Velin The Lothorian
Book 1, The Rifle's Song
Index:
Prologue | Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7 | Chapter 8 | Chapter 9
Chapter 4
Entombed remembrance
They descended into darkness, yet it was nigh inviting.
Despite his flashlight uncovering one after another, the grisly remains of mummified “explorers”, Velin felt safe. From all, even the darkest of corners, emanated not dread, but welcome. The gentle caress of his mother, and the unassailable hug of his father.
Lingering, the warm rays of his flashlight continued on their photonic way, ever so reluctantly. The polished floor of this mausoleum, covered with layers of ancient dust, it almost guided his steps. Air cool and crisp, without even the faintest stink of rot, gently caressed his face. If not for the corpsified markers dotting their way, Velin could swear that this felt like a casual stroll upon some pristine meadow, and not a tomb.
Instructed by his gorgeous guide, Velin did not draw megasteel, nor was his finger on the trigger of that venerable Terran-made railgun of his. He did not need to hold weapons of Peace, for this olden place was a haven for the likes of him and his guide. It was natural for a soldier trained in the Terr’aan Way to walk in Peace, and he respected Avern’a tradition.
“This is a place of remembrance, Velin. In the olden days, people whose achievements elevated others were entombed here. The halls could sing many songs, tell tales of wondrous constructions, or recant the life-saving battles of noble heroes.” – Reia’s fluttering voice echoed down the wide entrance corridor, sadness seeping from every word.
“What occurred here was a piecemeal, unrelenting desecration, perpetrated by the invader. Like carrion-eating vultures, more opportunistic degenerates followed in their steps, eager to plunder the cultural heritage of my people. Ever since my teacher inducted me into the secrets of this hallowed place, when I remember what had happened here, I cry.”
The young Loresinger looked at him, an unspoken question in her eyes.
“I am a Lothorian soldier.” – answered with iron in his voice Velin – “We took an oath to cry not, but make our moribund enemies weep.”
“This... it is a good oath!” – Blurted out Reia, a bit of newly-found ardor in her voice.
“Now, what was that paying of respects the Mage mentioned? I don’t assume we have an unlimited time here – welcomed or not. The very presence of these,” – and Velin illuminated the bones of some long-dead tomb raider – “means that more greedy looters might be afoot.”
Reia smiled and stopped him, before he could walk even further inside.
“I will recite the greeting, so this Place knows our names, and its guardians, our intent. Later, when we stand before one of its white gates, I shall sing her open.”
“Your teacher did not call you a Star Witch.”
“No, because I am just a Loresinger. Most Avern’a have power over the Link, yet not all of us can evoke, bend energies into shapes by use of the Voice Unheard.”
The young woman paused for a short while and, with a clear, strong voice, cited:
“Praise the noble Architects, for their engineering thought.
Blessed be the Workers’ skilled hands, for their industriousness.
Hallowed be the indomitable Soldiers, for their gifts of life and safety.
The Artists will honor them all, in song, story, and image. Thus memories be forever embedded in the soul of Avernum.”
More than just a few moments passed, yet Velin still heard how her words echoed down the corridor. Seemingly counting an appropriate number of star-seconds, Reia spoke once more:
“Greet us, ethereal Guardians, for we enter with respect for your Duty.
Among you, through this hallowed Place of eternal remembrance walk Reia the Loresinger, a student of your fellow Guardian Teal Death, and Velin, son of Mir, a soldier learned in the Terr’aan way.
My teacher sent us here with life-saving intent.
It is finally Time for the ancient chamber to be sung open,
nigh shattered traditions restored, and the broken again to be free!”
She took some time to steady herself and then beckoned Velin to follow her deeper inside the mausoleum.
They walked past many a desecrated chamber; doors, sarcophagi, and chests pried or blasted open. The age old dust blanketed hundreds of looters. Their battered bodies killed either by trap, guardian or their comrades in crime. Velin’s eye counted a number of weapons and armored suits, still in good order. Belts maglocked full of combat supplies, backpacks overflowing with food rations and meds. There was an abundance, so much recoverable gear, that he could outfit at least one full battalion of troopers.
Deeper into the mausoleum they ventured, and for three full star-hours, their boots disturbed ancient dust. The further into this olden tomb they went, the haggard the remnants of its desecrators were. Culled either by their own, traps or the ghostly guardians, these dilapidated cadavers looked... out of place. Knowing the true purpose of this mausoleum, at one point the Lothorian almost expected to see pupils and their venerable tutors, touring the various halls.
Children being learned of their ancient grandparents’ feats, shown monuments of timeless grandeur. There were many more wonders to be witnessed and Velin’s guide told him tale after tale. As they walked further, certain walls became alit with the beautiful murals of olden Avern’a history. The white glow emanating from their picturesque motifs; it whispered aloud and beautified Reia’s tales, making them fuller, more real.
Yet, there was even one more, truly amazing power lingering within the very building blocks of this Place. Velin’s mind, indeed his very soul became awash with many feelings, the ancient memories of Avern’a, all of them peerless servants of their shining race. There were so many voices, thousands upon thousands and yet, nothing was forced upon him.
“Be calm and collected when their whispers come. They only wish to aid those of merit, people willing to learn and grow. Focus yourself, and let your deepest thoughts guide you, Velin.” – Reia offered her advice as soon as she witnessed mild confusion in Velin’s eyes.
Velin was a Lothorian man and from a long line of farmers. He’d long since slaughtered every lingering doubt, even those still crawling deep inside his mind.
Fears? Yes, they were all still there, beaten bloody, broken and squirming. Crying rivers of tears they did, as Velin sharpened some into weapons, and forged armor from others. As a follower of the Terr’aan Way, he was taught how to embrace even his deepest of horrors and mold them into useful tools.
No, Velin very well knew what he was, and, within his mind formed a purposeful query. Then, as Reia watched with her eyes wide, his Lothorian eyes became aglow with white light. Thirty tall and ghostly shapes swarmed around him and, one after another passed through his body. There was so much power flowing around his person, that Reia even heard the words exchanged, through her Link.
“Receive thirty a wisdom, one for each future you saved from enslavement, soldier!” – Roared the spirits of entombed in this mausoleum Avern’a soldiers.
“But I simply did my soldierly duty, Elders. If you permit me, I will take only one.” – The Lothorian asked.
“A deserved and earned by merit reward cannot be denied, young one! For if we do so, the balance of things shall be broken. Now embrace knowing, accept our teachings and may the wisdom you learned from beyond the grave, lessen the deaths of your friends.” – The spirits’ voices turned into a choir of one sage battlefield advice, flowing into another.
“I am forever grateful for your knowledge, Elders. May I humbly ask a boon of you, one intended not for me, but your descendants?” – Velin’s head lowered, the soldier whispered with his mind.
“You may.” – Answered the guardian spirits and their booming voices became even louder, more of them joining the thirty.
“I am a soldier and bear hallowed Terr’aan arms of Peace, yet your battered kin on the topside, they face the enslaver unarmed. Will the Guardians permit us to clean their mausoleum, dispose of the intruders’ bodies, recover and arm Avern’a freedom fighters with this gear?”
“We agree to this most prudent of queries, soldier! Among us most welcomed are you, and those willing to die for our descendants’ freedom. We, the Guardians of this Place of remembrance, promise safe passage through the traps, and offer protection. Now go forth and follow your lady Loresinger, receive a replacement for a weapon of peace most willingly given.” – Roared once more the voices and slowly, one after another, silently floated back to their posts.
Reia waited till they walked away from the hall of murals and only after the white glow in Velin’s eyes dissipated, she asked:
“What compelled you to ask so little for yourself and so much for others?”
“I am already free, trained, and armed to the teeth, but your dilapidated kin isn’t.” – He said, stern tones creeping into his voice and one fist in the air, cited:
“Thus it is written in the Terr’aan War Saint Book: ‘Armed people can resist their own enslavement and ensure the future of their progeny – shackled peons cannot.’”
“This is very true! After so many long star-centuries of arduous fighting, we are in dire need of soldiers like you.” – Reia agreed.
“No matter how strong and valiant one is, it never hurts having another rifleman nearby.” – Stated Velin and tapped the rifle butt of his railgun.
They reached the furthest part of the mausoleum and finally, the white gate was in view. However, before they could reach it, the two had to step over three freshly dried corpses. These otherwise well-armed looters faced a grisly fate – their bodies were sliced with brutal efficiency by some form of vibroblade.
“Those three had almost reached the gate. Reia, do you or your teacher know anything about them?”
The Avern’a looked upon these dismembered cadavers with disgust and answered:
“Teal Death said that these were ‘shootlings’.”
Velin raised an eyebrow and kept looking at his beautiful guide, expecting her to continue, add more information. Reia stepped over the furthest sliced off limb, shrugged and pointed at the gate.
“I was told this was the result of an ill-fated attempt at a joke. A jest with most deathly punch... or should I say, slice line.”
“This word is so lively and pleasantly peculiar. With your permission, Loresinger, I will use it.”
“Please do,” – grinned Reia and nodded at the cadavers – “these types could never realize the true extent of their folly. Confused, they stumble and writhe while bleeding all over, trying to put back what can no longer be repaired.”
The Avern’a made a short pause, just as they stepped before the marvelous to behold white gate. She then looked at Velin, and giggled:
“My teacher says that where he comes from, obnoxious villains like these are also called ‘assumers’.”
“Oh, this is another good one, I’ll remember it!” – Velin snorted.
“Now, stand beside me, remove your gloves and hold my hand.” – Reia whispered the last word, her eyes shooting one look after another, finally locking on Velin’s face.
“Put your free hand on the gate and push gently, when I sing it open.”
He candidly held her hand, an innocent look in his blue eyes, his face flustered. All flushed, Reia nevertheless had focused well and, after placing her left hand on the gate, sang.
Never before in his life had Velin witnessed or listened to such a song. Its powerful lyrics told the olden tale of Peace, Prosperity, and Growth. Since he’d learned Avern’a, in preparation for this mission, the Lothorian could pretty much understand every single word. Long was this song and supremely beautiful, each feat described in it, inspiring.
How the Architects devised ingenious constructions, all in service of the Avern’a people. Craftsmanship supreme, the Workers masters of their professions, enabled these visions of genius into reality. Then, heroic Soldiers gifted their own future and happiness for culture and race. At the very last were the Artists, who forged soul, emotion, and the achievement of all others into monumental wonders, so that ancient tradition grew evermore.
Moreover, Reia’s fluttering voice was emboldened by a force unseen and reverberated throughout the ancient corridors. The verses flowed like a powerful torrent, a full river, whose waters nevertheless gently caressed the ancient stones, and made the white metal aglow.
Then there was a loud, trumpet-like sound, which announced the opening of the gate and Velin pushed. A choir of many voices boomed in the air, and the two wings swiveled inward, effortlessly.
Marvelous to behold was the illuminated hall, which they now walked inside of, still holding hands. Chests overflowing with crystal-forged pottery, cultural icons made from various metals, and the statues of Avern’a heroes, were all perfectly arranged within and in grandiose viewing order nonetheless.
At the very center of this grand hall, there was a sarcophagus forged from transparent metal. Such was the craftsmanship and artistry, that he who forever slept inside, appeared as if magically floating, a few feet in the air. A kind-faced olden man lay there, hands crossed before his chest, one held a pistol and the other, a strange tool.
Dressed in what Velin thought to be an elaborate suit of working attire, the man had protective helmet over his long-haired head. His beard reached to his tool belt, which had a metallic buckle shaped like a star. On the right side of the belt and placed in one easy to use box, there were four, olden power packs.
Everything was ancient and evoked wonder beyond measure, therefore they did not speak. Reverently, the two approached and with caution, pushed the barely visible sarcophagus lid open. No sooner they did so and a gust of aromatic wind emerged from within the coffin. Rays of white and golden light emanated from the body, whispering voices counted one achievement after another.
Velin reached forth with his free hand and, after respectfully nodding at the ancient one, picked up the pistol and power packs.
It felt incredibly light and fit perfectly in his hand. Dark white in color, the gun had a longish barrel, encased in ribbed shroud, an integral part of its heatsink. The beam chamber was a bit boxy, elongated and made from gray metal. Apart from its original trigger, this pistol also had a thumb one, and it looked exactly like the star of the man’s tool belt.
Disturbing the ancient one’s rest longer, he dared not.
The Lothorian holstered his new gun and then quickly pushed the sarcophagus lid back in its place. Quickly, after Reia said some farewell words and deeply bowed at the honored elder, they left the marvel-filled hall.
Profoundly touched, moved by this experience, they remained silent throughout their trek back to the surface. Many shadows followed in their wake, whispering one blessing after another, eager to share their life-saving advice with these honorable living. Through age-old dust they walked, over one or another justly slain desecrator they stepped, until finally, their soles touched the desolate wasteland outside.
Velin gently bowed his head, and before the last lingering around the mausoleum’s gate guardians retreated within, he recited a poem most peculiar:
“Ancient Catacomb.”
“Your own Entombed Remembrance – ”
“Life Eternal rests.”
* * *
You can find The Rifle’s Song and the second novella, Velin And The Bunker Of Death here.