London

The northern landships on the hilltop began to fire. Fever ducked instinctively, but the shots were pitched high over her head, tearing splinters from the palisades that ringed each of London’s tiers. At once, big guns aboard the city started to reply: ship’s guns, whose shells fell thick among the clustered vehicles on the ridge. Some were mounted so high on the skeletal girders of the upper tiers that they could shoot right over the hill at the  nomad forts and castles behind it. And all the time the city kept on rolling. It showed no sign of slowing in the marshes; its huge tracks sank down through the mire and mud to grip bedrock beneath. At its stern, exhaust stacks hawked up thunderheads of smoke. Uprooted trees were wedged between the teeth of its tracks. The ground throbbed like a drum-skin. The horizon trembled. It was still a mile or two off, but it was moving quickly, and Fever noticed that the men around her were moving, too, running back to Dryships Hill as if they thought they would be safe there.

Fever started to go with them, edging backward, unable to drag her eyes away from London. It was hard to fight the instinct
that told her to get away from something so big and powerful. No wonder Cluny had been terrified when it rolled into her dreams.
Cluny had more imagination than Fever; she had understood better the heft of the new city, its predator strength. It was all that
she could do to stop herself from turning and running.

Chapter 31, Battle’s end, pg 300-301, Scrivener's Moon, Fever Crumb Prequel series.