London

They had halved the distance between themselves and London before anyone aboard the city even noticed them. They had halved it again before the gunners up there could bring their guns to bear. The warriors howled; the guns of the landships boomed and stuttered; from the forward turret of the Fury a Tesla gun played its icy lightning across London’s tracks in the hope that something that destroyed Stalkers would work on mobile cities, too. Clinging to her mammoth’s neck, ducking under the shots that the Stalker behind her kept pumping at the rolling tracks ahead, Cluny thought wildly, We will win! We’re too small for them to even see! That’s why my dream came, so that I could stop this thing.

Then the shells from London’s guns were falling all around her, sudden trees with twisting fiery trunks and spreading canopies of
chalky smoke. Bodies cartwheeled; debris tumbled; mammoths screamed, reared, fell, ran riderless. She saw the Fury hit, the sternpart where her father stood blown into pieces, the severed bows slewing around helpless in the path of London. Then some shard
of shell or wreckage went through her mammoth’s skull and splashed its brains over her and it was falling, down on its knees
and forward into the grass with its tusks snapping and Cluny somersaulting off its head. The Tesla gun aboard the Fury was still
firing wildly, scattering its lightning everywhere, and she turned to the Stalker as he rose from the mammoth’s wreck and shouted,
“Master Grike, watch out!” and then the lightning touched her and her mind filled with cold white fire

Scrivener’s Moon, pg 321/355, Chapter 31, Battle’s end