching his fists, he closed his eyes. Perhaps if he ignored he voice, it would leave him alone.

  'So weak. So easy to kill.'

  The Hunter found himself walking, h
is body moving of its own accord.

  What are you doing?

  'You feel the need for death as well, Bucelarii. Why do you resist?'

  The Hunter's feet carried him up the muddy lane. The smell of roasting meat filled his nostrils. The farmhouse loomed large in his vision.

  I do not need to kill them!

  'Why do you deceive yourself? Of course you need to kill. The who matters not.' The voice in his head radiated smugness. 'And more than that, you want to kill.'

  He seemed to be watching everything from afar, as if imprisoned in his own body. Not them. What have they done to deserve death?

  'Does it matter? You know there are no innocent men in this world. Can you truly say they are undeserving?"

  Let them meet their death at the hands of another, he told the voice. You have controlled me all this time. No longer. The hand gripping his sword trembled; his body warred against the thing taking control of his mind.

  'But why resist me? Why resist us?'

  Soulhunger added its insistence to the demon's demands.

  For the same reason I refused to play marionette to the demon in Voramis. I killed my own blood, all because he sought to use me to his own ends. He claimed destiny, but I am no plaything—not to man, not to gods, and certainly not to demons!

  The Hunter tightened his grip on the sword, and the familiar weight of steel comforted him. He planted his feet a half-dozen paces from the front door of the farmhouse.

  The door opened and an old man stepped out. "Can I help you, young man?" His eyes widened at the sight of the Hunter's sword.

  The demon, sensing the man's fear and the Hunter's hesitation, tried to regain control. 'Kill him now!'

  It would be so easy. The sword would slide into the soft flesh of the man's guts with ease. He would have the death he craved.

  No! I will not yield, not to either of you!

  The voice in his mind screamed in rage, but it was too late. The Hunter was fully in control of his actions. He turned and fled, sprinting down the muddy lane.

  Something had happened atop the Palace of Justice. His scars had disappeared, all but one—the one etched into his flesh as he slew the demons beneath Voramis. His free hand traced the unmarked flesh of his chest. Had he been given a chance to start anew?

  The voice in his mind raged for death, Soulhunger adding its insistent demands. The Hunter gritted his teeth and ran on, desperate to ignore them. He leapt into the saddle and dug his heels into the horse's ribs. The chestnut gelding leapt forward, tearing down the road at full speed.

  A scream of outrage filled the Hunter's mind as he galloped away from the dilapidated structure. His hair streamed in the wind and tears formed in his eyes, but still he rode. The pressure in his head mounted, threatening to burst.

  Gasping for breath, the Hunter clenched his jaw and rode on, willing the voices in his mind to fall silent. For what seemed an eternity, he concentrated every shred of his willpower on keeping the horse's head turned away from the farmhouse.

  Like a bursting bubble, the tension in the Hunter's head dissipated. The red haze faded from his vision. He reeled in the saddle, and barely managed to slow the charging horse. He took deep, ragged breaths, his lungs burning.

  "Whoa, boy." The Hunter slowed his gasping horse to a walk. "Easy there."

  Wiping his dripping forehead, the Hunter dismounted and stumbled toward the horse's head. He rubbed the gelding's neck, both to soothe the beast and to still his shaking hands.

  His heart thundered in time with the throbbing in his head. A shaky laugh bubbled forth from his chest.

  Take that, you bastard! You will not win.

  'Soon enough,' the voice in his mind raged. 'I will have my way.'

  I am not yours to control. You will not get the best of me, demon!

  Drawing in a deep breath, the Hunter wiped the sweat from his brow and took a long pull from the water-skin on his saddle. His legs trembled, forcing him to cling to the horse for support. The beast had stopped panting, but the ride had taken its toll on the creature.

  The Hunter patted the horse's neck. "Look at the pair of us. I think we've had enough travel for one day."

  After days of silence, it felt good to speak aloud. The sound of his voice pushed back the numbness in his mind.

  Taking up the reins, the Hunter walked forward on shaking legs. The bright colors of sunset filled the sky, and the rich, earthy scent of nature brought calm to his mind and body.

  The Hunter gathered wood and built a campfire large enough to ward off the night's chill. The dancing flames were no less hypnotic, but they lacked the sinister edge of the previous night. The stillness of the evening surrounded him, yet the rhythm had. The rustling of branches, the sound of the wind in the trees, and the calling of night birds soothed him.

  Something within him had shifted. The weight of loss and solitude remained, yet it no longer threatened to overwhelm him. His conflict with the demon had reminded him of what it meant to fight, to live. That was why he had refused to die in the Serenii tunnels beneath Voramis, why he had defeated the demons against all odds.

  Alone he might be, but he still lived. For now, that had to be enough.

  The Last Bucelarii (Book 2):

  Lament of the Fallen

  The Hunter of Voramis is no more.

  Alone with the bloodthirsty voices in his head, fleeing the pain of loss, he has one objective: travel north to find Her, the mystery woman who plagues his dreams and haunts his memories.

  When he stumbles upon a bandit attack, something within urges him to help. His actions set him at odds with the warrior priests commanded to hunt down the Bucelarii.

  Left for dead, the Hunter must travel to Malandria to recover his stolen birthright. There, he is inexorably drawn into direct conflict with the Order of Midas, the faceless, nameless group of magicians that holds the city in a grip of terror. All while struggling to silence the ever-louder voice in his mind that drives him to kill.

  From feared assassin to wretched outcast, the Hunter's journey leads him to truths about his forgotten past and the Abiarazi he has pledged to hunt. His discoveries will shed light on who he really is…what he really is.

  About the Author

  Andy Peloquin has loved to read since before he can 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.

  Andy's first attempt at writing produced In the Days: A Tale of the Forgotten Continent. He has learned from the mistakes he made and used the experience to produce Blade of the Destroyer, a book of which he is very proud.

  Reading—and now writing—is his favorite escape, and it provides him with an outlet for his innate creativity. He is an artist; words are his palette.

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