Agnessa

“Uncle Klaus, who else can help me if not you?”

“Do you understand what the word ‘nein’ means? Want me to spell it out for you?”

“I’m not great with letters. I can barely scratch out an “A” when I sign for supplies…”

“That’s your problem, Agnessa. Go to Voldemar, he’ll translate it for you.”

“He doesn’t have the parts; otherwise, I’d go to him… Uncle Klaus...”

If someone happened to look into the monastery’s garage, they wouldn’t have recognized the Plague Midwife. Normally, she flaunted a stylish, enchanted red robe with a gold-trimmed hood. Her silver mask, polished to a shine, featured a large beak. A wide belt with hidden pouches held various artifacts, strictly condemned by Mother Church but more than once having saved the woman’s life. Model boots with thick soles, sturdy elbow-length gloves, and... let’s just say that the city guard first recoiled in fear and then drooled over her curvy figure. They looked at her back, and no one dared to stare at her face.

But today, Agnessa was barefoot, without her mask, and dressed in torn rags that revealed glimpses of bare skin. A poor little waif.

No one in the area would loiter around the garage or near it. They’d quickly get smacked or, worse, roped into hauling iron. As the archivist might joyfully record, ‘they dropped a heavy iron bar on their foot and let out a string of curses.’

“So, you’re going to ram another gate with the bumper, and I have to go scavenging for parts?” the garage keeper was adamant.

“Why ‘scavenge’? The bishop’s cart is sitting there, unused. He’s not planning any visits for the next six months. We’ll just swap it out temporarily.”

“Are you kidding me?”

“Never, Uncle Klaus! I even checked; the bolts seem to match, and the spacing is just right. Maybe just a few taps with a hammer.”

“A hammer?!”

People called Klaus ‘the dwarf’ behind his back. Short, stocky, bearded, he practically lived in the forge and workshop. He could dismantle, repair, and reassemble anything without a single spare part left over. Klaus managed all the moving vehicles in the monastery, from carts to enchanted tractors and motorized wagons—the ‘craftwagen,’ as they called it. Attach a bit of armor, a few scythes in place of the bumper, a flamethrower on the roof, and some additional requests from the Plague Sisters, and you’d get a ‘panzer-craftwagen,’ or in Agnessa’s case, a ‘holy shit.’

It was all fine since they were built solid, meant for trampling zombies or shredding mutated bulls. Agnessa just preferred to tackle her tasks with maximum speed and no delays. But given the brutal nature of her assignments, half the time, the vehicle would be dragged back in a thoroughly battered state. And the spare parts storage—well, it wasn’t bottomless!

“So, why don’t you just get lost while I’m still being nice about it?”

Realizing she couldn’t barge in headfirst, Agnessa moved to a corner, settled onto the workbench, and began to grumble. Not too annoyingly, so she wouldn’t actually get kicked out, but loud enough for anyone to hear. Whether it was Klaus’s helpers or the bearded man himself.

“Fine then. If that’s how it is, I won’t bring you anything from the port. There are two awesome mechanos just sitting there, almost intact… Or three? I think I saw some iron legs sticking out from under the rubble… Anyway, it takes a week to get there on horseback. Why should I share with those stingy bastards? It’s all nice for them here. Warm, beer sitting on ice, sausages grilling on the side of the forge. And who brought them that freezing artifact—they’ve already forgotten.”

The gloomy ‘dwarf’ peeked out from behind a wagon set on blocks:

“I already settled up with you for that artifact! No need for that here!”

“Oh, right… Yes. You replaced my punctured wheel back then.”

“A wheel? You’ve completely lost the rear axle! They dragged in a chassis, not a ‘panzer’!”

“Well, it’s not my fault that beast mistook the rear for a bone. But at least we managed to escape on the remaining wheels…”

Noticing that the irritation on Klaus’s face had shifted to mild contemplation, Agnessa began to stoke the spark of doubt that was forming.

“Two. At least two! The boots are bigger than Helg’s shoes. They had carvings on the back and curls on the chest plates. Just like in your book. The one with pictures.”

“It’s a manual, you illiterate oaf! A manual on mechanos, with updates and repair diagrams.”

“Exactly. So, it has a crown. A tiny one… But I spotted it. There were also those little stones. Three of them.”

“Little stones…” Klaus was now grimly flipping through the pages of a huge album, trying to find what he needed. “What color were those stones?”

Silently materializing beside him, Agnessa held out a green spark in her palm:

“Here. I sold two, needed to buy drinks for the guys. But I can gift you this one.”

Thoughtfully chewing on his own beard, the short man carefully took the emerald, held it up to the light, and issued his verdict:

“ ‘Venetian reiters’, assembled five years ago. Master Squarchalupi’s workshop. Almost brand new, you could say… Is there anything left of them?”

“From one, there’s the upper part of the body, from the second, the legs and left arm. And the roof of the barn collapsed, buried the corner. A boot was sticking out from under the boards, but I didn’t dig—everything was on the verge of falling apart. Pull it a bit, and it’ll bury you along with it. But there’s a nest of mockingbirds nearby; I doubt anyone would dare to visit.”

“Those winged ones with the poisonous tail and mouths bigger than our pigs’?”

“Yep. I threw them a horse carcass on the other side of the town. While they were eating, I managed to do a bit of snooping.”

“Harsfurt, a day on the craftwagen one way.”

“Exactly, exactly. And I’m not climbing into the saddle again; last time I bruised my whole backside.”

Klaus had many different well-fed cockroaches in his head. For example, he couldn’t stand incompetent people. And since most people are idiots, he took it out on everyone and anyone. Klaus was also a pedant and demanded strict adherence to the deadlines set in agreements. And since people—well, you know how they are—he happily kicked the butts of those who were late or had squandered everything that could be wasted.

But more than anything, the garage master loved mechanical people. Complex devices stuffed with gears, couplings, pistons, and other twisted creations of deranged mechanics. When they learned in Rome how to catch the ghosts running around the area, they stuffed all this horror into rune-covered jars and began selling them to anyone interested—this marked a golden age for many craftsmen with properly sharpened hands. Because mechanos worked day and night, executing orders with precision and could move heavy loads, replacing the weak descendants of monkeys in the dirtiest jobs. In factories, mines, and ports—wherever you looked, faithful and reliable iron clods toiled. But then the Plague came, and all that former glory crumbled into pathetic remnants. Now it was easier to hire a dozen ragamuffins for pennies than to pay gold for the thoroughly worn spirit in a crumpled rune storage.

These ‘fragments’ were what Klaus collected. While the armorer was more obsessed with armor, the garage lord polished four restored figures in the corner, dreaming of expanding his collection.

“So, if I fix your ‘panzer’ using parts from the bishop’s scrap, you’ll…?”

“I have the next week free. I’ll attach the trailer that’s been gathering cobwebs over there, drive to Harsfurt, and haul back everything I can find.”

“Uh-huh… And what if luck is not on your side?”

“Then you won’t see me until I acquire some magnificent prize as a ransom.”

Pulling out an iron comb that looked more like a piece of a rake, Klaus carefully combed his beard and grunted:

“Tempting. Not seeing you for half a year or more… Fine. Leave the emerald and come back… on Tuesday. It’ll be ready by Tuesday. And don’t flash your half-naked backside around here; my lads have already hit their fingers with hammers five times. You know I’m not swayed by that.”

In this, Klaus was absolutely right. He had a beloved wife and five children who were tied to the local monastery more securely than any chains. Food, a roof over his head, and protection from any trouble—what more could a family man need?

On Tuesday, Agnes set off on her journey the next morning, startling the few passersby on the street with the powerful roar of the engine. The mechanic waved a handkerchief in farewell and trudged back. If she got really lucky, she might manage to assemble another mechanoid. ‘Reiters’ were a rare find these days.

“Ahem,” interrupted the young monk with a shaved tonsure at the back of his head.

“What?”

“Mr. Klaus. His Grace wants to know when the craftwagen left for repairs will be ready. Tomorrow my superiors are arriving for an inspection of the monastery, and they sent me ahead to organize everything on-site. While I’m at it, I’m to check on how things are going with...”