The roof of the roundhouse exploded in a roaring shower of pine splinters, scorched timber, and flying glass shards as the first incendiary shell struck the eastern quadrant of the timber dome.
A wave of heat washed down over the assembly, turning the freezing midnight air into a suffocating wall of black pine smoke and vaporized paraffin.
Delegates scattered in blind panic, diving beneath heavy oak worktables or crawling toward the perimeter freight exits.
"Stay low! Move toward the turntable pit!" Prince Bastian roared over the concussive thunder of the bombardment.
He didn't duck. Bastian lunged across the horseshoe table, grabbing Governor Sterling by his collar and pulling him clear just as a six-foot iron rafter crashed down onto the delegate's vacated seat, sending white-hot sparks dancing across the stone floor.
