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“Hold the line! Who thought to lower the shield?! Haven't the dirty cauldrons been scrubbed in the kitchen for a long time?!”
Agnessa clenched her teeth in anger and prepared for a strike. She had been running with full gear for a week, practicing assaults on various fortifications and swinging different kinds of metal with all her might. She was going through the ‘old-timer's course,’ as Captain Konstant Vyu von Salz of the Salzburg infantry cohort liked to say. Although those who served under him often referred to him as ‘Our Bastard.’ They would check to ensure that the captain was not nearby first.
Baron Konstant received his title and estate five years ago. At that time, Pope Gregory the Sixtieth, who was passing through on business, fell victim to a raid by carnivorous beetles from the nearby mines. Those eager to extract the remnants of silver from the depths of the earth used the trendy dynamite for their work, and all sorts of things began to spill out from every crevice. The captain of the mercenary company, who was nearby, ended up saving the Pope, five bishops, and several other unfortunate souls. When the last meter-long cockroach was squashed, Konstant escorted the injured to the nearest monastery and had a long discussion with the church leadership a week later. He categorically refused to move further south. He also didn’t want to abandon the guys, many of whom he had personally bought out of hard labor. As a result, he received a personal estate, baronial spurs, and permission to train fighters for the needs of the state for a handsome fee.
If Agnessa had any desire to continue gutting the dwindling undead in the west, she wouldn’t have come to visit. But the Plague Midwife had an idea of how to make a proper noise in the dungeons of her new friend. And for that, she needed to brush up a bit. Because fighting alone against some fanged mountain of flesh on the road and slaughtering in the narrow passages of mines and casemates is an entirely different matter—especially if you want to return to the light of day in one piece, not in parts. And preferably alive, not as a torn-up zombie. So, the agreeable lady asked around, double-checked the information she received, and went to Salzburg, having squeezed a leave of absence from her immediate superiors. As they say, on her own dime, for the sake of improving her overall qualifications.
The Duchy of Bavaria greeted her with autumn rains, mud, and a crowd of decorated peacocks in knightly cloaks. Remembering that she had promised to avoid murder, Agnessa managed to sneak up to the small castle without serious problems. She didn't break any arms, kick anyone in the groin, or even punch anyone in the face. She held back. But when they shouted at the gates:
“Where do you think you’re going? It’s not a reception day!”
The Midwife couldn’t hold back and slammed a couple of guards into the cobblestones. Then she methodically began to explain who she was, where she was from, and why she was in such a bad mood. Until she heard over her shoulder:
“Stand down! The amateurs are working off their mess, not sentenced to a painful death... Page! Call the junior gendarme. Let him bring replacements for the poor souls. They’re going to the infirmary. And you, madam, please follow me.”
Agnessa was not sent home for three reasons. First, the baron fished a tiny note from a pile of recommendation letters from Bruno Donner, snorted “alive, the rascal,” and nodded in satisfaction after reading it. Apparently, the knight had vouched for the troublesome busybody. Second, the castle was just starting to retrain knights from the duchy who intended to later apply for officer patents. It was difficult to make seasoned soldiers work hard. However, they would certainly try to suck in their bellies and puff out their chests in front of a lady. Baron Konstant was a wise man and took advantage of any opportunity to improve the quality of training. And third, he assessed Agnessa in action. One-on-one, she knocked down everyone and swatted away any weapon like an enraged cat with an iron club in its paws. Yes, she was knocked down by a wall of shields and caught by nets, but these were simply different approaches to combat. So, scratching his bald head, Vyu von Salz demanded the required four Reichsgulden, allocated a place in the barracks, and for the Plague Midwife, personal hell began. However, it was the same for the other fifteen brave fighters who wished to obtain the coveted patent.
In the morning, the troops would invigorate themselves with a light run to the distant forest and back. On the way back, they dragged pre-prepared logs, which the day shift would saw, chop, and take to the kitchen. After a light breakfast, there was a general warm-up followed by two hours of tactics lessons. The topics were either taught by the baron himself or by one of his senior assistants, who had earned the title of bannerets—titled knights who had been especially honored. They covered the management of the “spear” and the ordinance company, various types of fortifications, and ways to overcome them. What accumulated military knowledge applied to fighting various creatures from the western, eastern, or southern borders. Medical services and who to tear into for transgressions if there were sanitary losses among the troops. And more, and more, and more.
Of course, Agnessa could have raised an eyebrow in surprise and asked what all this was for. But when Konstant accepted the payment, he immediately warned her:
“No one will keep you here against your will. If you don’t like it, pack your things and head home with the next wind. But if you stay, I’ll try to cram into you the minimum you’ll need if you don’t want to step into the nearest stone quarries. Because when creating Hell, the Lord displayed considerable humor. And if in Lorraine your backyard is the Abyss, then we have plenty of guests from Purgatory in our catacombs.”
What reassured the guest about the unusual program was that after the tactical lessons came practice. And that was where she had to give her all. Konstant believed that a good commander must know and be able to do everything he would later drill into the soldiers' heads. And if you can’t hold the formation, work together to stab, slash, and crush the undead, then you won’t be able to teach and control the troops later. So he shut his mouth, wiped away the sweat, and moved forward:
“Hold the line! Again!.. Break into pairs! Attack from the side!”
***
“Who broke your nose?”
“The wild one did. I suggested she scrub my back in the shower, and she opened the door with me.”
“And how did that go?”
“Well, my head seems fine, although it buzzed all evening afterward. And it’s good I managed to get back in. Otherwise, I would have run into the baron during his rounds and would have been rustling about with the duty officer all morning...”
“You should set her straight. She’s gotten a bit too full of herself.”
“No, I’m not getting involved in that. She’s a crazy and sharp woman, I won’t deny it. But she’s not a quartermaster. And there’s hardly a clean spot on her skin; she’s covered in marks... So I wouldn’t touch her.”
A man resembling a hunched troll with huge brow ridges snorted:
“That’s your call! I doubt I’ll last until the end of the month. Who came up with this - no proper days off! Just a little drinking on Saturdays!... But I won’t call you. The main thing is to lift her skirt over her head so she doesn't complain later. After that, it’ll work out.”
Scratching his swollen nose, his friend smirked crookedly:
“She definitely won’t complain. But you, just don’t take offense afterward. And don’t be afraid to call for help if things get really bad...”
In the morning, the baron strolled in front of the line of ‘old-timers’ and looked with interest at the four brutes on the right flank. One could barely stand, periodically checking to see if his genitals were still in place. The other three were breathing irregularly, pressing their hands against their bruised sides. Agnessa, however, at the end of the line, looked unreasonably pleased with life.
“Amateurs! As I understand it, some of you won’t be able to run to the forest today. Therefore, you’re off to the quack. He’s our specialist in using various potions to bring the sick back to their senses... But since everyone is hungry, someone will have to bring not just one log, but five. And who will that be...?”
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The future officers froze, catching a glimpse of a thin figure stepping forward:
“Allow me, Lord Baron!”
“Do you think you’re not being loaded enough?”
“I think that while someone is lounging in the infirmary, it’s the perfect time to replace him.”
Konstant didn’t argue. He waved his hand and then kept an eye on Agnessa as she hauled heavy logs.
By the third log, she was already wheezing but pretending to run. By the fourth, she was dragging the log with difficulty. But by the fifth, she didn’t have time to turn around because the other cadets, waiting for breakfast, blocked her path:
“Are you crazy? What are you trying to prove by killing yourself?”
“How’s your hearing? Do you hear how the fat one is yelling? They’re putting his bones back in place and bringing him back to his senses with elixirs. The baron wouldn’t hesitate to order me to give myself an enema for breaking the daily routine. So, I’d rather work like a mule.”
“And what does that have to do with you?”
“Well, I had my fun last night. So, I’ll have to somehow pay for the pleasure I provided.”
The oldest of the fighters sighed and pointed at his neighbor:
“Come on, let’s help her drag that last log. I’m hungry, and she’ll definitely collapse halfway.”
In the evening, a lover of ‘strawberries’ and three friends who decided to defend him approached Agnessa. The ‘troll,’ frowning darkly with his thick eyebrows, muttered:
“I, um... I didn’t mean anything... It’s just that you’re walking around, shaking your bare tits in the washroom... Although there’s nothing to hold onto with those tits... Well, you know...”
Stepping closer, the Plague Midwife smirked ominously:
“In short, you mistook me for the girls from the wagon train. It happens... The deal is simple, guys. I’ll cover your backs if we get into trouble. But if you touch me again, I’ll tear you to pieces. Even without a weapon... Yes, the baron will kick me out afterward, but I’ve said my word. And you heard me.”
After thinking it over, the formidable group agreed:
“We agree.”
Sealing the deal with a firm handshake, Agnessa sweetened the pill:
“This Saturday, the beer is on me. I need to forget the taste of the potions.”
“What, you tried it too?”
“Boys, I’ve been drinking that filth by the bucketful in the lyceum almost every evening. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have survived.”
***
By the end of the month, the future holders of officer spurs had more or less grasped the hard-earned knowledge. Yes, the accumulated experience and the support of their comrades in the sturdy ranks helped. Now they spent half the day practicing with weapons, and in the other half, the baron and his assistants explained the differences between the ranks of gendarme, banneret, and that of a lieutenant in a mercenary company. It seemed that for most of them, the main idea had gotten across: they would have to study a lot, every day, and there would be no stopping. But for the former impoverished cutthroats, a truly prosperous life lay ahead, with the opportunity to leave their future families something more than just a dilapidated hut.
On Thursday evening, the baron summoned Agnessa to his office and laid out a stack of written sheets before her.
“Take a look and see if I’ve understood everything correctly from the antics you displayed during your studies.”
The Midwife wasn’t good at writing beautifully, but she had learned to read somewhat fluently at the monastery. So she skimmed through the collection of writings and shook her head disapprovingly:
“Lord Konstant, half of this is done haphazardly. Yes, I don’t always apply what I’ve learned correctly. It would be better for you to correspond with my mentor, the Holy Valkyrie Marine from the Lyceum of the Plague Sisters. I can draft you a recommendation letter. She will either send someone from the sisters who can explain everything in detail, or you could visit her when you get the chance. It’s interesting there...”
“To Lady Drakonessa,” the lord of the castle pondered, scratching his brow. “Maybe I’ll actually visit her closer to winter. I’m not sure I’ll be surprised when it comes to commanding a company. But you handle weapons and pistols very briskly on your own. The boys will find that useful...”
It seemed that within the patchwork Empire, knowledgeable and understanding people had heard of each other, and some had even shared a pitcher or two of wine at the same table. No one really knew the various riffraff from the “noble” classes. Those who were in the know could be counted on one hand.
“Good. Tomorrow you have your final exam. Try not to get yourselves killed. You can go rest.”
Armed to the teeth, the brave soldiers formed a “box” in front of the black maw of the entrance to the catacombs, preparing for the assault. The crowd of zombies in this tunnel had deliberately not been disturbed yet, even though the baron had received an order for their extermination two weeks ago. They had simply set up catapults and were keeping an eye out to ensure that curious children didn’t foolishly wander where they weren’t wanted. The big guy Kurt, who had developed an interest in Agnessa after their “close encounter,” looked over at her and said with surprise:
“Hey, Midwife! Why are you sitting on the barrels? The exam is for everyone!”
“I know,” the woman replied as she finished inspecting her left pinky and decided she could put her nail file away in her tiny suitcase. Yes, there wasn’t much time for such nonsense on the road, but it was a great way to kill time during a break.
“Well, if that’s the case... then why are you sitting? Aren’t you taking your shield?”
Sighing, Agnessa jumped off the huge barrel and approached her comrades, who had frozen in their strenuous training.
“Kurt, I understand you have a bone in your head. There isn’t even an empty space in there—just solid bone... But what did Mr. Konstant teach us? Who can tell me? Did you all find beer somewhere this morning and drink it all without me, and now your heads aren’t working? What did the baron order us?”
Fred, the quickest to come up with stupid ideas (the kind that usually got him in trouble), stepped forward:
“He said—kill all the zombies! And clear the catacombs of the undead!”
“Exactly. Kill the zombies and make sure no filth has gotten stuck in any crevice... But did we get told to go in there as a bunch, take bites, and fight with what little health we have left? I don’t remember that... But I do remember that Mr. Konstant always says—first think, then check what comes to mind, and only then send the subordinates to their doom... In short, I’m tired from poking dummies with you, slackers, yesterday. So I propose we do what the management ordered us to...”
Returning to the barrels, Agnessa stroked the oily, glistening side and revealed a great secret:
“The battler in the castle is such a sweetheart. We have four gifts for the undead. Each one has a fiery mixture inside. We’ll bring them to the entrance, carefully knock the lids off, and pour the contents inside. One after another. We’ll wait about half an hour for it all to drain down the slope and then set it on fire. Once the smoke stops billowing from the catacombs, we can go down and finish off those who didn’t burn. I looked at the plan—the tunnel is small here. There’s nothing valuable down there. So it’ll be barrels, a burning torch, and an inspection closer to lunchtime. We should be done by evening...”
They finished up by three in the afternoon. At first, they sat off to the side, watching the burning zombies crawl out into the light of day only to die with disgruntled screams. Then they waited for the draft to carry away the remaining stinking gray mist. After that, they confidently moved inside in pairs, hacking apart the remains of those creatures that hadn’t even managed to escape outside. They placed the heads in baskets for reporting purposes. Not a single one of them was even bitten, let alone suffered more serious injuries.
***
The midwife bid farewell to the lord of the castle with a sense of relief. No, she had learned her lessons well. Now she could work seamlessly in any team in the dungeons. But somewhere in the back of her mind, a thought nagged at her: could the baron be a distant relative of her mentor from the lycée? Their training methods were strikingly similar—pushing through exhaustion and reluctance, with shouts of "Hooray!" until you were completely worn out.
“Madame Agnes, it was a pleasure to meet you. If you ever want to further enhance your combat training, I would be glad to see you again. You can come without recommendation letters. Your idea during the exam clearly demonstrated that you can certainly aim for a lieutenant's commission.”
“Thank you very much, Mr. Konstant. I’d prefer to do without ranks. Because if I need to, I can always run off on some urgent campaign with the caravan drivers, courtesy of the father superior. But if they attach spurs to me, I won’t be able to act like a fool. They'll shove an order in my face and off I’ll go, singing.”
Smirking, the mentor of the cutthroats touched his lips to her hand and repeated once more:
“Exactly, for a lieutenant, you are remarkably astute. Therefore, I will be glad to see you as a guest.”
After the exams, only Kurt crawled out into the courtyard early in the morning. It seemed that he truly had a head full of bones, and it couldn't possibly hurt by definition. The others were unable to say goodbye. Embracing Agnes, the big man huffed:
“Ah, it's a shame you're leaving. Although you probably have someone noble in your life; we're not a match for that... But if anything comes up, you know the address. Come visit.”
“I will definitely. And let me give you some good advice. Kurt, take a wife from anywhere but the Brotherhood. We're all completely crazy and fierce. We’ll put any husband under our thumb and make him march. In short, you won't like it. But if you really want to settle down and find a good place... Here, take these two letters. This one has where to go; I even drew you a map. And this one—it's a recommendation from me. From Ingvar the Builder's sister. A widow with little ones. She runs a tavern and sells beer from the neighbors. I visited her not long ago. She complains that she can't find a serious man. Everyone looks at her wealth, but no one takes her seriously as a woman... With your spurs, you could easily get the position of the city guard captain or form a patrol squad from the militia. Mangheim is the capital of the district, a wealthy city. They pay generously and don't forget about bonuses.”
“A widow, you say? And she won't send me away the moment I step through the door?”
“You can tell her that you sweated alongside me. And don't forget the recommendation letter... That's it, I'm off. Good luck to you. I hope we meet again.”
As she turned out the gates, Agnes picked up speed and added with a slight smirk under her breath:
“You're quite the slowpoke, Kurt. Though, Greta can think for two just fine. And you certainly won't let anyone offend her...”
Turning her face into the cool wind hitting her head-on, the Plague Midwife pressed the pedal to the floor and sang:
“Where shall we carry this dynamite? A grand, a glorious secret in the night! With a spark and a boom, we'll unleash the fight, To send to the shadows, all who dare take flight!”
The pleasant woman was headed for new adventures and a visit to Irene. The neighbor had already sent her a second letter: ‘When are we going to cut the ghouls?’ I'm coming, my friend! Already on my way! Just need to grab a couple of carts with hot gifts, and we can have a good time!
***
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