Carl was amazed at the ingenuity of the people of Boxborough. He was in the workshop sequestered behind the smithy, and had been there ever since Kevin Pardoe had arrived at Schoen's to guide him there.
The space was small but well-lit, excruciatingly organized, and almost painfully clean. There were separate tables and chairs for each of the five weapons currently in various stages of assembly; most were guns of some sort, but there was one tool that almost harkened back to the earliest days of man – a javelin and spear-thrower. These, Pardoe explained, were the pet projects of various members of the community. What this lab did best was create improved modifications on already-existing weapons. They had an enormous cache secreted somewhere in the town. Since the Civil War, the leaders of Boxborough had been discreetly stockpiling extra weapons, captured arms, anything they thought might be useful, under the pretense of restocking the local militia. Many orders were shipped to different locations, after which townspeople would be sent to retrieve them. The system was sound, and continued to work even now.
As a result, the people of Boxborough had made improvements on long-range sniper rifles, and were moving easily into the industrial age. They had developed a compound very close to the Glycerin 48 that was being produced in the Vatican. However, it was much more volatile and extremely dangerous; so much so, Pardoe explained, that they kept it in a separate bunker to the north of the town.
Pardoe guided him through the various workstations set up against the walls of the room, allowing the workers at each table to describe their current projects. There were several attempts to replicate weapons of Oriental origin. Throwing stars made of silver amongst the foremost of these – but the metallurgists were running into difficulties with the balance there, as well. Most of the alloys they concocted with the appropriate amount of silver were too soft to be of real use. The shuriken stars were being used in their traditional role, the man sharpening them explained; as a diversionary, tactical weapon designed to harass the enemy, not as a long-range projectile. Most of the ones Carl handled had only four points. There were several with six, but these shuriken were more difficult to wield, and the candidates training with them had had little luck. There were also several kama; sickle-shaped blades with a two-foot haft, for use against war axes and swords. One designer was even experimenting with kusarigama – a sickle blade on a metal chain, with a heavy weight on the end. He was fired with enthusiasm, which made up for his abysmal luck at using the weapon functionally.
Carl was impressed by their willingness to go beyond the tried and true methods, to find something that could be better by looking in different places and incorporating different influences. He said so, and Pardoe beamed at the praise. The friar spotted smiles on the faces of several nearby workers.
There was even an ahlspiess, which Luke Rosenthal – Ancell's apprentice – was working on. It was a thrusting spear about seven feet long, three of which composed the shaft. It had a single thin prong, efficient and balanced. Most of what Carl knew of these weapons came from archival documents from 15th century Germany. It was a magnificent piece. The apprentice was covering the functional steel core with plated silver, and smiled under a broken nose at Carl as the friar lauded his work.
Pardoe was quite proud of their progress, and the friar saw several of the men he had spoken with at the previous night's meeting hard at work. These men, though, were working with more modern weaponry – firearms, to be precise. There were pieces of several Winchester rifles, the .32-20 and the .38-55, both developed earlier in the decade, scattered across several workbenches. A shortish man with black hair and eyes was utterly absorbed in an examination of the sleek Krag-Jørgensen, a bolt-action repeating rifle of Norwegian design. The talk of the room, however, was the Mauser 1888 Commision Rifle, also a bolt-action repeating rifle, which had only recently arrived. Even Pardoe waxed enthusiastic about these guns; the most pressing problem with them, however, was that their ammunition rounded at the bullet's head, instead of tapering to a point, which according to Pardoe was the widely preferred form for a bullet. Already there was excited talk and rough designs of the modifications needed for the gun to be compatible with more deadly ammunition.
The morning seemed to fly by as Carl worked with each of the developed weapons in turn, speaking eagerly with the designers. The friar declined an offer of lunch in favor of more time testing the Mauser, and soon found himself alone in the shop. After twenty more minutes of working, however, the growling in his stomach could no longer be ignored. Glancing about the deserted workroom, he replaced the weapon exactly as he had found it, and left by the back of the building. He was about to round the smithy on his way to the General Store, when once more voices caught his ear and he paused before turning the corner.
"Tell Derek that I believe the situation will turn in our favor." That was Pardoe, and even through the wall Carl could hear his smugness. "He won't refuse our offer, not now that he's seen part of what's really going on."
"I hope not." Carl's eyes widened. This was one of the voices he had heard behind the meetinghouse – he was sure of it! A quick peek left him pressed against the wall in fright. Ancell. Of course. No one else could display such casual hostility; not even Gabriel exuded such black menace. "What about the others?"
Pardoe snorted. "Well, you took care of the darkie." The derision in his voice wasn't something Carl would have expected from the man.
"For now," Ancell interrupted, growling with satisfaction tinged with caution.
"For now," Pardoe agreed amiably. He didn't sound in the least concerned, however. "As for the hunter -"
A sharp clang cut him off, and Carl jumped.
"Control yourself," snapped a third voice, much closer than the other two. That voice was markedly familiar to Carl; it was his host, Schoen. Dread gripped him. "The anger is good. It will give you energy, determination. But if you don't contain it, it will rule you. And then, Robert, you will die."
There was a frustrated breath, half snarl, half sigh. "Yes."
A short pause, filled only with the noise of the smithy – hungry flames and the dim clattering of tools as Ancell tidied the forge. "As I was saying," Pardoe continued, much more guardedly. "The hunter is a quandary."
"How so?" Schoen murmured, calculation and thoughtfulness dripping from every syllable. Carl didn't have to see him to visualize the cunning flashing in his eyes.
A hefty grunt. "Well, Louisa's been slipping some of her home blend into his food, ever since he started staying with us." Carl's eyes widened, his breath coming in short, silent gasps. Gabriel had been drugged – the tiredness, the dizzy spells he had seen – what had they given him? "From what I understand, it's mostly St. John's Wort, with a few little additives to keep him from noticing too many effects. It didn't seem to be working at first. So she upped it, to the point where it should have had him passed out in the street." Carl's shock was quickly turning to anger, and fear. He could hear Pardoe's puzzlement, and took grim satisfaction from it. "It didn't seem to work at all, and Louisa can't figure it out. She tested it on one of the cows. Damn animal hasn't known whether it was coming or going for the past two days." A snort of laughter from the others interrupted him, but the Senior Projects Manager continued pensively. "I can't figure it."
"He's the Vatican's most successful hunter," Schoen pointed out, with something akin to pride. "A dangerous man – the most wanted in Europe. It makes sense that he'll have trained his body to fight off poisons and such."
Carl felt his heart skip a beat. Poisons?
"It wasn't poison," Pardoe objected immediately. "Just a few herbs, to throw him off-balance a bit."
"He's not off-balance at all," Ancell grumbled darkly. "I can attest to that; I looked death in the eye this morn. I told you what happened. And if he is -"
"Still, his resilience does him credit," Schoen murmured, cutting off his apprentice without a blink. The strange sense of pride was evident again, pervading his tone. "When he joins us – do you know how much more effective we'll be?"
Carl could hear it – the frightening intensity that had so overwhelmed him during the first conversation he had truly had with his host. Now, he had a better idea of what they were doing, but the why still eluded him. And he was trembling with the revelations.
"When they all do," Pardoe added. He sighed in admiration. "I got to see the boy work today – mind like a whip and the know-how to match! From what I hear tell, he lived in Jersey until one of the nearby members of the Order saw his potential, whisked him off to Rome. Stole him right out from under us, practically."
"Don't be bitter," Schoen said at the same time Carl realized that they were talking about him. "He's had better education there than we would have been able to give him, thirteen, fifteen years ago. And now we reap the rewards."
"True," Ancell rumbled. "Hastings was just getting into his stride then. There's no way we would have been prepared. We're still a ways off of our own proper facilities, and there's no way round it."
There was a silence, and Carl started in fear. Confident that he had heard enough for now, and worried that someone would see him – it was broad daylight – he turned and left. In doing so, he missed the end of the conversation, something he would later come to regret.
A short pause, then.
"So, when are you going to make the offer?" Schoen was idly curious, leaning against the wall of the smithy. The master trainer was fingering the deep gouge in the wall where Gabriel's Tojo blade had lodged. Faint, rust-colored stains smudged the pads of his fingers, and he sniffed at them questioningly.
"Soon. Tonight, if I can catch him alone," Pardoe sighed. "Van Helsing is suspicious – he keeps a steady watch over his people, even if they don't know it."
"He knows it," Schoen affirmed. "And that's all that matters." He gestured with his fingers to Ancell. "Blood?" He sounded vaguely surprised.
"Mine," Ancell admitted, pulling the collar of his filthy shirt to expose his shoulder. Three deep scratches had nicked through the skin to muscle. Schoen smiled at the sight. "He's more off-balance than you think," he murmured contemplatively.
Ancell understood immediately. No one with Gabriel's skill hit anything but what they wanted to, anything but what they aimed at. If the hunter had wanted to hit him, he was a very large man, a slow-moving target. The blacksmith would have spilled more blood than was evident. "Not enough," Ancell warned his trainer.
"No. But maybe just enough."
"Speaking of which, where is he?"
Ancell shrugged heavy shoulders. "I don't know," he answered Pardoe laconically.
"I haven't seen him all day. Most likely, he's doing his job," Schoen told him, without an ounce of concern.
"Is it likely you'll run into him, be able to distract him?" Pardoe was admittedly worried; he was the only one among the men who knew the force of the drugs that were having no visible effect on Van Helsing. As such, he was appropriately troubled.
"Not I," Schoen sneered distastefully. "Derek has personally put me to the task of collecting a team to clear out the forest. The containment's done for, now." He leant against the wall in thought. Still, he felt curious pride in the hunter instead of the rage the others were clearly embroiled in. "It may have filled its purpose; we'll know later. For now, he's setting a warding line along the pentacle's points, marking it out. It will be done before night."
"Good," Ancell breathed. "I'll rest easy, knowing that." He paused, but his actions were carefully deliberate and utterly controlled when he asked the question, despite the white knuckles locked around the bellows' handle. "What about Van Hesling?"
Schoen snorted, dismissing the obvious tension in his student. "We know you hate him, Robert. But realize this – he's in the dark about our true calling, and is still under the Vatican's not-inconsiderable influence. He's only acting in the way he sees fit; he can't be expected to know what we're doing here. It would be a problem if he did. When he joins us, you'll see – he's a force beyond reckoning, I wager. If you can put aside your hate then, I foresee a great friendship between the two of you."
Ancell snorted, a deeply scornful sound. "You're too certain."
"The two of you are very alike," Schoen retorted calmly.
"I don't think you know him as well as you think you do," Pardoe interrupted. "He's utterly convinced of the rightness of his actions; he kills people because of his belief!"
"And how, exactly, does that make him different from us?" Schoen cut him off with an icy smile.
Pardoe's mouth closed slowly, a hot retort dying on his tongue.
"Good point," Ancell laughed. "Maybe we aren't so different after all."
"Aye," Pardoe murmured, bright eyes fixed on Schoen. "But if he's as stubborn as you, Robert, he'll be difficult to convince."
"Don't worry," Schoen replied serenely. "I have a solution to that problem."
"Aye," Ancell said abruptly, mouth tight. "I can listen well too, when I must."
"Robert simply required the proper motivation, is that not so?" Schoen was cruelly smug as he goaded the blacksmith. Ancell nodded, and his stiff face warned Pardoe against questioning any further into that line. He hastily changed the subject.
"That leaves only the third." Pardoe was sitting on a bench near the forge, and at this he leant back towards the fire's welcoming heat. "Lamar. What are we to do with him?"
Schoen snorted. "Hastings hasn't told me anything about him. I can't imagine he'll be of much use, outside the obvious."
"He was sent on this mission for his skills," Pardoe felt obligated to point out.
"He was sent on this mission because the hunter is unpredictable, the friar's a free thinker, and Seaton is leery of what they'll do given free reign," Schoen replied shortly. "It's no secret that the man Robert nearly killed is the closest thing to a right hand that the Order's new head has. I'm concerned about what may happen if Seaton turns his attention to us."
Ancell waved his concerns away. "He's new to the position; he'll be cautious."
Schoen glared hotly at his apprentice. Such an expression on the stick-thin man shouldn't have been enough to make a larger, stronger, younger man flinch, but it did. The line between apparent equals sprang into existence from nowhere, and the divide was insurmountable. Ancell cowered back against the flames, recovering himself in a moment to tend the fire. "Obviously, you haven't read the reports," Schoen snapped in disappointed disgust. "Gaspar Seaton is a fighter, in his own way. And that could spell trouble if we fail here. We've already brought too much attention to ourselves, and it can't be blamed entirely on Gray." Ancell winced, his hands stilling for a moment in feeding the fire. Anyone with less sharp eyes would have missed the motion, but Schoen's gaze narrowed.
"True," Pardoe conceded with a sigh, drawing attention from the heated interplay between master and pupil. The heavy atmosphere inside the smithy lessened slightly.
"He'll be given a chance to prove his usefulness if he accepts the offer," Schoen intoned, suddenly appearing weary of the entire debate. "You know how Hastings operates by now, or at the very least, you should! If Lamar has no unique skills – there is a great deal of damage that needs to be repaired. And we cannot in truth spare anyone else for the . . . task." Schoen heaved a sigh. "We won't know anymore, can't do anymore, until we contain the situation, explain, and make the offer. Speculation is a waste of time at this point."
Ancell grunted in acknowledgement, seemingly recovered from his brush with his teacher's volatile temper. "We shall have to wait and see then," he offered conciliatorily.
"Yes," Pardoe murmured, his eyes focused on some far-distant goal, "I suppose we shall."
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So, a little shorter than the normal fare, but I trust things are a little clearer. Though not too clear . . . stay tuned! More reviews faster updating!