Agnessa

“ ‘So he took a stranger's crowbar and...’ Wait, are you saying he hit him right on the head?”

“Voldemar, you know me—I never lie. Sometimes I omit details so management doesn't get too upset, but lie? Pff…”

Agnessa was sitting on the desk, having carefully moved a stack of scribbled sheets aside. From this angle, she could look through a tiny, half-open window, perfect for spitting chewed-up paper through a bronze tube. Outside, the mercenary captain was currently scolding the patrol rookies. It was quite amusing: each spitball would land on some poor guy’s exposed neck, making the iron-clad soldier jump, which only made the captain even angrier, yelling continuously.

And rightfully so. Those jerks started demanding passes at night and won’t even open the gates, despite the monastery being within the city walls, where the streets don’t usually crawl with filth after sunset. Except, occasionally, you see ladies with their frontal lobes bashed in.

“So, did the crowbar bend?” The scribe, an official archivist, eyed his visitor with significant doubt. Unlike the other Plague Sisters, Agnessa’s handwriting was practically illegible—except to herself, that is. A charming lady, in every way, who was now tired of spitting at the guards and was scanning for a suitable container to wet her throat. This meant that the basement's owner wouldn’t hear her read aloud the report on her work. Easier, then, to politely pry out the key details, translate the borderline vulgar into something semi-decent, and file it away in the appropriate ledger.

“Of course. You know that Scythian; he’s always testing the strength of the ceiling beams with his head. So, he made a bet with Herman that it would do him in if one fool clobbered another on the noggin with a metal bar. It’s a good thing he didn’t grab a war hammer.”

“An iron bar. To the head.”

“Yep. Herman had just returned from the field, all suited up. Full armor, helmet, tower shield, and a sword I couldn’t even lift. Right at the gate, he and Helg made their bet. The Scythian grabbed the bar and swung like cra...”

“Quiet!” the scribe couldn’t hold back. “Agnessa, what’s gotten into you? I’m writing a chronicle, you know? An official document that children will read one day. And you’re...”

“Right, sorry, forgot it,” the undead butcher smiled coyly, subtly pouring the rest of her tea from a clay cup under the table. “So, you can fill in the blanks… one swung, and then the other flew on his butt! And the bar, well, it bent. Monastery blacksmiths make strong helmets, no doubt about it.”

“And then?”

“Well, they revived Herman with some well water half an hour later. The Father Abbot even came by. He started reading a prayer for the dead, but when that fool started twitching, he smoothly transitioned into a rant about how he’d put everyone on penance.”

“So our knight survived.”

“He’s tough. They can’t get the helmet off yet. But there’s a little hatch at the bottom where he eats. Poor guy, still walking around like that.”

Sighing, the monk scratched his ear with the tip of a goose feather and finished writing on the gray sheet:

‘A stranger’s dear iron bar, with which they clobbered a mighty knight on the head, bending the iron. The End.’

He sprinkled sand over the ink, blew on it for good measure, and looked suspiciously at the guest as she poured a dark, fragrant burgundy drink into an empty cup.

“Wait. What’s your connection to all this? Why did I even write it down?”

“Well, you collect all the nonsense that happens around here. So, I told you. Because it’s complete nonsense.” Seeing that the archivist was starting to get riled up, Agnessa quickly added: “I didn’t have anything interesting myself, Voldemar. Just ran around, chasing the usual riffraff. Same old, same old. But the neighbors, they pulled something off. They caught a hideous creature in the swamps, caged it up, planning to show it at the fair for money. But the beast spits acid. It gnawed through the bars, escaped, and ate the hunters. It even tried to take a bite out of my dogs. I barely managed to chop its head off.”

“Really? Now that’s interesting. That should be recorded for posterity.”

“You can see it in the yard, before the pigs finish it off. I brought it in for the record. It ruined three of my bags! You wrap it in burlap, tie it up, jostle it in the saddle, and it just keeps oozing, eating right through. What a nightmare.”

Agnessa wasn’t lying about the pigs. The monastery had a herd that they regularly fed various remains for disposal. Recordkeeping is all well and good, but what to do with the leftover undead? They found a solution. Fed on free scraps, the pigs had grown nicely, and a few had even been trained for saddling. Quite a few red-robed ladies were thought to be crazy for taking a spin from the Rhine to the Meuse like that.

“Anything else?”

Sniffing her sleeve after her drink, the Plague Midwife set the empty cup beside the papers and rasped:

“Nah, that’s it. Maybe something else will come up tomorrow. So, go admire the head.”

In addition to recording various tales, Voldemar had another passion—illustrating them. He tried, as much as possible, not to embellish. Or just a little.

An hour later, the monk was once again scratching away with his quill, now alone.

‘And the monstrous creature devoured people and animals without count, causing great damage. And it was beaten and cut down, and buried in the ground on this date of the Nativity of Christ.’

Admiring his work, Voldemar added larger fangs to the drawing and, satisfied with a job well done, prepared to head for dinner. After the weekend, a caravan with supplies was due to arrive. No doubt, someone would have been gnawed on, poisoned, or robbed along the way. It’d be a perfect chance to add a few more pages to the historical chronicles. Just have to keep out the ‘swears’—children will be reading this, in schools, all together.