The Summoning of Old Velt: The Second Descent into the Vein (The World of the Vein Book 2)

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Shopbop Designer Fashion Brands. Amazon Prime Music Stream millions of songs, ad-free. Keep an eye out for it. Through the tar-draped sky, a point of white light punctured through the black, briefly illuminating the silhouette of the Drifter behind it in a lightning-like flash, followed by a sweeping rumble that rolled past the soldiers. Velt could feel the rattle of his back teeth, tingling his mouth.

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Drave filled the air with the words which had already come to the Commander's mind. The light in the sky grew rapidly in size, its appearance indicating a spiraling motion as it decreased the distance and altitude between it and the targeted evacuators below.

The cannons let loose, hurling elongated pulses of bright red energy toward the approaching projectile, the initial shots falling far short of the target, exploding in bright orange and crimson spheres. More pulses were hurled, more misses. The Corkscrew continued its path, now within range, and passing through the blasts which defiantly continued to fly upward, cutting through the night air.

Velt could hear the cannon operators speaking to each other, picking up the distorted voices of the operators in the valley which came through the modest-sized speakers, and saw the big guns which effortlessly adjusted their positions, all the while repeatedly releasing their molten energy projectiles into the air with an audible throom!

Two of the shots-from the valley cannons, Velt guessed, although he wasn't completely sure on that-found their mark, colliding with the menacing white weapon. The result was a sudden flash of white, a brief glimpse of an expanding, blinding ball, radiating from where contact had come. The light cast upon the terrain below projected a brief daylight-like image upon the back of Velt's eye, followed by an annoying ocean of blurred green, occluding his vision with a blotch which was slow and reluctant to recede.

Somebody in one of the cannon mounts let out a triumphant whoop. Velt couldn't help but smile at that. From a distant point on the ground ahead, a green bolt left the earth, leaving behind it a faint, glowing contrail which traced its path. The Commander continued to watch the green bolt, following its arc with his eyes, watching as it slowed in the air, then fell, increasing in its size and brightness. The Lobber crashed into the ground with a thunderous explosion, spitting flame and smoke from the point of impact. White hot bubbles launched from half a dozen weapons, not nearly as impressive in size or power as the cannons, but effective in their own way, dashing through the air just above ground level, and finishing their flight in a deadly flash.

We're not trying to win a battle; just buy time for evacuation. All we want to do is keep them off our backs until we can get clear. Velt turned his head toward his right.

A pair of bobbing yellowish lights could be seen heading in their direction. Ahead, two more green Lobbers began their ascent into the air. Another Corkscrew lit up the sky.

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The cannons hastily sent out their crimson pulses to meet it. Adjust the suppression zone to a crescent-twenty formation! Prat relayed Velt's words. Below, the gunners no longer fired directly ahead in unison; the footmen on the ends had adjusted their line of fire outward ten degrees on either side. Another bright blast filled the sky as the second Corkscrew detonated prematurely, being struck by the defensive blasts of the cannons.

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Velt gave an unconscious nod. But where is that other Drifter? The Lobbers collided with earth, this time much closer to the camp. Three more Lobbers launched, now accompanied by a series of silver needles that stabbed through the air. Order the heavy gunners to get out of here. The white bubbles decreased in firing frequency, changing in their points of origin. The dark forms of the burly men who had been working those weapons rapidly stood, picking up their massive guns and starting down the valley, toward the four pairs of now stationary headlights, returning fire as they went.

Velt watched them go, still amazed at the size and strength of the men in that unit: These fellows could move them, toss them, throw them over their shoulders as if there was nothing to it. Intimidating to watch, but comforting to know that these same men were on his side in a fight-and they were as accurate with their aim as they were strong with their arms. The Lobbers landed in range of the camp. Pandemonium landed with them. It was the third Lobber that caused the most damage. The first two had dropped early-still close enough to be wary of, but not inflicting any serious damage, sending a mildly concussive wave through the air that thumped angrily against Velt's chest, making him stumble a bit, but leaving him otherwise unharmed.

But the third one found its mark, planting itself squarely between the valley cannons, knocking both over, and leaving behind dead machines and their equally lifeless operators.

The heavy gun squad dropped to the valley floor in disarray, the men feebly attempting to get themselves back up in order to continue their retreat. They had moved away far enough to avoid lethal damage from the Lobber, but the force of the explosion had been enough to knock them off their feet. It had been enough to do the same to Old Velt as well. On his hands and knees, he looked upward, seeing the shadowy forms of the advancing enemy crawl across the land, still letting loose with their weapons, sending silver streaks of death in his direction. Over the com, the generic footman's voice came again.

The Commander looked at the three footmen who had remained with him. Get moving when you're aboard, with or without me! Prat, Drave, and Navar did as they were told. Velt ran back to the tent, now having to move more erratically-the small arms fire was now cutting through the air around him, and a well placed shot would end up killing him.

He snatched up a rifle laying in the corner of the tent; then, after taking a brief and frantic look around to make sure nothing vital remained, pushed through the tent opening, patting the sphere in his pocket for reassurance that it had not been left behind. Out he stepped, beginning to plod after the others, who had begun the descent down the side of the hill.

A dropping flash of green, followed by a large explosion, stopped him. The Lobber had created a crater of considerable size in the ground, cutting Velt off from the others, who had been shaken, but had also advanced far enough away to avoid becoming serious casualties. They picked themselves up from the forced fall, and slipped into the valley, toward the lone remaining transport. Velt rose shakily from the earth and let out a curse, immediately backing away from the immense hole, unconsciously retrieving his top hat, which had come off during his fall.

A white pinwheel appeared in the sky above him. It had plotted a wide circle around them, and had come up from behind. Now it was almost on top of them, and let loose its deadly weapon. Even now, as the weapon came bearing down upon him, and any chance of escape was essentially nonexistent, he had to internally tip his hat to the strategic planning of his enemy.

How long had they planned to sneak attack with this Drifter? A day before they moved in? Drifters were slow vehicles, which was why they were used primarily at night.

During the day, they would make for easy, large targets. But at night, they could quietly sweep in, under cover of darkness, and easily position themselves within range of their devastatingly powerful payload, and launch their Corkscrews, easily decimating targets as large as a modest size city-or as small as a temporary platoon camp.

Just like this one did.

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And it had begun its course long before Velt's intelligence scouts had reported that an attack was coming, which meant that this Drifter above him-this one which would kill him-had taken an extremely out-of-the-way path in order to get here. A risky thing to do, especially in this area, which wasn't that far away from the front lines of the war. But it paid off for them.

Like I said, clever move. The ground below him glowed from the brilliance of the approaching projectile. He took a fast look at the transports-They were leaving. Good-and then stared bravely into the face of the thing plunging through the air, dropping straight toward him. This would be it. His career, his life-all over in a few seconds. Strangely, he did not seem to be afraid. Perhaps it was because he knew that something like this might happen to him one day. Or maybe it was because he was too mentally preoccupied with the safety of his men that the idea of fright for himself didn't have an opportunity to cross his mind.

In either case, the finality of all of this did not alarm him; he had been good in following the Path of Discipline given by Lyot. He had suffered, as Lyot had suffered. He had been charitable, as Lyot had been charitable. He had let go of self, as Lyot had let go of self. And now he would be One with All, as Lyot had become one upon his deathbed. It was probably better this way. No wife or children to leave behind, no feeling of regret at not being able to say goodbye to them for the last time, or to anyone else for that matter.

Mother and Father had died at the outset of this war, while Old Velt had still been young and innocent. As for Jolly Cohle, he'd be fine. Velt's uncle who had reared him was safe and secure, back in the heart of the South Bloc. It was just as well; Jolly Uncle Cohle was too old to be of any use to the war now, and even in his youth, his service amounted to little more than functioning as a cook during his five years of enlistment, back before the war had become as volatile as it was at present. He had done his job shaping the young Velt into the mature Talusibat he was now, and had functioned as a good substitute for his parents, albeit one who could be very distant at times, both emotionally and physically.

When Velt had become old enough to go out on his own, choosing military service, Jolly Uncle Cohl gave him a handshake, a credit slip worth a thousand parrs, and a brisk "Take care, Velt. And not the worst of turnouts; after all, it had been Velt's experience with his uncle that in part had spurred him on to find out about Foun-Lyot. He had his uncle to thank for that. Unconsciously, his hand reached once more into the pocket, wrapping itself around the strange sphere they had found.

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