Friday, March 31, 2017

Andy Peloquin The Last Bucelarii: Gateway to the Past

Tagline/Elevator Pitch:

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)

Book Blurb:

The Last Bucelarii (Book 3): Gateway to the Past
The Hunter, legendary assassin of Voramis, has a purpose: protect Hailen, the boy he rescued from a demon in Malandria.
He joins a caravan in the hope of safe passage across the Advanat Desert. Yet he cannot outrun his enemies: the Illusionist Cleric on a holy mission to capture him, the bloodthirsty raiders out for blood and gold, and the Abiarazi, demons who masquerade as humans.
Every step north reveals who he was before becoming the Hunter, unlocking the truth about the woman who haunts his memories.
Fans of Joe Abercrombie, Brandon Sanderson, and Brent Weeks will love the Hunter…

Book Info:

Title: The Last Bucelarii (Book 3): Gateway to the Past
Author: Andy Peloquin
Publication Date: March 31st, 2017
Paperback Price: 15.99
Digital Price: 3.99
Pages: 400

Buy Links:

Amazon Paperback:
Amazon Canada:


"Creative, gritty, and beautifully dark...fantasy addicts will love it!" -- Peter Story, author of Things Grak Hates --
"The fantasy world has a compelling new antihero…the Hunter will terrify and captivate you." - Eve A Floriste, author of Fresh Cut
"From the first words on the page this fantasy holds the reader spellbound even after the book is finished…his character is very well-defined even if his past is a mystery. Root for an assassin? Oh, yes, one must!" -- Carol Conley, for InDTale Magazine
"Oh the carnage! Fantastic bloodthirsty carnage! The fight scenes in this book were fast-paced, detailed and thrilling. I love a good sword fight and there is plenty of that here." -- Ami L. Hart

"One could get lost in this novel for its twisting plots, seemingly endless imagination, dark yet irresistible characters, or the mind-numbing paradox of its simultaneously dark and romantic world. One could follow the long and winding road of the dusky, fierce protagonist and fight tooth and nail not to sympathize with him. One could dance in the dizzying, intricate circles of Peloquin's neo-mythology, or even basque in the black sunlight of a well-crafted gothic novel that both entertains and enlightens." -- Jesse G. Christiansen

Andy Peloquin

Andy Peloquin: Lover of All Things Dark and Mysterious

Andy Peloquin

I am, first and foremost, a storyteller and an artist--words are my palette. Fantasy is my genre of choice, and I love to explore the darker side of human nature through the filter of fantasy heroes, villains, and everything in between. I'm also a freelance writer, a book lover, and a guy who just loves to meet new people and spend hours talking about my fascination for the worlds I encounter in the pages of fantasy novels.

Fantasy provides us with an escape, a way to forget about our mundane problems and step into worlds where anything is possible. It transcends age, gender, religion, race, or lifestyle--it is our way of believing what cannot be, delving into the unknowable, and discovering hidden truths about ourselves and our world in a brand new way. Fiction at its very best!


10 Things You Need to Know About Me:

  1. Hot wings, ALWAYS!
  2. I never forget a face, but rarely remember a name.
  3. I'm a head taller than the average person (I'm 6' 6")
  4. Marvel > DC
  5. I was born in Japan, and lived there until the age of 14.
  6. Selena Gomez, Skrillex, Simon & Garfunkel, Celine Dion, and Five Finger Death Punch are all in my writing playlist.
  7. Aliens are real, but it's self-centered of us to believe that they would come to visit Earth.
  8. Watching sports: suck. Playing sports: EPIC!
  9. I earned a purple belt in Karate/Hapkido/Taekwondo.
  10. I dislike most Christmas music, aside from Trans-Siberian Orchestra.

A Few of My Favorite Things

Favorite Books: The Gentlemen Bastards by Scott Lynch, The Stormlight Archives by Brandon Sanderson, Sherlock Holmes by A.C. Doyle, Warlord of Mars by E.R. Burroughs
Favorite Songs: Wrong Side of Heaven by Five Finger Death Punch, Prayer by Disturbed, I'm an Albatraoz by AronChupa, Look Down from Les Miserables, Shatter Me by Lindsay Sterling and Lizzi Hale
Favorite Movies: 300, Red Cliff, Shoot Em Up, Love Actually, Princess Bride
Favorite Comics: Anything with Deadpool, Wolverine or Doop in it
Favorite Foods: Hot Wings, Meat-Lover's Salad, A good sandwich (made by me), Yaki Soba, Sushi

Favorite TV Shows: The Flash, Daredevil, Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D., Hawaii Five-0, Brooklyn 99, Firefly (too soon!), The Last Ship, The Walking Dead, Game of Thrones

Thursday, March 30, 2017

The Last Bucelarii Book 3 Excerpt 2

A sound reached his ears: the low growl of a beast of prey. It came from somewhere off to his right, behind a small stand of rocks a few dozen paces back from the camp. He sniffed the air and immediately his senses were on full alert. The scent of predator met his nostrils: raw meat, blood, and the pungent odor the beast used to mark its territory. It mixed with another aroma, one he recognized. Scorched hair. Red-hot metal. Sweat-stained leather.


The Hunter reached for his sword and cursed to find it missing. He'd left belt and blade hanging over the horn of his saddle. Only Soulhunger remained, the blade strapped in its sheath at the small of his back.
It will have to do.

He hobbled toward the outcropping of rocks as quickly as his injured knee allowed. The growling grew in intensity, accompanied a moment later by a loud, unmistakable grunt.

A new scent entered the melange, similar to the first, but distinct in its pungent odor.

Damn it! Two of whatever the accursed things are.

Ignoring the ache in his leg, he lurched forward into a run. Soulhunger slipped from its sheath with a ring of steel on leather. The dagger whispered in his mind, eager to feed. Man or beast, the blade didn't care; it craved blood, regardless of its provenance.

The Hunter raced around the pile of rocks, Soulhunger held at the ready. Graden lay on the ground, struggling with a massive shape so black it seemed a void in the evening gloom. Eyes of a horrible yellow burned above long fangs that shone in the darkness, and the creature's lithe muscles rippled beneath midnight feline fur. Graden's massive arms bulged as he struggled to keep the beast's raking claws away from his face. The battle was not going well.

To make things worse, another pair of amber eyes burned in the darkness beyond. The form moved like lightning, slipping through the night with all the stealth of a shadow. The burning orbs latched onto the Hunter and, for one heart-wrenching moment, stopped him in his tracks. Snarling, the beast crouched and leapt.

The Hunter had only a moment to raise Soulhunger before an immense weight slammed into him, knocking him to the ground. Its warm, fetid breath reeked of blood and rotting meat. Drool dripped from the massive cat's jaws and soaked his face. He grunted as the beast's claws carved deep furrows across his chest, shoulders, and face. Blinded by his own blood, he struck out with Soulhunger and sliced through fur and flesh.

The beast howled and swiped at the Hunter with an enormous paw, laying open the arm he threw up to stop the claws from tearing out his eyes. Acting on instinct, he thrust Soulhunger upward. Hot blood gushed over his arm as Soulhunger's razor edge drove through flesh, bone, and cartilage inside the massive creature's gaping jaws.

The beast swiped at him, but the attacks grew weak. The Hunter, staring into the burning yellow eyes, saw primal fear fill its gaze. He forced the blade further, seeking the soft mass of the beast's brain.

The greatcat lashed out weakly with its massive paw, almost as if by reflex. With one final shudder, it slumped atop him and lay still, its immense bulk pinning him to the ground. Gore soaked through his clothing, assailing his nostrils with the scent of fresh blood. His face, chest, and arm throbbed where the raking claws had laid open flesh.

A stifled grunt of pain met his ears. Graden still wrestled the other beast, and the raking claws and long, razor-sharp fangs drew closer to ripping out the big man's throat with every heartbeat.

He can't survive much longer.

The creature had to weigh nearly as much as a horse, and every muscle in the Hunter's body strained as he heaved. Slowly, the enormous bulk shifted, lifted, and fell aside. Ignoring the burning slash marks on his upper body and face, he rolled to his feet and lurched toward Graden. He raised Soulhunger, its grip slick with dark blood, and slammed it into the creature's head.

The midnight cat barked in pain, but the blade's keen edge cut off its cries. The beast slumped, lifeless, and the Hunter shoved its bulk to the side. The effort sapped his last reserves of strength. He fell to his knees, panting, gasping for breath. Graden lay before him, clearly too exhausted to move.

'Kill him,' purred the voice in his head. 'Take his life force and let it fuel you. You're far away from camp. Everyone will think it was the beasts. Just like Udell.'

Soulhunger pulsed in his hands, lusted for blood.

Haven't you taken enough lives today? These two creatures died…

'Beasts! Insensate animals! We demand the blood of humans!' The demon's snarls set his head pounding with such ferocity that he nearly cried out.

No. The Hunter clenched his jaw and squeezed his eyes shut. Not this man.

'Why not? What is he…'

Because I say so. He fought to push the voices back. You will have your prey, soon enough. But not him.

Wednesday, March 29, 2017

The Last Bucelarii Book 3 Excerpt 1

The Hunter peered out from behind the silent wagon. Good. No sign of Kellen or Graden. He'd have to keep an ear out for the caravan guards, but he should have plenty of time. The patrol had a lot of ground to cover.

Grunting, he shifted the heavy load on his shoulder and darted out from the row of shelters, hurrying toward the outcropping of boulders he'd chosen specifically for his task. He ducked behind the boulders and hurled his burden to the ground. A grunt and muffled cry came from the bundle, and something squirmed within.

He's coming to. Good timing.

The Hunter pulled back the canvas, and moonlight shone on Rill's pale, sweat-soaked face and wide eyes. Blood oozed from a wound on the bald man's temple. The Hunter hadn't bothered to be gentle.

"W-What?" Rill's eyes darted around, and his gaze fell on the Hunter. "What is this?"

The Hunter struck the man hard. "Justice."

Rill made to cry out, but the Hunter stuffed canvas into his mouth. "Ironic, isn't it?" His fingers twitched a corner of the thick cloth. "You spend every waking hour stitching up canvas. Fitting that it will serve as your funeral shroud. There was more than enough of it around your area to wrap you up."

The bald man's eyes widened, and he mumbled something through the mouthful of fabric.

The Hunter shook his head. "Better you don't speak. Nothing you say can change what's coming. Best you die with a bit of dignity. Watcher knows you had little enough while you lived."

Soulhunger, sensing blood, pounded louder in his mind, and the demon added its eager demands.

"I never understood men like you, knocking around your women." He squatted on his haunches. "Just doesn't make sense."

Rill tried in vain to shout through his gag.

The Hunter narrowed his eyes. "Did you know there is a special hell reserved for your kind? Those who take advantage of the helpless."

He slipped Soulhunger from its sheath, and held the glinting blade before Rill's eyes. "You may tell yourself she belongs to you, you can do whatever you want." He leaned forward, and his voice dropped to a low growl. "Just because you can, that doesn't mean you should."

Rill's eyebrows shot up, and his expression turned pleading.

The Hunter shook his head. "Save your excuses for the Long Keeper. You'll be with him soon enough."

With a vicious smile, he drove Soulhunger through the canvas and into the man's chest. The gag muffled Rill's scream, but the dagger's shriek echoed in his head with mind-numbing force. Soulhunger's gem flared, red light bright in the darkness. The Hunter grunted as a finger of fire etched a line in his chest. 

Power coursed through him, setting his muscles twitching, flooding him with life, and pushing back the voices in his mind.

Slowly, the brilliance leaking from the gemstone faded to nothing, and Rill's screams of agony and terror fell silent. The Hunter basked in the stillness of the night. A soothing breeze washed over him, the chill soothing the burning of his new scar. Glorious silence echoed in his head. The voices had been sated. He had peace, for a time.

He straightened and stared down at the bundled corpse. Perhaps the Long Keeper will have mercy on you.

An image flashed through his mind: a pitiful figure huddled at the entrance to Rill's tent, covered in filthy rags and reeking of blood and coitus. Rill's desire to punish Gwen had made it easier for the Hunter to slip in, knock the fat bastard out, wrap him in his own canvas, and slip out unnoticed. The man's absence wouldn't be discovered until morning. Few would care.

He took a deep breath, relishing the cool scents of the desert at night. He would wait a few minutes until he was certain Graden and Kellen had passed, then he would dispose of the body, bury the canvas, and slip back into camp. Without the voices shrieking and pleading in his mind, he might even be able to catch a few hours of undisturbed sleep before the morning breakfast bell.

Tonight would be a good night. 
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