Asher tosses me one of the rifles, and I catch it with two hands, then take aim. The Loyalists are still too far off. We’ll never hit them, not with the wind wagon bumping over every last rut.

The Loyalists’ falcon suddenly dives, plummeting for the rock outcropping that borders Harlie’s home. For a second I think maybe Asher has shot it down. Then I see the telltale sign of a dust storm—a yellow haze, thick and ugly and crackling with energy just beyond the rocks that border Harlie’s Hope. The outcropping is sheltering us from the worst of the wind and dust, but it will breach the obstacle soon.

“Will we make it?” I yell to Harlie.

“We’re about to find out.”

The Loyalists spot the storm too and kick their horses into a faster gallop. If they get to the shanties before us, we’ll rot.

“Tacking back to the west!” Harlie yells from the tiller. “Forget those guns, Delta. Help Reed at the brake. I’m angling us into the storm, and those winds should slow us plenty, but I don’t want to crash into the rocks.”

I glance up at the masts, praying that they somehow withstand the storm. If we’re close enough to the rocks, we might get lucky. We have to, because we can’t get the Old World tech to Powder Town without a working wind wagon.

An earsplitting blast erupts, and I duck instinctively. The Loyalists are firing at us.

“Here they come!” Harlie shouts.

I glance over my shoulder. I can see their black garb now. The man in the lead sits upright in the saddle, his rifle pointed our way. Good aim will be nearly impossible while he’s bouncing around on a horse like that, but I crouch low anyway.

The storm hits the rocks and roars over the ridge, the wind tangling in our sails. The Gods Touched immediately slows, and that’s when Reed squeezes the brake. The wagon skids wildly in the rear and begins to turn to starboard, toward the rocks.

No!

If we turn too far, the dust storm’s wind will fill our sails again and send us cruising the way we just came—back onto the plains, toward the oncoming Loyalists. I race to assist Reed, bearing down on the brake with him. Harlie counters our steering from the front.

The wagon groans in protest, and there’s a splintering crack from above as one of the crossbeams breaks free of the mast.

“Harlie!” I scream, but I can’t leave the brake. Not if we don’t want to crash.