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The murmurer sitting on the fence stopped scratching his belly and listened. A year ago, the village priest brought three broad-faced puppies to the villagers, having received them as a gift from the Plague Sisters. The creatures quickly fattened up on porridge and bones, growing into large monsters that resembled foreign baboons: jaws the size of suitcases, perpetually furrowed brows, and claws that could easily rip open the belly of any uninvited guest. They liked the villagers, considered them part of their pack, and kept away those who fancied a snack of human flesh or a small herd. With such helpers, the local militia gained confidence and was able to catch its breath a little. Now, the village had four fields around it, two pastures, and the gnawed head of a wandering bear mounted on the wall of the local tavern. The murmurer — despite his fluffy and harmless appearance — could, along with the other two, easily take down anyone who threatened them.
Perking up his shaggy ears, the creature tried to make out what the noise beyond the village fence was. The road passed by the village, separated at the turn by a low stone wall from the rutted track. And it was no ordinary stone wall — massive boulders the size of sheep had been laid out in a row, curving in a smooth arc to mark the boundary: here caravans and various troublemakers passed through, while on this side lived settled and respected people. Beyond the wall was a foreign and often frightening world; here, everything was familiar, homey, with beer and smoked sausages in the evenings.
After some thought, the shaggy creature decided not to sit on the stones. It was fine here on the wooden fence, where he could "sit high and see far." The sound was all too familiar — the roar of an engine, the clatter of wheels over potholes, and the distant echo of swearing. And those strange self-propelled carriages always had an unpleasant smell. So, better to stay away. After all, there was only one road, and the fork was within arm's reach. He wouldn’t miss the show — everything was in plain sight.
Struggling to turn the wheel, Agnessa stubbornly stayed behind the foreign Panzerkraftwagen. Sometimes the Sisters went a little crazy and did strange things. One minute they were brawling with their fists, testing whose jaw was stronger. Another, they were chasing a bat that had flown into town during the day, racing across rooftops. Or they'd just get caught up in endless chatter in the dining hall out of boredom, and then it would take a lot of effort to pull them apart in the yard as they pulled each other's hair.
This time, the Plague Midwife got offended because a well-known butcher from the eastern lands had bought a trendy new machine and came to brag about it. So, at first, they politely compared each other's square wheels. Then, they measured the size of their flamethrower nozzles. And in the end, they hissed at each other’s faces like angry furies. A possible brawl was prevented by the Father Superior. Brother Anufriy yelled, squeezing himself between the busty ladies:
“Not in the monastery! You’ll tear it apart, and I'll be the one to rebuild it! If you want to settle your differences, go outside the city, to the road! There you can...”
“The road... Hey, you hairy mop!” Agnessa pointed south. “To Bretten. Whoever comes second pays for any repairs and fifty Reichgulden in compensation.”
“From a mop, I hear... Repairs and a hundred Reichdukats. Can you handle it?” Mistress Irène curled her lips in contempt. Among her own, she was called the new Valkyrie. She tore through monsters, leaving only feathers and fluff flying in all directions. But it drove her crazy that every time she visited neighbors, all she heard was, ‘Agnessa this, Agnessa that.’ A scrawny chicken who managed to wag her tail everywhere.
“When do we start?”
“Now. First one to reach and touch the statue in the fountain in Bretten. The guy on the horse.”
“Stallion. Check under the statue’s tail. So, whoever grabs the dick first, wins.”
“Deal.”
Ignoring the crowd of monks gathering around, the Plague Midwife made three enormous leaps to her “Lord Almighty” machine, slammed the button that awakened the beast sealed in the rune-covered storage, and was the first to screech onto the city street. Losing was not an option—scraping together such a pile of gold was doable, but it was a matter of principle. Plus, the expenses for the next six months were already allocated. So, hit the gas, girl, a nighttime cross-country race awaits.
***
For a third of the race, they alternated the lead with mixed success. Agnessa's armored machine was sturdier but heavier, and on straight stretches, it lagged behind her rival’s newer vehicle. So whenever she had the chance, the Plague Midwife "cut corners," blazing a new trail through bushes, crooked fences, and abandoned fields. But if she let her guard down for even a second, Irène would pull ahead, forcing Agnessa to eat her dust.
They skidded past the village with the stone wall, engines roaring and risking their suspensions on the potholes. Gravel shot out from under the wheels, peppering the high wooden fence and forcing three shaggy murmurers to dive into the bushes. Pulling up alongside Irène’s machine, Agnessa yelled:
“Painted mophead!” and took the middle of the road.
The Valkyrie, who was racing on the left, had to brake to avoid careening into a ravine. She shouted back in fury:
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“Bald freak! Who taught you to drive, you crooked-handed monstrosity!”
In Goxheim, both four-wheeled machines crashed into town neck and neck, going bumper to bumper, each driver hunting for any chance to break ahead. And then they simultaneously slammed into the monster standing frozen in the middle of the narrow road.
Usually, it takes the coordinated strike of a dozen sorcerers gathered in a circle to knock a gray troll off its feet. Unlike other kinds of trolls, the gray ones aren’t afraid of daylight and casually ransack homes in broad daylight, hunting for tasty humans. Their skin is impervious to enchanted bullets, and they’re immune to magic. The only thing that can drive them away is a devout virgin on a white horse. But where do you find such a miracle these days?
After being rammed by two armored Panzerkraftwagens, the massive beast was shoved forward, plowing a deep trench with its face. As it got up, the troll spat out a mouthful of grass and stones, turned around, and let out a roar, making it clear just how much it disliked the stupid joke. Realizing they had mere seconds, Agnessa threw her machine into reverse and jerked back toward the town's exit. Irène was less fortunate—her vehicle stalled from the impact, and the first punch of the troll’s massive fist crushed the engine like a tin can. The second blow finished off the smoking remains. That was it. The eastern Valkyrie wouldn’t be continuing this race.
The smart move would’ve been to get the hell out of there as fast as possible. Any monk would’ve done just that if faced with such a creature. But among the Plague Sisters, it wasn’t customary to abandon your own. So Agnessa parked her "Lord Almighty" near the closest fence, grabbed her beloved shotgun, and sprinted forward—toward the spot where she could already see the lithe figure of Irène in her fitted cassock, blades flashing as they sliced into the troll’s gray hide.
***
For about five minutes, the women tried to find a weak spot, attacking the monster without success. The troll swatted back with its crooked arms, occasionally growling in frustration and smashing everything that happened to get in the way of its massive strikes. The fight moved from the street to a nearby yard, where the fence, shed, and remnants of a house were already in pieces. It was a stalemate—the troll couldn't catch its nimble enemies, and they couldn't inflict any serious damage. Small cuts and charred spots on its skin only enraged the creature. No, by points, the judges would have given the win to the women, but in this contest, the score was always settled by one simple fact: who got eaten and who managed to escape.
Ducking under another powerful swing, Agnessa shouted:
“They've got weak pinkies, hit them there, mophead!”
“From... mop...head... I hear...”
Irène lunged deeply, thrusting the silver-tipped rapier into the massive hand, striking just the right spot. The troll grabbed its foot, howling and shaking its head. Agnessa, like a red monkey, jumped onto its huge shoulder, shoved her shotgun into its open mouth, and started firing, quickly pulling the trigger. Eight shots straight into the throat, one after the other. She tumbled backward and reloaded the barrel. The last one, by the way. If this didn’t work, it’d be time to start reciting a final prayer. The swamp trolls or bridge trolls were slow and lumbered in daylight like pregnant turtles. But the gray ones—if they wanted to—could catch up to a horse in a short sprint. Her only hope was that the buckshot would shave a little health off the bastard.
It seemed Master Ulle had truly made a killer weapon. The giant wobbled, blowing bloody bubbles, fell to its knees, and stared in surprise at the two figures before it. The monster couldn’t breathe or growl. It was dying. To finish the job, Irène dashed to the troll’s lowered face and drove her rapier into its left eye and a long dagger into the right. Making sure she hit her mark, she twisted the rapier, trying to damage the brain through the eye socket. After such abuse, the creature let out a raspy breath and collapsed onto its side.
Wiping the sweat from her brow, Agnessa cursed the troll’s entire lineage to the seventh generation, then slumped onto the pile of broken boards that littered the yard.
“That’s it, I’m never racing again. A little more, and he would’ve finished us.”
Irène didn’t respond. She was cautiously checking herself for any serious injuries. Satisfied that apart from some cuts and painful bruises, she hadn’t gained any new holes in her body, she planted a foot on the troll's nose and yanked her weapons out of its skull with effort. Then, assessing the size of the dead beast, she rasped wearily:
“I’ve got a chain in the trunk. Enchanted, with spikes. We could saw through the neck.”
“Fangs aren’t enough?”
“They’ll pay a couple of coins for the fangs. But I can sell the head for at least thirty... Will you help?”
Sighing, Agnessa nodded. She had no desire to deal with the messy job of cutting up the troll, but if she left her stubborn companion alone here, some other creature would likely show up, drawn by the scent of the carcass. And how was her sister going to carry the trophy on foot? The head alone was too heavy to lift.
Standing next to the remains of her Panzerkraftwagen, Irène sniffled.
“It was brand new. I didn’t even get a chance to take it out on a raid. I came straight to visit you… and look how that turned out.”
“Oh, come on, don’t be upset. The rear wheels are intact, we’ll tie the front to mine with some ropes, and it’ll work as a trailer. We’ll make it home, and we can ask Master Klaus to fix it for you. There’s still a wrecked craftwagen sitting in the garage, left by the bishop after I stripped some parts from his favorite. The engine’s still good. You’ll just need to reinforce the armor a bit—it's a little flimsy. And we’ll have to catch some ghosts in the area so you won’t need to waste nepha for fuel.”
***
All the gold earned from selling the troll’s head went straight toward paying for the repairs. Agnessa even had to crack open another one of her stashes. She felt a bit guilty that the Valkyrie had ended up without wheels, especially since it was the Plague Midwife who first called her a “painted mop.”
But when the shiny, restored vehicle rumbled confidently with its new engine, Irène hugged her new friend and tapped her armored glove against Agnessa’s gleaming breastplate.
“I’m expecting a visit. Let’s say in a couple of months, as you promised. By then, I’ll have tied up a few loose ends, and we can head out to the caves. A whole group of undead has settled in there. It’ll be a blast.”
“I’ll be there. I’ll have Master Ulle make extra dynamite sticks, just in case. And I’ll definitely come. We’ll have some fun.”
The monastery guards, cautiously peeking over the wall, crossed themselves. The impending apocalypse had been postponed. Because, while one crazy person was somewhat manageable, two rowdy troublemakers in the same town were too much. And worst of all—they had teamed up instantly, even tossing a couple of mercenaries through the tavern window with cheerful farewells. Apparently, they didn’t appreciate the crude jokes. So how does one deal with people like that?
“Hey, you useless lot!” Agnessa called up to the guards with a friendly smile, beckoning them down with her finger. “You still owe me for the spilled beer. So come on down; we’re going to mount the troll’s head on the tavern wall. The alchemist’s just finished working on the beast—properly embalmed and enchanted. So, let’s go. And while we’re at it, we’ll apologize to the tavern owner. Smashing the windows three times in one week is a bit much, I agree… Maybe we should suggest he make them sliding windows?”
***
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