The pressure of the Major's dissent and the fast-approaching enemy made failure an unaffordable luxury. Deacon's next crucial step was to ensure that Staff Sergeant Blake's Project Grog—the shock-and-awe component of the defense—actually worked.
Deacon met Blake (Master Elian) late the following afternoon at the glassmaker's shop, under the pretext of checking the glass clarity. The shop was hotter than ever, filled with the smell of scorched earth and volatile chemicals.
"Report, S-6," Deacon said, stepping carefully around a dozen crude, dried clay molds Ruiz had supplied.
Blake, running on pure, black coffee (a strong, bitter root brew), gestured wildly at a small clay crucible. "The potash is impure, Sir. The sulfur is mostly ash. But the saltpeter, thanks to Specialist Ruiz's disgusting acquisition methods, is highly concentrated. The first batch of powder—if you can call it that—was a bust."
Blake recounted the failure: he had mixed the powder, sealed it in a small, oiled leather bag (the prototype incendiary casing), and added a wick. Upon ignition, it had merely burned with a weak, sputtering flame.
"I was using modern principles on medieval materials," Blake explained, rubbing soot from his temples. "It wasn't hot enough. It was a fuel problem."
"Solution?" Deacon demanded.
"Improvisation. I added a stabilizer," Blake whispered triumphantly. "The wife of the old apothecary was complaining about a waste product they use to dye clothes—a black, sticky resin from a local tree. It's highly flammable, Sir, and it binds the potash and sulfur, allowing for a much faster flash combustion."
Blake had inadvertently created a crude, resin-based chemical binder and fuel accelerant. He had invented medieval plastic explosive filler.
"I have sealed forty-two viable charges," Blake said, pointing to a stack of clay-and-wax molded casings. "They are armed with a crude pitch fuse made from boiled hide and oil. They are loud, Sir. Very loud. And they will throw a tremendous flash. But they are still unstable."
"Unstable is acceptable," Deacon replied, pulling the hood of his cloak tighter. "We are not looking for precision; we are looking for confusion. I need to witness the test."
Blake led Deacon to a small, hidden test pit behind the workshop. Blake placed one of the small, dried clay charges, roughly the size of a man's fist, into the pit. He lit the pitch fuse with a shaking hand and dove for cover.
Deacon stood, maintaining his position, relying on his training.
The fuse sputtered for five agonizing seconds. Then, the charge detonated.
It wasn't the clean, concussive boom of TNT. It was a raw, ear-splitting CRACK! followed by a blinding white-yellow flash of intense heat and a cloud of thick, choking smoke. It sounded like lightning striking solid stone.
Deacon's ears rang, and his eyes watered, but he was grinning. The blast had cracked the clay pit and sent clods of earth flying. It was raw, terrifying, and effective.
"That, Master Elian," Deacon announced, shaking the soot from his cloak, "is the sound of the Goblins retreating."
"I've started production on the remaining fifty-eight charges, Sir. They will be ready by dawn. I call them Thunder Claps."
"Thunder Claps it is, Sergeant. Ruiz will secure the final acquisition for the initiators—acid—tonight. Prepare to receive the consignment. And one last thing: Do not tell the Major about the resin. He will have a full-blown attack."
Deacon left the shop, carrying the ringing in his ears like a badge of honor. He had his shock weapon. Now, he needed to solidify the long-term defense against starvation.