London

	Down in the Gut, London’s enormous motors suddenly cut out, without warning and all at once,
doused by the strange radiations that were starting to sleet through the city’s fabric. For the first time since it crossed the land-bridge the great Traction City started to slow.

	In a hastily barricaded gallery in the London Museum, Chudleigh Pomeroy peered cautiously
over the replica of the Blue Whale and saw that the squads of Stalkers advancing on his last redoubt  had all stopped in their tracks, pale clouds of sparks coiling about their metal skulls like barbed wire. “Great Quirke!” he said, turning to his surviving handful of Historians. “We’ve won!”

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	Valentine watches the red airship fly away, lit by the flames of Top Tier and by the spitting forks
of light that are beginning to flare around St Paul’s. He can hear hopeless fire-bells jangling
somewhere below, and the panic-stricken shouts of fleeing Engineers. A halo of St Elmo’s fire flares around Katherine’s face and her hair sparks and cracks as he strokes it. He gently moves a stray strand which has blown into her mouth, and holds her close, and waits—and the storm-light breaks over them and they are a knot of fire, a rush of blazing gas, and gone: the shadows of their bones scattering into the brilliant sky.

Chapter 36: The Shadow of Bones, 150/152

	London wore a wreath of lightning. It was as if the ray that should have reached out across a
hundred miles to sear the stones of Batmunkh Gompa had tangled around the upper tiers instead, sending cataracts of molten metal splashing down the city’s flanks. Explosions surged through the Gut, heaving vast fragments of wreckage end-over-end into the sky like dead leaves in a gale. A few airships rose with them, seeking to escape, but their envelopes ignited and they shrivelled and fell, small bright flakes of fire amid the greater burning

	Only the Jenny Haniver survived, riding on the fringes of the storm, spinning and pitching as the shock waves battered her, streamers of rainbow light spilling from her rigging and rotor-blades. Her engines had all failed together in that first great pulse of energy, and nothing that Tom knew how to do would make them start again. He slumped down in what was left of the pilot’s seat, weeping, watching helplessly as the night wind carried him further and further from his dying city.

> > [...]

	London was far away, motionless under banners of smoke. Tom found Miss Fang’s old field glasses and focused them on the city. “Someone must have survived,” he said, hoping that saying it would make it true. “I bet Mr Pomeroy and Clytie Potts are down there, organizing rescue parties and handing out cups of tea… …” But through the smoke, the steam, the pall of hanging ash he could see nothing, nothing, nothing, and although he swung the binoculars to and fro, growing increasingly desperate, all they showed him were the bony shapes of blackened girders, and the scorched earth littered with torn-off wheels and blazing lakes of fuel and broken tracks lying tangled on themselves like the cast-off skins of enormous snakes

Chapter 37: The Bird Roads, Mortal Engines, pg 150/152

	As Wren eased the steering levers back and the Jenny rose, and the rounded  thing slid by beneath her, Tom saw that the other man was right; it was buckled,  corroding, shaggy with weeds, but unmistakably one of London's wheels. Beyond it the Out-Country mud was strewn with immense, dark shapes; more wheels, lengths of twisted axle, strange melted masses of metal flung out from the explod-
ing city. Cast-off tracks were strewn across it all, like ruined roadways leading toward the mountain of scrap that was just coming into view through the mist  ahead.

Pg 179/492, Chapter 18, That Colossal Wreck, A Darkling Plain