Agnessa

Agnessa took quite a hit for the dismantled convertible. While Klaus pondered during the debrief, chewing on his beard, she quickly took all the blame upon herself. She swiftly confessed, reported on the outcome of the long-distance raid, poked a dirty finger at the map, and smiled sweetly at the bishop, who was red with anger. The bishop wanted to add something else, but the local abbot quickly stepped in to defuse the conflict. He remembered that a year ago, another important official on an inspection visit got punched in the face and then had a swarm of around forty blind creatures set upon him on his way back by “unidentified individuals.” Individually, they were rather weak undead creatures with excellent hearing, able to track down the living even a week after heavy rains. But in a pack, these creatures became wild and could fearlessly attack a stronger opponent. The guards managed to fend them off, but the official left with a stutter. Who had so generously unleashed the local monsters on the esteemed guests was a mystery.

So:

“Punish them, Your Grace! Make an example of them so this won't happen again!... And do advocate for us. We're essentially an outpost on the western border, with caravans of settlers passing through weekly, yet our supplies are abysmal. We've scoured everything worthwhile in the area, but we still can't send even a reinforced group of overseer fathers through the villages. They get devoured mercilessly, and we’re suffering irreplaceable losses.”

Realizing her fate was teetering on the edge, Agnessa curtsied and, with a hint of a sigh, asked the bishop:

“Would you like me to give you a monster's head? Just imagine – a real one! Preserved, lacquered, and unique. No one else has one! When guests visit, it'll be there on the wall – quite impressive...”

Not allowing anyone to speak, the resourceful madam shouted toward the half-open door:

“Bring it in, you slackers!”

The guards, who had been scolded early that morning for saying, "We're too lazy to lower the bridge at dawn," marched into the hall, breathing heavily, and placed a skull on the table. It had enormous fangs, slanted eye sockets, and a yellowish bone sheen on its polished crown. Maybe the monster was old, or maybe the layers of resin and lacquer created this effect. In any case, it looked lavish and impressive.

“Exclusive?” the inspector inquired, intrigued.

“Absolutely. If you want, I can ask the archivist to issue a certificate.”

“Hmm... Technically, my rank doesn’t really allow for it... But – on the wall… And you definitely need something done about the supplies, yes...”

Half an hour later, the abbot caught the passing Plague Midwife by the ear and hissed, barely able to contain his feelings:

“Have you lost your mind, my dear? Why on earth did you pawn off a fake on the bishop?! He’s really going to hang it on his wall, and it’s just bits and pieces from an overgrown bull, a crocodile fished out of the river, and a hodgepodge of twenty other monsters! Any hunter...”

“Any hunter will strangle himself with envy! Because to assemble something like that, you'd have to roam around the region for a decade, and even then, you couldn’t do it alone. We were lucky to stumble upon an undead cemetery. And Voldemar made the document look beautiful. He's always dreamed of chronicling some mythical creature, so he sat there, inventing something elaborate. Even illustrated it a bit. I tore that page from his notebook, framed it, and stamped it. Anyone who doesn’t believe it can pay us a visit. I’ll show them. I’ll personally find something similar and feed it to any doubting Thomas.”

Realizing that such trifles wouldn’t sway her, the head of the monastery decided to bring out the big guns:

“Alright. You’re staying home for a month. A whole month! You’ll be peeling potatoes in the kitchen. And mopping the floors on the second floor. Every evening!… And I’ll consider whether you’re worthy of going on independent raids or if I should assign you as an apprentice to someone to knock some sense into that head of yours.”

Making sure her ear was still intact, Agnessa leaned out the window, crossed herself toward the bell tower in the corner, and offered thanks:

“Thank you, Holy Mary, our protector! I’d wanted to ask for some time at home, and just like that—your help made it happen.”

The monastery was expecting a visit from a well-known expert on eradicating the pestilence that had spread after the Great Plague. For three weeks, he’d be giving lectures every evening, sharing the latest advancements. The fact that this master of the blade had lost both legs below the knee and his left arm in the course of endless hunts was just a detail. The craftsmen had fitted him with mechanical replacements and even offered to bolt a helmet to his head with golden nails. Mr. Ingvar declined that enticing offer, but he made full use of his metal legs and arm with enthusiasm. Listening to this genius of the blade and paying for it with a bit of housekeeping—well, that was practically manna from heaven. We'll take it!

***

Agnessa fought hard for a prime spot. She wasn’t the only one who wanted to see the superstar up close, but only she had the audacity to climb onto a nearby chandelier, moving the obstructing candles out of the way. The view was perfect! She could hear every word.

The guy was a pro, no joke. He hung up posters on the wall with schematic drawings of various monsters, quickly explaining where, how, and under what circumstances each creature was found atop piles of corpses. Then, with a rapier, he demonstrated the best way to dispatch each beast. Judging by the numerous holes in the paper, these lectures were quite popular. After finishing the general overview, he invited questions, often pulling a volunteer up to him and demonstrating various techniques using live examples:

“So, you want to hack at a swamp toad with an axe, do you, sir? Alright, here’s your tool, and this table is the toad. Show us how you’d do it… Stop, stop, retrieve that axe! We’ll need the table later. I’m asking you to demonstrate, not destroy the furniture. Alright… Now, do you remember what I just said? This creature has incredibly tough skin on its head and back. So, at best, your weapon would get stuck in it, but it wouldn’t kill it. And its claws are poisonous. One swipe like this, and your guts spill out onto the road. Or like this… That’s why I recommend—and this is based on the practice of the southern conclaves—a stab. Something sharp, like a narrow blade or spear. Aim for the eyes or the open mouth. If you’re lucky enough to pierce the throat at this angle, you’ll hit the heart, and the beast will be dead in ten minutes.”

Once he was sure the volunteer understood and could more or less demonstrate the move for the rest, Mr. Ingvar moved on to the next monster.

Agnessa wasn’t taking notes. She had an excellent memory. In fact, after each lecture, she would gather a pile of weapons and head to the courtyard to try out the moves while they were still fresh in her mind. At the end of the third week, the great blade master himself approached her.

“My respects, madam. Your understanding of the high art of destreza is truly commendable. As I understand, you are one of the Plague Sisters?”

“Yes, Señor Ingvar. Scout for the dark lands.”

“I see. The best of the best... May I ask you for a favor and invite you to a practice duel?”

“I’m afraid I’m not very skilled with simple bladed weapons. I usually carry a variety.”

“All the better! I also try to keep a range of tools on hand when I’m in the field, anything that might prove useful at a critical moment.”

Ten minutes later, the pair had donned light armor, strapped on an assortment of slicing and crushing tools, and saluted to begin the match.

Agnessa took the first blow—a spiked mace twisted in an arc—right to her left ribs. In response, she struck the master’s left mechanical hand with a pick and kicked him, sending him flying. He recovered with a roll, scattering a handful of small balls in front of him. A series of pops filled the air, and smoke billowed up between them. From within this gray haze, a spiked flail head shot out on a chain, aimed at her helmeted forehead. If Ingvar had struck with full force, the Midwife would have been sent to the afterlife. As it was, she came away with a painful bump.

Now sufficiently warmed up, she drew a short, wide cleaver and a slender awl-like boar spear. Three consecutive strikes, one after the other, and her opponent’s right iron knee stopped bending. Locked in close quarters, they unleashed a flurry of blows on each other. After a minute, they managed to separate with difficulty, having lost most of their weapons in the process.

After the bath, the pair sat in the dining hall, discussing the finer points of the duel over a plump bottle of wine.

“My apologies, Señor Ingvar. I didn’t mean to damage your wonderful limbs.”

“A mere trifle, Señora Agnessa. This is my working set. I’ve got a master who travels with me, and he’ll have them fixed by morning. I’ve also got a hunting set with built-in reinforcements, and a ceremonial set... But your maneuver with that twist—it’s unusual. Aren’t you worried a hydra might grab your extended arm with its second or third head?”

“I always wear bracers, with silvered spikes along the edge. The creatures rarely grab hold. Besides, it’s best not to go after a hydra alone. If I’m unlucky enough to run into one on a raid, I use a flamethrower. Fortunately, there’s a small distillery in town, so we make enough mixtures to carry the fiery word of God all over the region...”

The next morning, the master departed, leaving behind a small book as a gift. It contained diagrams of various interesting encounters, with a dedication: ‘To the best duelist I’ve ever met in my life.’

***

That evening, the captain of the guard pleaded tearfully with the abbot:

“Can’t we send her somewhere far away? Even just for a week?”

“Oh, come on now, she’s been as quiet as a mouse.”

“Right... Do you know what she says in the kitchen when she finishes peeling the potatoes? ‘No poison detected in the food. Yet.’ My men have started eating dry rations; they flinch when Agnessa brings out bowls of stew... And at night? The rumor’s going around that she’s not just mopping the floors, but trying to track down some especially malevolent spirit. She’s mixed something up—now, when you walk over the freshly cleaned floor, your footprints glow at night. I got up for the bathroom last night and nearly yelled in shock—the whole barracks was covered in brownish-green footprints! For the love of God, let’s find some task for her, something to channel this...destructive energy in another direction. Outside the monastery walls.”

“I’ll think about it...”

By morning, the problem resolved itself. A messenger arrived, carrying a note from one of the distant outposts.

“Agnessa, my dear. Here’s a map with the location marked. Here’s a signed requisition list. Run to the storeroom and pack up everything you need. A ghoul has appeared, tried to take a bite out of the locals on a nearby farmstead. Yesterday, they hid out in the church, but we need to put an end to this mess. Can you handle it alone, or do you need someone for backup?”

“If needed, I’ll take one of the local rangers, the cleverest I can find, Your Reverence. I’ll manage.”

“Good, then I won’t hold you up…”

They watched the growling, armored “holy terror” from the monastery wall, the entire guard gathered to see her off. The captain of the mercenaries even waved a handkerchief, feeling sentimental. Fortunately, he didn’t hear Agnessa’s response:

“Don’t get too excited, fools. I’ll be back. I always come back.”

***

Early access to the book: https://www.patreon.com/olegborisov