image [https://c10.patreonusercontent.com/4/patreon-media/p/post/114108710/c0996387a44144e28586cabe206d1bc2/eyJ3Ijo4MjAsIndlYnAiOjB9/1.jpg?token-time=1731196800&token-hash=LWY0VjLvSiCrtfcc9e8oJHWEciwsi06IJw4_qzeWTyY%3D]
Leaning out the window, the abbot examined the crowd in the courtyard and muttered something under his breath in Ancient Greek. He must have been cursing, since he prayed in Latin when he was in a good mood and spoke in his native German for everyday matters.
Without knocking, Agnessa burst into the office, loaded down with bags, a rolled-up carpet, and a bunch of other odds and ends.
"Here, as promised, Your Reverence! The bank wasn’t looted yet, so I got there first. The dead have no need for these things, but we’ll put them to good use. A new Persian rug, since yours is all worn out. Gold reichsthalers, worth a couple of thousand, I’d guess — I didn’t count. Books from the local church, and other things..."
"They’ll excommunicate us," sighed the abbot, sinking into his chair and pouring himself a full mug of wine from a chubby jug.
"Since when do they excommunicate people for gathering spoils?" Agnessa asked, dumping her loot on the floor.
"Not for you, you curious creature. For what’s going on in the monastery — they’ll damn us for that!"
Realizing she’d missed something interesting, Agnessa leaned out, turned her head, and shouted excitedly, "Oh, Brother Basha! Hey! Long time no see... What, how long has it been? Right, I’d just started going on solo raids back then—five years ago, or even six. Yeah, he came to visit right after he got back from his mission work in Africa. Your Reverence, Basha’s back!"
"Yeah," grunted the abbot. "Been here since this morning, the troublemaker."
"Who’s that with him? Who’s he lecturing about the afterlife? Haven't seen them in town before."
"Those are zombies, Agnessa. Zombies..."
"No way... In robes? Dead people in the city? That explains their twisted faces — I thought it was a hangover."
"And that’s why we’ll all be..."
Before the monk could finish, the door slammed shut, and boots clattered down the corridor. The enthusiastic corpse-crusher dashed into the courtyard, as something unmistakably inappropriate was happening there, and she urgently needed to take part in it.
Brother Basha was a well-known figure in the Vatican. Some whispered behind his back that he was more of a thorn in the Pope’s side. He was a fervent believer, carrying the Word of God into the wildest lands without sparing himself, bulldozing through obstacles like a battering ram. It didn’t matter whether those obstacles were Roman bureaucracy or Mediterranean pirates. Speaking of which, pirates now fled at the sight of sails bearing a massive white cross on a black background. After one pirate galley attempted to board a merchant ship with Basha onboard, he soon convinced them to sail with him for the glory of God. Together, they traveled around Africa more than once.
“Brother Basha, admit it — what do you want with those zombies? Starting a choir to sing psalms?”
“Don’t interrupt my work, Agnessa,” he replied, a tall, thin man sternly wagging his finger at her. “All you care about is swinging a mace in dark corners. But who’s going to care for lost souls?”
“They’ve already been given their last rites when they declared the Plague over. They even issued a papal bull about it.”
“That was a grave mistake. Those who perished and were laid to rest, fine. But what about the ones still wandering, unable to find peace? They need help.”
“Teaching them to hold a spear formation?” Agnessa glanced at the crowd of zombies gathered near the scaffold. This spot usually hosted executions of corrupt officials or treasurers. People are weak, prone to temptation, and things tend to stick to their hands, so they hung them here as a lesson. But today, Brother Basha stood on the oak platform, and in front of him, the dead in gray robes stood like reeking statues.
“They’re too weak. The first attack will wipe them out,” she remarked.
“That’s what I mean. All you think about is swinging weapons. But who will care for the flock? Tell me, if the brothers cross the river into infected lands, what will happen to them?”
“They’ll get eaten,” Agnessa said confidently. A vast, desolate strip stretched between what was left of France and the Holy Roman Empire. The living there could be counted on one hand—various looters and bandits who fortified themselves in strongholds amidst monsters, undead, and all manner of filth.
This novel's true home is a different platform. Support the author by finding it there.
“Exactly. They’ll get eaten. And if they went with a stronger unit, like your guards?”
“By the second day, they’d be eaten too. Fresh meat tends to attract a pack of about three hundred. You’d wear yourself out swinging a sword.”
“There’s your answer. But no contagion will touch my disciples.”
Standing beside him, the Plague Midwife paused to consider. Yes, the clustered zombies weren’t aggressive. There was no aura of evil or eternal hunger about them. But they weren’t people anymore, so other undead likely wouldn’t bother with them. The dead treat each other like furniture—if you’re not in the way, they don’t care.
“Hmm, this is quite an idea. And where did you learn it? In Africa?”
“I practiced there, but not as much. Usually, you’d knock some sense into a sorcerer with a staff, convert a tribe or two to the true faith, and move on—with new converts to help, of course.”
“Remarkable. Not to kill the lost, but to make them servants of God, true believers... But what about those stubborn in heresy?”
“Then I resort to my second approach.”
The cross and the sword. Just as the forefathers ordained in those ancient, wild times.
“I’ve been meaning to ask, Brother Basha. Why did you come back from Africa? You seemed to be doing well there.”
“Other missionaries complained that I was stealing their thunder. Give me another twenty years, and I’d have baptized every tribe. But they called me back. So, I left my flock in the hands of the faithful and came home. And here—plague…”
“It didn’t seem to touch the savages?”
“It didn’t reach them. Those who roamed the Sahara perished, but it didn’t go any farther. Here, though—wherever you go, there’s chaos and the dead, lying unshriven in the bushes.”
“Yes, we have plenty of work... I understand the zombies now. Excellent move. If it works, you might even carve out a parish for yourself across the river. Just keep washing the nuns before use—they do stink.”
That evening, after dinner and prayers, the abbot squeezed into Agnessa's cell. Watching as the Plague Midwife lovingly sharpened her sword, he tried to broach the topic delicately:
"My daughter, wouldn’t you like to help our brother on his difficult journey? Perhaps accompany him to Verdun, for example. The lands there are rich but entirely abandoned. And the cathedral stands unattended."
“Are you suggesting that Brother Basha and his zombies are stirring up some unwelcome unrest within our walls? And that the bishop’s informants have already used up piles of paper with complaints, accusing you of tolerating heresy?”
"Why jump straight to the point like that?" he sighed.
"Because I handpicked the cleverest street kids from town, and they intercepted the messengers at the gates. Took the papers, broke a few noses, and warned them that next time, they’d lose more than just their dignity. So we’ve got two, maybe three days before those miserable traitors come up with another scheme. You feed and house them, and they’re always ready to stab you in the back."
Rubbing his belly thoughtfully, the abbot acknowledged the problem.
"Yes, we’ve raised fools destined to ruin us... So we have a day or two. And after that?"
"If you’re not stingy, we can launch an expedition west as early as tomorrow. Verdun? Perfect. No bishop will make it there, that’s for sure. I can go along as far as we have fuel for the ‘beast.’ We’ll have to charge up the accumulator for the return, but I’ve got the hang of it. I’ll search the graveyards, capture some restless spirits, and put them to work."
"‘Not stingy’—does that mean draining everything, or will you leave something?"
"Why make me out to be a monster?!” she huffed indignantly. “Winter’s coming; wasting supplies is wrong. But the Lord commands us to share, so we’ll spare a little. And we’ll need a couple of pigs—one to ride, another to haul the load. Horses are scarce, and a snouty face on scavenger corpses will reach the destination with enthusiasm."
"Alright. We’ll prepare at dawn, then."
Brother Basha set out for his new residence with great fanfare. As the future master of the enormous Verdun cathedral, he rode atop a giant boar, casually scratching it behind the ears with his staff. Following behind was a massive cart pulled by a sow, piled high with bags of useful odds and ends. The captain of the mercenaries had managed to instill some basic marching discipline into the zombies, so they marched in neat rows behind the monk. Each of the undead, clad in gray robes, clutched something practical in their hands: a broom, a paintbrush, a rake, or a shovel. No weapons—what was the point? Brother Basha could fend off any evil with the power of his faith, and his helpers had learned only a single prayer so far. But in time, perhaps after six months of renovations and training, they'd be ready to walk the roads, spreading goodness and order. After all, it was unacceptable that none of the undead could even croak out the Lord’s Prayer or the Nicene Creed.
That would change. In Africa, they started out running around with spears, yelling obscenities. But look at them now—decapitating each other after morning prayers and remembering to pay their tithe. Everything would fall into place eventually.
Peeking from the slightly open door to the cellar, Agnessa called out, “Brother Basha, you go on ahead, and I’ll catch up. I’ve got a bit of unfinished business here.”
Making sure he heard her and waved back, the Plague Midwife returned to her interrupted task. After landing a quick one-two, she picked up the poor wretch who had fallen to the floor and asked, “Now, who here decided to betray us? Who found the monastery’s bread bitter and had the nerve to write complaints? Did you eat up all the evidence, you rat?”
“It’s not mine. I’ve already eaten my letters, sister,” the miserable man muttered, wiping bloody snot from his face.
“You know how this goes. Either the one who wrote them stands here, or you’re going to swallow the whole sack in one go. Can’t manage it? I’ll help you fit it all in. And hurry— I have things to do.”
Half an hour later, Agnessa washed her hands, donned her favorite gauntlets, and took the wheel of her armored vehicle. She had plans to make a few stops at banks on her way to and from Verdun. The town had opened a new shop, and the prices were steep. So—half of the gold she’d haul would go to the monastery's needs, naturally. And with the rest, she might just update her wardrobe. If there was anything left after a wild night out, of course.
***
Early access to the book: https://www.patreon.com/olegborisov