Velin The Lothorian

Book 1, The Rifle's Song

Index:

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7 | Chapter 8 | Chapter 9

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Prologue

A slave, a heretic, a rebel

Velin, son of Mir is a common Lothorian.

His family were simple peons who hailed from a now destroyed tiny village, Athel, located on the edge of Hack Desert. The mother, Jithra, had died from an unknown fever, five years after his birth. She’d gone a bit deeper into the desert, in search of rare water plants, but returned drained of life and sick. Jithra quickly withered before their eyes, unable to even say her goodbyes.

Village elders warned that Velin’s mother had been cursed by a deathless, ancient monstrum, whose name not even the bravest Leht dared utter. To spare the village this curse, one of the elders volunteered to carry Jithra’s body and bury it deeper into the desert. He was never seen again...

Devastated, Mir was left alone to fend for his child.

A loving father, he taught his son everything a Lothorian man needed to know. How to work hard and for longer periods of time, before collapsing from exhaustion. The knowledge of all, even the olden farming techniques – planting and reaping a harvest with extreme prudence.

Unbeknownst to the village elders of Athel, Mir was a heretic. Month after month, Velin’s father told him the secret songs and stories of his people. Though not many, some Lothorians still kept true the memory of their most sacred of legends – the Star Savior prophecy. Little Velin learned it perfectly well since he not only possessed his father’s toughness, but spry mind too.

Many years had to pass still, before the crew of IMS Starshatter landed on Lothoria.

Despite hunger, drought, and back breaking labor on the fields, Velin grew up a sturdy boy. Luckier than most children, he survived a number of Rake fevers and eventually, his body was rewarded with great fortitude. Trained by his father in desert running, the traditional male sport on Lothoria, Velin learned how to ration even his breath. Conditioned to survive with the least amount of water possible, desert runners oft carried important missives between villages, bravely traversing the scorching hellscape.

One day after his eight birthday, Velin’s luck ran out.

His home was raided by a band of mercenary Leht; these brigands slaughtered the elderly and captured the young, to be sold into slavery. One minute his father was alive, and the next laying in a pool of his own blood, a crossbow bolt sticking from his throat. Again, just like when his mother perished, they were unable to exchange final words.

The fact that he was a healthy child, not only meant that Velin would fetch a good price on the market. He also had better than average chance of surviving the brutal trek through the Hack desert. The slavers could not make coin off of corpses.

Therefore, and to avoid wasting resources on potentially soon-to-be-dead merchandise, they “invested” more in their healthy stock. Velin was given an extra bite of food and a second cup of piss, mixed with stale water. For a time the boy didn’t care, mostly because he was viciously beaten during his capture. After three days of travel, however, he noticed and a problem arose.

Velin demanded the end of his special treatment and more food and water be given to his fellow villagers. The slavers answered with laughter, but when he refused to move, they acted. First, the bandits beat Velin, yet he wouldn’t relent and they couldn’t ruin their most promising merchandise. When this didn’t work, their leader promised that the two weakest villagers would carry Velin, until the boy obeyed or they dropped dead from exhaustion.

For the rest of the trek he walked alone, ahead of the line.

Velin watched how the caravan became smaller and smaller. Those who weren’t as healthy fell first and were left to mummify in the sand. The villagers who suffered from infected wounds died soon after. Before the trek’s end a number of bandit Leht perished too, the head slaver among them. The monster accidentally cut himself, his wound got infected and he died pretty much in the same agonizing way, many low-born Lothorians did.

Velin’s neighbors weren’t that lucky, because after the caravan reached its destination, most were on their last legs. The slavers eventually nursed two of them back to health and sold the girls into sex slavery. The rest contracted a virulent fever and being now an extreme drain on their owners resources, were left to die at the city dump. Velin also caught the illness, but due to his much superior health, he quickly overcame it.

The boy was sold to one rather prolific slave and goods merchant. A mysterious and rich woman by the name of Pleose, who supplied the main temple of Rot with laborers. Rumors spread by other slaves claimed that she was an offworlder, one who came here with the retinue of god Rot himself. Some even said that she too was a demigod, an immortal with powers over forbidden magicks. Terrified slaves whispered during the darkest hours of the night, about Pleose’s alleged communing with daemons.

Whatever the truth, it did not offer a chance to change his fate, and was therefore irrelevant.

When asked by his mistress what he could do best, the boy’s answer was – desert running. There was a faint hope he’d be sold as a messenger, a fate somewhat better than most. Pleose laughed and laughed, her voice echoed across the slave pens charged with overwhelming malevolence. So powerful was her chortle that she eventually smiled, revealing two rows of alien-looking teeth and a segmented jaw.

Mistress Pleose sold his future after gleefully stating that he wouldn’t run, but carry instead.

Velin’s destiny was to become one of these sentient beasts of burden. Lothorian men who endured the harshest of torment, carried supplies for temple Leht until they died from exhaustion. Another trek across the Hack desert later and his bleeding soles walked through the gate of Temple’s cherished Haven.

The mighty Leht, it was those stalwart defenders of the Temple, who “trained” Velin in the art of carrying.

From dusk till dawn was the boy whipped, as he carried various bales full of gear and supplies. His skin cracked under the hot sun, soles blistered and feet bled with every torturous step. The Leht taskmaster was relentless and pushed everyone above and beyond what was normal for a Lothorian. Velin was a desert runner; that was his father, Mir, saving him from beyond the grave.

Indeed, there were beasts of burden on Lothoria called Epes, and they were quite capable of carrying even the heaviest of loads. However, the common peon, being in plentiful supply, was significantly cheaper and easy to replace. Lothoria’s lords and priesthood fancied their comfy carriages and best of all, tasty, well-cooked Epes meat.

After three months had passed, Velin was considered fully-trained and attached to a unit of Leht. Chained together with many others like him, the boy marched out of the Haven. He couldn’t even imagine what the next eight years of his life would be, because those Leht, they were special.

Always on some “holy” mission, this five hundred strong troop traveled across the nearby lands. Their targets were so-called heretics, whom they tortured to learn where more misbelievers were located.

They traveled from place to place, ever looking, searching for more and supremely elusive betrayers of the Kingdom. Their set of religious laws or the Rottiah, stated that anyone who disobeyed Temple or planned on doing so, was to be exterminated.

The Temple Leht massacred and burned down entire villages, just by a mere rumor that peons there might be “contaminated.” They did not care that land was left without serfs to toil over it; these Leht often spoke of lowly peons’ magical reproductive capabilities, equating them to rabid wozzies. So high and mighty these faithful assumed themselves, that to them, everyone not of sufficient religious purity was lowlier than a bug.

Long was Velins’ toil and hard his suffering.

For eight years he carried heavy bales full of food, barrels of water or wine, things he could never taste. Clothes, spare suits of chain mail armor, spears, and crossbow bolts – items which he would’ve gladly used to slay his tormentors. Velin toiled, he obeyed, yes, but harbored none of the submissiveness that other slaves eagerly displayed. Instead of licking their boot, the sooner he was presented with an opportunity to rebel, he’d kill any Leht barring his way and escape.

Many years separated Velin from his chance, until finally, one day the special Leht troop was split. Many of them were sent as an escort, guarding some important priest. Others, their service nearly over, had to return back to the Heaven, leaving the troop with only a fraction of its original number. To haul supplies, many of his fellow carriers were also sent there, leaving him and just a few slaves at the camp.

Many weeks past and the Leht left in this camp grew ever tardier, despite scary rumors coming from outside.

One evening, after prying his old and rusted shackles open, Velin finally sprang into action. Instead of throwing them away, he kept this iron bonds, even if for posterity’s sake. He skulked in the dark and with ease since there were only so few guards to patrol the otherwise big camp. Working with a discarded tool, he freed those slaves whom he trusted would run and then resist the masters.

The groveling bootlickers Velin left to their just fate.

Then he stole food and water from the storage, snapped the neck of two guards and vanished in the night. Indeed, the Leht discovered his absence and feeling extremely aggravated, sent a small hunt party to kill him. Velin moved easily and being unburdened by heavy loads, he ran swiftly and ever deeper into the desert. The twenty five Leht who left their camp made the situation in it even worse security wise, and since most of the slaves were gone, there was no one to lug supplies.

Velin let the mighty, heavily-armored Leht on a wild wozzie chase through the desert. He ran in a wide circle and, his body nourished by a plentiful supply of water and food, could keep playing them for a month. That was not needed, because the Leht gave up running after him after using most of their water.

The fact that they did so, only after getting hopelessly lost in the desert was the first of Velin’s victories.

No longer a slave, but avenger, Velin trailed the Leht. He descended upon them during the nights, each time snapping a neck or two with his brutish strength. After five nights of this treatment, the suffering from severe dehydration Leht broke. Terrified, before his death, their commander mumbled incoherently about people who came from the stars. Aliens, whose intent was to lead the local heretics and raise a revolt, topple Rot’s holy Order.

Velin considered himself a heretic, therefore he decided to see if they fitted the Star Savior legend. Go to the outskirts of Lothoria’s capital city, Ichtia, and if there were others like him, join them. He found his way back to camp, but found it abandoned.

What was left of the Leht made a run for the capital, leaving most of their supplies behind. Lugging only what water and food they could in their backpacks, they threw away spare boots, clothes, underwear and... tents. Such was their pride and pigheadedness, that they assumed themselves capable beyond measure.

They were not.

Velin discovered these agonizing breadcrumbs on his way to the capital.

Most were dead, their bodies succumbed to the desert, but others still had some life in them. Velin was much stronger now; his muscles replenished by rest, water, and food, he could easily kill these leftovers. He did end all of them by desert funeral – after snapping their legs, they were left to die. The Leht wallowed and they screamed, every word of theirs a curse, they promised him swift death delivered by the godly powers of Rot.

He laughed.

During his years of torment, he’d heard many a time from the mouths of priests how Rot could see all and was omnipotent. Not his escape nor him sneaking through the night, the “god” saw. His blessed warriors received no forewarning of their doom or some form of magickal protection, to shield them from Velin’s hands.

Rationing the last of his water, he reached the capital and saw it in flames. Velin rushed through the wide open city gates only to discover that Ichtia had become a battlefield. Leht fought against strangely clothed and armed Lothorians who had the aid of other Leht. He couldn’t believe his eyes, but it was real – the revolt happened as he watched.

Velin picked up a discarded spear and charged straight into battle. He joined a small group of former serfs, all barely armed, but determined to fight for their freedom. Witnessing his uncommon strength and vigor, they followed him and his example.

Unbeknownst to him, this was Liberation Day.

No sooner had Velin and his fellow Lothorians joined the fight against loyal to the Priest King Leht, alien star chariots descended from the skies. What seemed to be a victorious clash with the few, demoralized Leht, soon turned into a wanton slaughter.

The newcomers were clad in space age armor and wielded particle-beam weaponry. Ruthless, they fired at anyone in sight - freedom fighters and hapless civilians alike. Everyone around Velin fell, killed by beams, their charred corpses joined the thick carpet of bodies, tens of thousands littered the streets.

Hope stolen from him, Velin vowed to die, but not be slave again.

He charged one of the aliens and after lobbing one huge stone at him, twisted his head with his bare hands. The Lothorian then picked the armored corpse and proceeded to kill a few more aliens with it. Using severed limbs, bent armor plates and his own fists, Velin continued his rampage. There was nothing in his mind now, but killing intent and ensuring the doom of this new enemy.

He would kill as many of them as possible and then fall – for death was much preferable to slavery!

They would shoot him with their beam guns, but he used their comrades’ bodies as cover. The titanic rage of a slave whose hope was denied could not be easily bested. Not by particle-beam and not by alien mercenaries with hollow souls, who fought for no ideal.

Finally, after being shot and stabbed many a time, this giant of a man was surrounded. On all sides and aimed at him were their weapons, yet before they could finish him off, sword wielding angels descended from the sky. Their mighty battlecry carried across the entire city and with each strike, they felled an enemy. Swift on their feet and swords glistening on the sun, they cut a deadly swath through the panicked mercenaries.

The samurai of Clan Shimazu found Velin unconscious, hands wrapped around the snapped neck of one the Narco troopers.

He awoke days later, in one of their field hospitals. This is when Velin was told that his planet was freed and Rot’s Order, nigh dismantled. When he asked the doctor who healed his wounds, if he is one of the Star Saviors, the Terr’aan smiled and told Velin to rest. Unable to stay in his bed, the anxious to learn Lothorian ventured out of the tent and tripped.

Falling in the hands of one old Japanese soldier, he asked him the same question. Velin was met with another smiling face instead of an immediate answer. As the man helped him back to his bed, he claimed he was but a simple soldier, who had occasionally saved a person or two.

They spent many hours talking and this elderly alien taught Velin many things. The Terr’aan humbly spoke of his own deeds, which were mighty feats in the eye of a Lothorian. The Japanese soldier told tales of his homeland; where his many sons, daughters and their grandchildren, grew something called rice and fished wondrous fish from the deep.

Velin finally learned who enabled the freedom of his people and told exactly how it happened. He then watched the doom of “god” Rot by the hands of another alien, and in graphic detail. More and more he learned, and not only of his own planet, but the state of the galaxy at large.

Knowing of his feat during the battle for Ichtia, and his knowledge of local farming techniques, the Terr’aans offered to train him with space age tech. He could become his homeworld’s first agronomist, yet even if his heart yearned to help crops grow, Velin felt that wasn’t his one and only calling.

Determined, the Lothorian wanted to not only protect his own race, but help free others. Velin asked the elderly Japanese if he could be trained, learned in the Terr’aan way, become a soldier, a life-saver.

Soldiers of Clan Shimazu, all of them veterans of many battles, taught Velin. The elder personally instructed him how to shoot railgun and laser, and in the art of fist fighting. Every bit of wisdom he was taught, the young soldier studied well. Velin excelled in bayonet fighting and hand to hand combat, but his marksmanship became nigh peerless.

His mind spry, the Lothorian greatly respected his teacher’s ways and made sure to learn more.

Among other things, Velin read The Art Of War, and Clan Shimazu’s combat manuals for subterfuge and evasion. Yet he valued one book the most and that was the Terr’aan Morale Officer Handbook. He was gifted one copy by his Japanese mentor and banded it in Epes skin.

Many armaments were given to him; a powerful rifle, a laser pistol, and long bayonet.

Velin always considered this tome, which he lovingly called the Terr’aan War Saint Book, to be his mightiest of weapons. More his venerable instructors could not teach – he had to learn the rest on the field of battle, grow by life-saving combat. Therefore, this indomitable man packed his gear and went to ask a boon of his commanding officer.

He’d heard of another, much-suffered place, a planet very much like his beloved Lothoria. Velin’s reward for achieving top marks during his soldierly training was to be a mission of his own choosing.

A time for wrath, a day of doom on which this now free man could engage in glorious slaughter. Crush those who sucked the life dry of other peoples and bartered in their stolen future. Eviscerate every single degenerate, and especially the cannibal, the child abusers, and the enslavers.

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You can find The Rifle’s Song and the second novella, Velin And The Bunker Of Death here.