Dust rose thick and heavy in the air as madness consumed the people outside. Fifteen or so of the folks who had been loading up big wagons with the cargo had taken cover behind the wagons, and were shooting at the attackers. The Moghuls—I assumed Octavia was correct in identifying them—rode horses across the field in a wave that encircled both the hangar and the airship itself, their strange call rising high over the shouts and sounds of gunfire from the revolutionaries.
The Moghuls evidently had rifles, of a similar type to the handguns in that they made the same dull shooting sound, followed by a blast of reddish orange light.
“Akbar, huh?” I squinted through the dust, amazed she could see enough of the attackers to identify them. Their horses appeared to be wearing some sort of ornate
