The first salvo struck the hillside like twelve iron fists driven into the spine of a kneeling ox.
Inside the sunken witness ring, Noll Vey did not merely hear the explosions; because his Dominion consciousness was mortared into every load-bearing arch, culvert pipe, and foundation pier of the fort, the impacts slammed directly through his senses.
Four mortar shells burst against the western rampart walk, blowing thirty feet of dry-laid parapet slate into the ditch. Five more hammered the bedrock shelf directly above the old salt cellar—the roof of the ninth room. And the last three shells of the twelve-gun salvo punched straight through the wet slate tiles of the upper kitchen gable, exploding against the heavy oak tie-beams over the hearth dormitory.
A roar like a collapsing quarry shaft rolled down through the mountain rock.
In the Hall of Witness, the vaulted limestone ceiling shuddered. Chunks of dry white mortar, centuries-old soot, and split shale rained down across the tiered benches. Two of the iron lantern sconces tore loose from their wall-hooks and crashed onto the aisle steps in a shower of sparks and spilled tallow. Up on the municipal benches, Reeve Holt threw her grey wool shawl over the head of the young weaver beside her while Brak and the miners locked their arms over the wooden rail to keep the panicked crowd from trampling one another on the stairs.
