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“Hand me that plate.”

He does, then wipes sweat from his brow as I shift, trying to get as much light from the waning mist and setting sun as I can. “What is it?” he asks, hands on his hips, back hunched.

“Plate for an ignition chamber.” Tying a thin rope to it, I carefully lower it in, then slide down the exterior of the pipe to adjust the flange bolts and secure it.

“No ... what isthis?” He gestures to the machine as a whole.

“This is where the mist comes from.”

“The ... what?” He steps back, taking in the enormity of the machine.“This?”

“I’ll explain later.”

He pauses. “What do you mean,ignition chamber?”

I work swiftly, my tools slick in my hands. “I’m going to blow a hole in the tower.”

He says nothing for several seconds. Only when I jump down and run to the back of the machine to harvest parts does he speak. “You’re making a cannon.”

I’m glad he remembers what cannons are. “The tanks are already pressurized.” I pull free parts that will obliterate the fog machine, but we won’t need the fog after this. “I’m going to direct all of it to one pipe and aim it at the tower.” But I chose Arthen to assist me for more than his big arms. “We did archery, once upon a time. You were rather good at it.”

He merely stares.

“Find me good stones that will fit in that.” I point to the top half of the pipe. “Go!”

Urgency restored, Arthen rushes past me. Gods bless him.

By the time he piles up his last stones, I’m more or less set up.Two hours, forty-two minutes.

“Give me your shirt.”

He doesn’t question me. With the way he’s sweating, he’s likely glad to be rid of it. He pulls it over his head and hands it to me. Honestly, the perspiration will probably help with the wadding. I shove it into the pipe, using a fallen branch from a wickwood tree to tamp it down as hard as I can.

“Okay, help me with this.” I wipe sweat from my eyes and loosen the base of the pipe a little more. With sore muscles, I grab the pipe and squint over the rise of the mountain. I can see the top of the tower from where I am. “Arthen, your aim is good. Tell me where to point it.”

He stands on his tiptoes, shading his eyes from the lowering sun. “It’s far. How hard a punch will this thing have?”

“Hard enough.” Or so I hope.

“We’ll need to aim high,” he suggests, grabbing the pipe and shifting it up, to the left, and up some more. “I think that will do it.”

“Run ahead and make sure.”

He does. Takes his time—and he should—scanning the tower and the pipe. I secure the thing where he indicates.Two hours, twenty-nine minutes ...

“Okay.” I take a breath, steadying myself. “Can you hold this down?” I point to the upper half of the pipe. He does as I ask, and with a hammer, I smash the smaller end of it, turning it every few whacks to get a point. Arthen then holds the pipe vertically, pointed end down, while I fill it with rocks, estimating the total weight in my head. Hesitate toward the end and take the last one out. It will have to do. I hammer the broader end shut as well, trying to keep the makeshift closure as flat as possible.

“Help me load it.” Together we heave and groan to get my enormous, elongated projectile into the bottom half of the pipe. My limbs feel like oversoaked grain by the time it’s in there, but I can’t slow down. I’ll rest when I’m dead.

Arthen huffs. “What now?”

“Get behind the machine and plug your ears.”

With renewed energy, he does so. I engage the fog machine’s engine and hunker back with him, knees digging into the red soil, fingers pressed into my ears. After a few seconds, the machine starts to rattle.

Please, please,I beseech the universe.Please let this work. Please let it miss Heartwood and skewer that bastard instead. Please help me save them all.

The earth rumbles. Through my plugged ears I hear the machine bubble and hiss and groan, and then a thunderousboomruptures from the unblocked pipe, spitting an immense column of water vapor with it, blinding us with a thick vomit of mist. The body of the cannon has cracked.