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“Agnessa, for the love of...”
“Leave my mother out of this!”
The young woman could be considered attractive. If you looked at her from the back. And didn't pay attention to the shaved head. Or the face covered in numerous scars. Otherwise — pretty decent. A slim, toned figure in a form-fitting suit. High chest. An appetizing backside, which Agnessa had perched on the edge of a monstrous oak chair.
“That's true, your mother made quite a name for herself in her time. The headmistress of the Monastery of the Punishing Carmelites. But who did you take after...?”
“My father?” the woman feigned a semblance of regret, which she did not feel at all.
The grim monk chose not to bring up her father. Since the beginning of the Plague Heresy, the population had been cut in half, and many of the former citizens had to be put to rest with fire and sword. Otherwise, they spread the infection everywhere, gnawing on the living, having turned into vicious undead. And Agnessa's father had a skilled hand in the process of gutting those toothy creatures. You could say the whole family had been on fire, with foul-smelling smoke billowing throughout the region.
“What were you asked to do? Go to the village, check the peasants for corruption, and call for backup if there were any problems. And you?.. You burned the village down, chopped the residents into pieces, then sat on the remains of the bell tower singing obscene songs.”
“They weren't kind. They refused me water.”
“Water?” the man in the black robe was surprised. “What water?”
“Well, as usual. Give me something to drink, I’m so hungry that I have nowhere to sleep... But don’t worry, Brother Anufriy. You have a weak heart. Your blood pressure will rise, and you'll have to take drops again... There were no normal people there. All of them were turned. So, I had to.” Satisfied that the conversation seemed to be over, Agnessa stood up easily, grabbed her silver long-beaked mask, and asked one last time. “So, I'm off? Seems like we’ve sorted everything out.”
Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.
“Return the alcohol. The twenty liters we gave you for medical procedures. Since there was no one to save, the accountable item must go back to storage.”
“There’s no alcohol,” the woman sighed, slowly edging sideways toward the door.
“What do you mean ‘NO’?” the monk was puzzled.
“None at all, Brother Anufriy. It's gone.”
Darting into the corridor, the Plague Midwife waited until the door, slightly ajar, stopped shaking from the objects being thrown. She opened a tiny crack and called out one last thing:
“And leave my father out of this... Oh!”
A heavy clay mug whizzed past her head and, like a grenade, slammed into the brick wall, exploding into a shower of shards.
Donning her mask, Agnessa glided silently down the corridor, adjusting her cloak. For ten liters of alcohol, the mechanics had promised to steal parts from the bishop’s machine and restore her battered “warhorse”. She had a lot of traveling to do, and her legs weren't state property.
But first, she had to fulfill her “obligation” — help pack the caravan of settlers into the iron-clad wagons. Every time the Brotherhood finished clearing a city reclaimed from the undead, they transported those eager to taste a life of freedom there. Ten years of no taxes, protected by tall, repaired walls and the local militia. And to make sure no unsuspecting burgher turned on the way, the Plague Sisters inspected everyone.
Climbing onto the high platform, Agnessa stepped onto the executioner’s block with the axe embedded in it and bellowed:
“Condemned men, their wives, children, and the rest of you rabble! Line up and get your belongings ready for inspection! Anyone thinking of causing trouble, I’ll personally inspect you by ripping your guts out through your backside!”
A frightened child shrieked in the crowd, and people began to make the sign of the cross en masse. Seeing that the settlers got the message, the monster-slayer, pleased with herself, lifted her mask slightly, took a swig of 95-proof nectar from her flask, and rasped:
“That fat miser, all he’s good for is breaking dishes. Couldn’t even give a proper thanks. I've already brought five villages into order for free, and all he does is complain... Line up, you sons of bitches! And may God help us...”
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