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Evil tongues said that the Scythian has only a bone in his head. Therefore, he always prefers the simplest solutions to any problems. Considering his enormous size, it reminds me of a saying that Brother Basha liked to mention at the end of his sermons: ‘The rhinoceros has poor eyesight, but with his size, bad vision is not his problem.’ No one among the locals knew who this rhinoceros was, but they were preemptively wary of him.
Furthermore, evil tongues said that Helg stayed in the local areas because of the beer. Good, hearty beer brewed by the monastery's wizards. And when they tried to send the big guy away somewhere else, he would leave for a week or two and then return. When asked ‘why,’ he shrugged and briefly replied, ‘They dilute it, the bastards.’
But the brothers in robes could think on a large scale while quickly adapting to rapidly changing realities. Otherwise, they wouldn't survive. So after a couple of months, they figured out how to use the giant’s talents most safely. Now, for complex cleanups of various monsters, they sent the Scythian to assist the city guards. His fist is the size of a small beer barrel, and he pounds it without regret. If he shows his teeth unnecessarily, you’d better watch out. After that, there’s no need to finish off the toothy ones — they go down right away, leading to irreversible losses.
As for the rest, under the tiled roof, there was a mixed crowd. There were impoverished knights, various adventure seekers, and people who decided to wait out the hard times, and ended up staying. After all, the monastery lives by fairly strict and clear laws. If you follow these laws, pay the required tithe, and don’t pick fights with others, no one will throw you out. In the city, you can run into trouble; there, the authorities, the guards, or the residents occasionally have their moments. Here, however, it’s quiet and serene, except for those times when the Plague Sisters act up. Like today.
Agnessa was bored. The big trash had been cleared out of the area. The small fry had been sent off with the latest release from the lyceum, and the crowd of youngsters, wild with temporary freedom, had swept through like a comb, even taking out the riffraff that usually left the peasants alone. So the Midwife handed over armor and weapons to the armorer for repairs, gave the alchemist about a hundred kilos of guts to process, and was now thinking about what to do. Wandering around the city in rags would only get her in trouble with the management. Sitting inside four walls could easily drive her crazy. Therefore, it was urgent to find something interesting. And that “eureka” came along with the arrival of the next supply caravan. Because while they unloaded, while the gifts for the bosses were gathered — a week would pass. And in a week, with the merchants' guards, a lot of interesting things could happen. For example, organizing a log-running competition. Luckily, there were plenty of Scots among the mercenaries, and they only needed a reason to compete. For the prize money, they would go to great lengths. The main thing was to lure them in at first, tempting them with bright gold. And then negotiate with Helg. Because the Scythian was wise. He wouldn't even lift a spoon for nonsense.
“You won't even make it to the end of the yard,” Agnessa scoffed, casually tossing a gold coin in her palm. The three thugs standing opposite her scratched their beards thoughtfully, their gazes darting up and down like they were tied to the gold circle that rolled closer to the heavens and then fell back down, scattering golden sparkles.
“A log? Upright? Like at home?” the most cautious one tried to return to reality.
“Yup. What's more, I'm willing to pay a raishdukate to anyone who finishes. And if they overtake my player — I’ll double the bet.”
“What if we lose?”
“Then a gulden from each of you. Of course, I’m risking gold, and you’re risking silver. But I’m too lazy to fight for mere curiosity.”
She kept quiet about the beer. The races with beer would come later. And that would be much more interesting. Because for the Scythian, whether he drinks a barrel of the hoppy drink or two, he only furrows his brows and starts paying more attention to the sounds. His eyes go all over the place, making it hard to look straight ahead. But for the caravaners, the local beer first puts them in a good mood, making their legs a bit wobbly. And after the third huge mug, it knocks them into nirvana. So beer was for later, when people warmed up and were ready for adventures.
“A gulden sounds good. But show me the money first. Three... No, six raishdukates — that’s serious.”
Agnessa didn’t even argue with the fool. She simply reached into the purse hanging at her waist, displayed a pile of gold coins, and tucked them back in. Luckily, she hadn’t managed to hide everything in the small chest where she usually stowed her loot. The purse was for small entertainments, like getting a crowd drunk in a tavern and then carting them around the city. Or other familiar little pranks.
“Sounds good! Where are the logs? And from where to where are we running?”
Now it remained to convince Helg. Because for the merchant guards, just wave some coins, and they’ll come running like on a string. The Scythian, though, was clever. Practical. And lazy to the extent of his own understanding. So he wouldn’t want to run around with a dumb log for nothing. It was necessary to spark his interest.
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“Muscovite, remember that hammer you saw among your acquaintances from Bremen? Well, I snagged a similar one during the last trade. I can gift it to you.”
“Gift it?” The big guy looked suspiciously at the monster gutting woman in the gray cloak. Agnessa giving something away was in the realm of a setup. An epic one. She was just too clever — always with a twist. He’d been burned by her jokes more than once already.
“Yup. You help me a little, and I’ll give you the hammer. With a long handle.”
“Help? And how exactly?”
“Run with those fools back and forth with the little log. It won’t be hard for you. And I’ll give you the gift.”
Running back and forth wasn’t hard. The problem was that after such runs, someone usually ended up yelling in dissatisfaction and wanting to prove their point with their fists. After which the idiots were doused with well water to prevent them from dying right in the monastery. And then the management would start complaining again. On the other hand — the hammer. He really liked it. Although Helg hadn’t seen what it was about yet. But if the Plague Midwife promised something, she kept her word.
“I run slowly. They’ll overtake me.”
“That’s okay. The main thing is to go there and back. A couple of times is enough.”
“Alright. Two times,” he said, showing with his fingers how many times he meant ‘there and back’ for reliability. “But if you pull another stunt and they start blaming me again, don’t ask me anymore.”
“Agreed.”
***
Brother Anufriy was the last to learn that something strange was happening in the monastery courtyard. He simply noticed that the corridor had become quiet and people had disappeared somewhere. So, he first poked his head into the slightly open door, then scratched his shaved tonsure and went to the window. It had been chilly outside in the morning, so he didn’t touch the colored stained glass, keeping the cold air out of his cell. However, when he opened it, he immediately understood the reason for the disappearance of the brothers and sisters. They were gathered in a crowd around the trampled ground, where athletes had already lined up on the left side, holding heavy stripped logs and standing them on their ends.
“Look at that, just give them a chance! They’ll definitely try to do something crazy!”
Yelling from above made no sense because in that case, people pretended that the wind was blowing away the shouts. So, if any problems arose, he would have to go down. But at least he could see what he would later need to scold the guilty parties for. The guards of the caravaners were darting about, and there was also the Scythian in his belted shirt. And who do we have on the right?
Groaning, Brother Anufriy acknowledged the inevitable. Who else in the monastery could find time for entertainment outside of prayers? Only the Plague Sisters. And the first among them was the Midwife. She had just taken her place on the right, alongside the line marked in the sand for the finish. Adjusting her gray burlap cloak, she loudly commanded:
“Ready? Then — GO, you pathetic fools!”
The Scots strained, grasped their logs, interlocking their arms underneath, and began to shuffle forward. The logs stood upright, as if challenging the gloomy clouds above. Helg, lagging slightly behind, also joined the fray. If it had been a test of endurance, the guests wouldn’t have stood a chance; the big guy could stroll with a “stick” for half an hour. But the distance was short, so people had already placed their bets and were now loudly cheering for their respective guards, encouraging them and promising to get them drunk in the tavern if they won.
When they had covered half the distance and the trio had picked up a good pace, Agnessa smirked and flared the edges of her ‘robe’, under which there was nothing.
“Boobs!” shouted the first Scot.
“Pussy!” noted the second. The third said nothing. He just tripped over flat ground, his eyes bulging, and started to topple to the left, knocking over the others with his log. In a second, three unfortunate souls were already floundering on the logs.
Helg wasn’t fooled by the cheap trick; he carefully circled the pile and marched to the yellow sandy strip. There, he firmly planted the log into the ground, causing a mini earthquake. The stunned crowd watched as the Plague Midwife tied a knot in the rope, adjusting her cloak, and groaned:
“This is cheating! You can’t do that!”
“There were no restrictions in the conditions of the competition,” Agnessa boldly brushed off, and demanded: “Hey, you obsessed ones, bring out the silver. If you want to make a comeback, I’ll give you a chance. I’ll hand out a mug of beer to each of you for free. And we’ll see how well you can run...”
The abbot of the monastery arrived just in time to see the caravan guards huddled together, demanding the continuation of the banquet. It wasn’t quite clear why they decided that a striptease would be a nice addition to the beer, but aside from three of them, all the guards were ready to line up for the heavy lifting. Upon seeing the impossibly grim Brother Anufriy, Agnessa quickly assessed the situation and commanded a strategic retreat:
“People, we can’t continue here. I suggest we head to the tavern; the street next door is flat, so let’s see who can stand after a mug or two. Follow me!”
He couldn’t catch the Midwife; she had gotten lost in the bustling crowd, as if she were never there at all. A minute or two passed, and the empty courtyard was left with only the lonely giant, carefully cradling a massive hammer with a long handle against his chest. That kind of “hammer” could knock down someone else’s fortress gate with a single blow. As for checking the reliability of knights’ helmets, there was no question; it would turn a knight into a metal stump on crooked little legs.
“Helg, how did you fall for that, huh?” the monk asked sadly.
“She promised a gift. She didn’t lie.”
“And the breasts?”
“What breasts? As if I haven’t seen them in the bathhouse. Every time I come back from a campaign to wash up, there are about twenty nuns wandering around to give me a back rub.”
Weighing the new acquisition once more in his hands, the Scythian headed toward the armorer. The latter had plenty of junk in his backyard, so they could test how the training dummies would withstand a hammer strike. Brother Anufriy glanced back at the sad sentries on the walls—there was no beer for them, that was a fact—then ambled toward the covered doors of the bathhouse.
Half an hour later, anyone interested could read on the posted piece of parchment:
“No touching the Moscowite’s butt and no washing backs! Anyone caught doing this will spend a month on pea soup as penance!”
That night, an unknown hand added a drawing of a member with flourishes below the announcement:
“Don’t be jealous; his is still bigger.”
Strangely enough, this time they didn’t roll around the city naked on carts. The merchants had gathered a weak guard, and after three barrels of beer, they collapsed under the tables. And Agnessa didn’t feel like organizing a joyride by herself.
***
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