A swarm of arrows unfurl from Bedrock’s dam, some aflame, others dark spindles against the sky. They arch up against the sun and rain back down, hitting the wastes well before us. We’re safely out of range.

“Steady . . .” the Prime screams again.

We’re almost close enough. Almost. A lurching movement atop the dam wall catches my eye—a giant arm swinging. “Catapults!” Someone yells in warning.

“Fire!” the Prime shouts.

“Fire!” I scream.

The word repeats across the decks. Fuses are lit. Powder crackles. The blast barrels buck at the front of each wagon, firing one stone ball after the next. The world screams with noise. I can’t hear anything, not even my own pulse. Our projectiles hit the dam in succession, creating a shower of mud-packed rock.

Then the ground explodes between our wagon and Harlie’s—the boulder from the Loyalist’s catapult—and I’m thrown from my feet.

Rock and rubble rain down. I protect my head, stagger upright.

The Prime is screaming orders from the bow of the wagon, her lips forming the word reload even though my ears can’t hear it yet. Dirt explodes around us, more boulders striking the earth.

“Reload!” I hear her yell, muffled and distant. The troops are already at work, shoving another stone into the blast barrel, pouring the powder.

A new batch of burning arrows rains down from the dam, still not able to reach us, but closer than before. If one of those arrows hits our powder supply . . .

“Fire!”

More blasts from the fleet. But not from our wagon. Our flint striker is splayed out on the deck, stunned, rubble from one of the catapult crashes having struck her.

I scramble forward and pluck the flint from her fingers. Strike it against the stone, aiming for the powder fuse. Sparks fly, miss. I strike again. The Prime gives the order to use the mag-rifles, and as our troops open fire, my ears ring endlessly. The world is so loud it’s gone quiet. A spark hits true, and the powder line goes ablaze and travels into the barrel; then the weapon bucks. I clamp my hands over my ears. When I look up, a new section of the dam wall topples. Loyalists fall, screaming.

Our wagon banks to the left, the starboard side facing Bedrock, allowing our gunners better aim. We’ve nearly come to a halt.

“Reload!”

And we’re at it again. Cramming in another ball, pouring more powder, aiming the blast barrel so we might strike true. In the madness, I’ve become the new flint striker. As I prepare to light the fuse line, a bullet clips the woman beside me. Blood sprays.

We’re now so close to the dam wall that I can nearly make out the faces of the Loyalists along the rim. They’re firing their modified rifles, using whatever powder they have left that wasn’t destroyed in the explosion.

“Fire!”