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Agnessa was engaged in a very important task: she sat cross-legged on the workbench, methodically hammering away at a metal box with a heavy mallet. Perhaps in the past, it had been a jewelry box or even a music box. But now, even the sharpest detective from the foggy islands wouldn’t recognize it. The Plague Midwife furiously clanged the hefty tool against the metal, trying to flatten the despised piece into a tin pancake.
“Um... darling, what are you doing here?” Master Klaus shooed away the assistants who’d dragged him over, trying to understand what, exactly, was happening. The workshop was his. That hammer had also been in its drawer of useful tools this morning. And he certainly didn’t recall any request from the monster-slayer to apprentice with him. He had to find out quickly who was at fault and who needed a scolding before it was too late.
“I thought I could make a trap from this worthless piece of metal. That’s how it was drawn in the book.”
“In the book. I see… That’s the same book you were flipping through the other day?”
“Yeah... But somehow, what I make doesn’t look anything like the picture.”
Alas, despite Agnessa’s many talents, she had one problem. She could wield various weapons, even the complex ones, expertly. She could master them instantly and slice through monsters so that feathers and fur flew everywhere. She could even take care of her beloved blunderbuss or flamethrower. Not only that, she would clean her panzerkraftwagen occasionally with a cloth and knew how to replace the necromantic spirits in the accumulator if they finally rested after the latest treasure hunt. But to build anything from scratch based on blueprints? Anything more complex than a knife was beyond her. As certain bearded minds could always craft heavy ballistas, Agnessa could only produce a sharp blade with a heavy pommel.
“So, why do you need a trap, if you don’t mind me asking?”
“No secret…” Agnessa explained, hammering with gusto again. “The cellars by the old pier. Where I found that golem’s head for you. The local merchants have stashed all sorts of interesting things in those cellars. I want to have a look.”
“You want to, huh. And someone won’t let you?”
“A werewolf has set up a lair there. Old, clever, big—almost reaches the ceiling.”
Klaus glanced at the beams hanging above, realizing the scope of the problem, and the daring nature of the Plague Midwife, who was ready to take on a four-meter monster with a regular knife.
“Don’t you still have ‘God’s Thunder’? And the flamethrower was working this morning, right?”
The Midwife’s face darkened as she struck the metal one last time, driving the mallet into it and wedging it into the cracked workbench.
“Everything’s intact. Plenty of ammo, too. But some idiots dumped a few barrels of old gunpowder and ‘angel’s fire’ into those cellars fifteen years ago, right beside the enchanted walls... Even a loud cough down there would blow me to bits, with extra crispy bits sprinkled around for good measure.”
Sitting down beside the dejected Agnessa, the old master pondered.
“And the werewolf is cunning. Doesn’t venture out to the port, right?”
“Nope. What, is he a fool? The road above is well-traveled; caravans go back and forth almost weekly now. So, he stays below, catching catfish. And you know the kind of catfish in the Rhine. They’re more like mossy logs than fish.”
“What a shame…”
After a moment’s thought, Klaus decided to clarify.
“We have some bear traps in the storeroom, if I recall. Sturdy ones.”
The adventure-seeker nodded, confirming, “Yeah, we had three. Enchanted… he destroyed them. Ate the bait, shredded the iron into small pieces, and piled it neatly by the cellar entrance... The pest... I just want one peek at what’s hidden behind those barrels of gunpowder…”
It became clear that someone needed to rescue Agnessa from her gloom. Sooner or later, she’d find her way out of it. But if left to her own devices, the monastery might not survive to be rebuilt.
After dinner, the old man peeked into the cell and cleared his throat.
“Hold your guard dogs back a bit. I have an idea.”
“Stay,” the woman directed the Dobermans to the corner, giving each an enormous bone as consolation. “Come in; they won’t even bother sniffing you.”
“Alright... So, here’s what I wanted to say. Look, here’s that book you were browsing. Do you know the author?”
“No. Probably someone from the Arabs.”
“More precisely, one of the great enthusiasts for putting down Arab zombies. Ragim-Pasha. Or just Pasha, to friends. I had the good fortune to deal with him for a few years on business, so he still sends me his latest works out of old friendship… A serious man. For a while, he trained the sultans' guards and chased down various daevas and other nasties across the sands. But then one vizier’s son took some of the liquidators on a hunt without permission, and they all ended up buried because of that young idiot. Ten years of work, gone just like that.”
“Sounds familiar,” Agnessa nodded. Yes, even the Brotherhood sometimes had to cover for high-ranking church officials who suddenly wanted a thrill. How many good fighters had been lost covering an unexpected retreat—too many to count.
“Right. So, after that, Pasha first moved to Spain, then to Innsbruck. Do you know what’s in that city?”
“Inns, Inns… Oh, right! The university, fifteen churches, and the Kunstkammer, where they bring stuffed specimens from all over the empire.”
“Exactly. And workshops where they make various interesting things, like wheellock mechanisms for arquebuses and other useful tools... So, Master Ragim-Pasha returned from Africa a wealthy man. Now he’s engaged in research purely for personal pleasure. He also donated fifteen of his patents on firearm improvements to the Innsbruck treasury free of charge. By contract, they sell blueprint copies for a kreuzer each.”
“That’s barely enough for a meager meal!”
“Again—sold throughout the empire and neighboring lands! If you want, you can sit in the library and copy them yourself; it’s allowed. Or pay a coin and get a beautifully drawn blueprint with all the details… The city paved its streets with that money and covered the town hall in tin tiles.”
Agnessa seemed to realize the foolishness of her own efforts. She ran around practically in rags, slaying monsters, while someone sat in warmth, sketched on paper, and didn’t even bother counting his money. He might even have hired a specialist for it. Although—in his youth, he, too, had swung steel and taught others the art of war. That, at least, somewhat reconciled the melancholy lady to the blatant unfairness of the world.
“And what’s in it for me?”
“Well, I’ll write a letter. And I’ll help you prepare for the journey. If anyone can invent something for your werewolf around here, it’s him.”
***
No one knocked on the heavy closed door of the large office. It simply flew open, and in stumbled a sweaty, exhausted woman struggling to haul an oversized sack. The short-haired man sitting behind the large desk looked first in surprise at the uninvited guest, then at the servant in the hallway, who was frozen like a sad cockroach: squished against the wall, yet still able to twitch a bit, silently, since the air had already left his lungs, and he could only take tiny sips to recover. Oversized sacks have that effect—awkward and unwieldy.
“Phew, I’m so tired of lugging all this…” The Plague Midwife plopped the gifts down onto the plush carpet, wiped her brow, and smiled, “Good evening! Master Klaus sends his regards! He even gave me a letter to pass on… It’s a bit crumpled, but should still be readable. Probably.”
After taking in her appearance, Ragim-Pasha smiled and gestured for the servant to head to the kitchen.
“Pleasure to meet you… What’s your name?”
“Agnessa. That’s what my mom and dad called me. The abbot sometimes calls me ‘menace,’ but not often. I’m only at the monastery now and then—to drop off fangs for the records and refuel the panzerkraftwagen.”
“Understood. And what’s in the sack?”
Digging into a small bag attached to the sack’s side, the undead slayer pulled out a small box.
Stolen story; please report.
“Found this in a house. A gift… If you lift the lid, it opens into a little square with a tiny house. I think a Harlequin is supposed to pop out and dance... The mechanism is a bit mangled, but I’m sure you could fix it. Master Klaus said you like working with such oddities,” carefully placing the crooked music box on the edge of the table, Agnessa untied the strings at the top of the sack. “And here’s a mix of parts you might be able to use.”
Rising from his chair, Pasha peered into the dark sack’s contents and pulled out a metal rod with a gear jammed onto the end. It looked as if it could double as a mace.
“This is for golems, isn’t it?”
“Noup, too small. We checked—it doesn’t fit. I just threw in everything I came across. There are bits of various clocks, parts of mechanical birds… Everything I found.”
During dinner, Agnessa spoke about her problem.
“And I just can’t get him out of there, the pest! For the third month now, whenever I pass by on business, I take a detour to check. He’s still there, making those nasty hoots... Now, if I needed to kill him, that wouldn’t be an issue. I could just stand back and take one good shot. That would be the end of him, the port, and maybe the whole town ground to rubble. But I need to get into the basement, not dig through burnt debris afterward.”
“A cage with a lock? Enchanted bars, blessed—those can hold any sort of creature.”
“He won’t fall for it. Smart one. I wouldn’t be surprised if one of the local barons captured him at the start of the Plague and kept him in a private zoo. We had some fools like that at first, until they got eaten.”
“Then—sleeping gas. About six months ago, we used that to round up some ghouls in the catacombs. Cost a pretty penny, but only two knights were chewed up,” it seemed the unusual problem had piqued the curiosity of the master of mechanical oddities.
“It’s a turnskin. They breathe only once every half hour. And nothing fazes them. You could pour a barrel of cyanide down its throat, and it’d just wrinkle its nose. And it wouldn’t sleep.”
By dessert, the hospitable host had discussed and dismissed all immediate ideas and suggested taking a short break.
Over the next week, Agnessa managed to regain her health at the nearby baths. Meanwhile, Ragim-Pasha went through all her weapons, fixing even the slightest hint of potential issues. Everything now worked as it should—whether in rain, dust, or mud. Of course, the monastery’s armorer, Ulle, had done his job well, but the wizard from Innsbruck had refreshed the runes, added additional strengthening charms, and made a few tweaks to the existing covers. Now, she was ready to face any enemy. Only the main problem remained…
At two in the morning, there was a gentle knock on her bedroom door. Agnessa grabbed her double-barreled pistol from under her pillow and, in a groggy voice, asked:
“Yes? Who did the demons bring?”
“It’s me, Pasha. My apologies, but I think I’ve found the solution to your puzzle.”
After that, sleep was out of the question.
***
“In the Caliphate, they used to execute criminals with it. It's called Catcher’s Web—thin, nearly invisible, and sticky. Hang a few threads across a corridor or wherever that beast prowls. Attach a spool to the wall. It’ll pass through, catch on, and start tangling itself up. The more it struggles, the tighter it gets trapped.”
“And then what?”
“If you give the spider iron shavings, the web can slice through any armor with a single strong pull. Add a touch of silver, and no monster will withstand it—it’ll tear them to pieces. Ideal for a trap. Rare, though; I just remembered it today.”
“Oh? Then why don’t hunters use it?”
“Because it’s tricky to lure anything into the web. That’s one. Then, one spool costs more than a Reichsgulden. With silver, it’s three. Plus, you’d need mechanical spiders in your shop to spin the thread itself.”
Agnessa listened with interest, tucking the monstrous pistol back under her pillow.
“And you have these spiders?”
“I do. Probably only I have them in this region. But there are still two final issues. First, the glue that only activates once the thread is extended, and it needs to stay sticky for at least a couple of days. And lastly, a destruction amulet to use once your prey is trapped. Without it, you could end up tangled in the web yourself.”
“A one-time use,” Agnessa calculated. “Quite a price for a single spool of thread. And I’d need five or six. Definitely not a trinket for the average hunter. More for someone like me—who’s taken a stand and won’t back down.”
“I’ll demonstrate on some samples tomorrow morning, and we can start the spiders spinning by the weekend. You can practice with smaller pieces first, then we’ll weave the spools and link them to the amulet.”
The Plague Midwife left home completely satisfied. She’d gotten rid of the gears that had been cluttering the corners of her cell, tucked an unpleasant surprise for the wivorn into a box, and bid farewell to her contented host:
“If you ever need anything, just hint at it. The mail service works well—your letter should reach me in a couple of weeks. Some special guts, enchanted fangs, or whatever.”
“Thank you, but my basement’s packed with that junk. Hunters keep sending it as gifts... Maybe some good wine, though. The old vineyards in Spain were neglected during the Plague, and I haven’t seen anything decent with their labels since then.”
“Got it. If I come across any, I’ll be sure to bring some along.”
***
Agnessa set out on the hunt in the early morning, just as the sun was rising. Yes, the huge creature could easily grab her by the heel even in daylight, but the wivorn preferred to emerge when the catfish near the pier began slapping their tails against the logs—a nighttime activity for those whiskered giants.
“I'll fix a thread here and another here. So, this is the path you walk, you brazen beast. We’ll see who wins this time. Right at knee and gut level… There, all set. Now to get on with other things, and I’ll check back tomorrow.”
However, she didn’t make it back the next day—she got wrapped up with a passing caravan, covering them from some flying pests. Those idiots thought it was a great idea to transport cows in open carts. They might as well have perched heralds on top, shouting, “Dinner is served! Fresh meat, anyone?”
When Agnessa finally returned at noon to the entrance of the basement she needed, she could’ve danced a jig out of sheer joy. Right there, on the wide planks, sat a dejected wivorn—a monstrous, hairless troll-like creature. Enormous, wrinkled, with tufts of reddish fur and huge tusks. These creatures usually raided abandoned graveyards, digging up graves to gnaw on corpses. Scavengers. Large, slow, foul-smelling. But also incredibly strong, able to flatten an unwary knight into a tin pancake with a single swipe of their paw. In recent years, nearly all of these giants had been exterminated, leaving only the most cautious and cunning ones. And here was this clever one, hiding from humans in abandoned basements.
“Alright! You just sit there, got it? Sit tight and don’t go anywhere! I’ll go have a look inside, see what’s in there. And then we’ll settle this…”
Inside, it wasn’t particularly interesting. A rusted safe from which Agnessa scraped out a small pile of gold. Bundles of clothes, reeking of pond scum, some of which the wivorn had dragged to the far corner to make itself a royal bed—spacious and soft. In another dead-end, there were crates of wine bottles, mostly local varieties. After some careful inspection, though, she found a few with Spanish seals on the wax stoppers.
“Now that’s a good find. Pashsha will be pleased.”
An hour later, three crates were packed in the trunk of her waiting vehicle, and Agnessa stood opposite her captive with a rifle in hand. She looked at the sad giant, noting the bloodied cuts from the webbing. It seemed the creature quickly realized it was trapped and hadn’t struggled much, though it couldn’t free itself and had been sitting there for two days now.
She glanced at her rifle, loaded with a heavy bullet, then at the deactivation amulet, and pondered. She hadn’t seen any human bones in the basement—only fish tails and bits of stained glass, clearly scraped from the broken windows of a nearby church. And those bulging eyes… they held such boundless sorrow that it unsettled her.
“Hey, you ugly thing. Listen to me... I’m going to let you go. I won’t touch you. Do you hear? Stay in your basement, and I won’t harm you. I might stop by for wine once or twice, but your rags and fish don’t interest me. You could have just shown me what was in that corner, and I wouldn’t have had to roast in the nets under the sun... Got it? Deal?”
As the bronze gears of the amulet turned, the shimmering webbing began to dissolve into gray smoke in the sunlight. Five minutes later, nothing remained of the sharp threads.
“Here, I’ll leave you the jar. What are you grimacing for? Yeah, it stinks. But the ointment is good. Just scoop some with your finger and apply it. It’ll heal up quickly... Well, you’ll figure it out. I’m off.”
***
A week later, Agnesa peeked into the basement out of curiosity. What could she do? They had assigned her to this route for regular cleanups of the filth that had come in from neighboring areas. Most likely, the merchants had gotten too relaxed and started breaking many unwritten rules. So they attracted all sorts of toothy creatures to the well-trodden road. Interesting beings were rarely encountered, and the pay wasn’t great either. But someone had fed the higher-ups a tale about too many successful raids on abandoned wealthy mansions and the extravagant life of one lovely lady, so she had to comply and keep quiet.
The Plague Midwife parked her sun-warmed armored car on the docks, right in the shade between the logs supporting the enormous pier above. She then marched into the familiar basement and, within five minutes, was sitting against the solid wood, uncorking a bottle of wine.
The creature, napping in the dark, crawled out after her. It stood for a moment, sniffing and assessing the potential danger. Realizing the guest was alone and without foolish humans wielding sharp iron, it disappeared into the empty space. A minute later, it returned and sat next to her, handing Agnesa a jar of ointment.
“What’s this? Oh, I see. You can’t reach the scratches on your back; they hurt. You’re bold, aren’t you? Alright. Hand me a rag, and I’ll help you... Just bend over a bit; I can’t reach your nape.”
For the treatment, the monster brought half of a gnawed catfish. Upon catching the ‘wonderful’ aroma, Agnesa declined, saying, “No, you eat that. I won’t... By the way, don’t you guys hibernate? Maybe I should help you catch more fish? Look, there’s the remains of a smokehouse nearby. We could roast a couple of tails over the fire and soak some more in brine barrels. That should be enough for you to survive the winter... I doubt I’ll be fishing for those whiskered ones myself; they smell like muck. But I can help with supplies. I’ve got some old dynamite in stock. Ulle complained he was afraid to move it from place to place; it might blow up any moment.”
The catfish were dispatched carefully. During the day, in small batches. The surprised, surfaced bodies were pulled to the fishing dock with a pike pole by the creature, where they were stored. It didn’t forget to smash their heads in with a heavy club, ensuring they wouldn’t escape accidentally. Agnesa collected some eels and other small catches for herself. They also got the smokehouse going. When you have a sufficiently clever four-meter beast, the main thing is just to point with your finger where to drag things and which handle to pull.
***
“Sir, a coffin has been sent for you. And a letter.”
Ragim-Pashsha walked around the box lying on the cart and scratched his temple in confusion. Indeed, it was a coffin. Polished. With runes against all weather and other effects. After a moment’s thought, the man took the letter, read the sparse lines, and pondered even more. Surely, the lovely lady who had dropped by for a visit wouldn’t have wanted to pull a stupid prank. But rumors about the Brotherhood's militants circulated widely. So Pashsha commanded:
“Sidik, bring me my pistols. The ones I use for big game. And take a rifle for yourself. We need to check what kind of gift we’ve received.”
The note was particularly nerve-wracking: “I apologize; no other containers were available. I hope you like it. The creature and I worked hard on this.”
Now, one could only guess what exactly would be liked.
Inside the coffin lay an enormous smoked catfish, flanked by thick eels and plump carp. All of it was lined with parchment paper. And the smell... The aroma nearly knocked him off his feet and struck him straight in the heart.
“It seems the webbing wasn’t needed after all. I really hope so,” Ragim-Pashsha muttered, putting away his weapons. “Sidik, we should invite some guests. We won’t be able to handle all this ourselves, and the people went to such effort to prepare this gift... May all the gods of this world protect you, woman in red. You and your beast...”
***
Early access to the book: https://www.patreon.com/olegborisov