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Agnessa played ‘slap hands’ with the guards. After returning, washing up, and catching some sleep, the Plague Midwife fed the dogs well and went out into the yard for some entertainment. The trip had gone well. They managed to eliminate the troublesome undead without any serious losses. Only a scratch from claws had appeared on the side of her trusty ‘iron steed.’ But she wasn’t even going to bother polishing it out. The Panzerkraftwagen had many such marks. Plus, the jokers in the taverns fell silent at the usual ‘what a fine lady without a gentleman.’ Pure profit.
The rules of ‘slap hands’ were simple. One player placed their hand on a stump, and the other had to slap it. They were allowed to intimidate each other, making faces as if to say, “I’m going to hurt you.” But any body movement, shoulder shrugs, or similar tricks were strictly punished. If you slapped the other person’s hand, you won. If you scared them into pulling their hand back, you won again. But if you missed and hit the stump, you lost.
The guards were playing for money, betting a kreutzer each time. Agnessa suggested raising the stakes to a quarter of a reichsthaler—twenty times more. At first, the group wanted to refuse, but the self-assured lady proposed a more intriguing arrangement: the male contestants would bet a kreutzer, while the lovely Fräulein would put down a silver coin. With such terms, a line formed at the stump.
Half an hour later, on the left side of the stump, the losers stood gloomily, nursing their sore hands, while on the right, a few remaining contestants exchanged thoughtful glances. They looked at the pile of coins, then at the contented Agnessa, and finally at their friends, hissing in pain.
The father superior interrupted the scene. Looking out of a window, he barked:
“Loafers, have you nothing better to do? Don’t take after the Plague Sister; she’ll teach you bad habits. She once stripped a merchant down to his underclothes in ‘slap hands’ at the tavern. His hands needed treating for a week afterward. But that was a merchant—he needed to know how to wag his tongue. If you can’t hold a sword or spear afterward, I’ll use you as a living shield against the nighttime horrors… Agnessa, ‘komm zu mir’, my darling.”
The head of the monastery owned several rooms. A nook in the library, where he sometimes withdrew to doze and ponder the world’s fate. A cell where he slept and occasionally gave communion to young nuns. An official hall where he received guests and held various festive events. And an office, where he handled boring tasks: balancing accounts, sorting through letters, and sometimes reprimanding wrongdoers.
Today, a short, gray-haired monk sat sadly to the side of the large desk in the office.
“Your Reverence.”
“Yes, yes, come in… Tell me, what do you think about the Venetians?”
“Heretics and free-thinkers, Your Reverence. They’re always spreading some nonsense. Of all the Southerners, I only know one decent man—Master Ingvar. But he’s half Frankish, if I’m not mistaken. They’re troublemakers too, forgive me, Lord, though occasionally decent people show up among them.”
“Well, it’s not all that bad, but I get your point… And now we transition smoothly to the debate I just had with Father Alessandro. He claims that humans can fly.”
The unfamiliar monk looked up and sadly stated, “Like angels and cherubim. There’s nothing in the Bible or the Scriptures against it.”
But the abbot was resolute:
“You know, Brother Alessandro, if God had wanted us to fly like birds, He would have given us wings. Instead, we walk on the earth; our sins weigh us down too much to rise to the heavens.”
Intrigued by this unexpected idea, Agnessa brazenly interrupted, “But besides humans, many creatures can fly. Gargoyles, vampires, bog spirits until they gorge themselves on the dead. Even those mangy faeries, during their breeding season, when the wind spreads them from the hive.”
“Why do you always focus on the undead!” snapped the owner of the richly furnished office.
“Well, among humans, I know only one who managed it in my memory: Jerzy Chkagovski. He rented a hut, set up supplies, but didn’t offer any milk to the house spirit. It started making a racket in the corner, so Jerzy, terrified, fired his pistol and hit a barrel of gunpowder. The blast sent him flying right through the roof.”
“Did he survive?” the monk in the brown robe asked hopefully.
“Oh yes, he landed in a haystack. After two days, he stopped twitching like a paralytic and started talking again… And you, Brother Alessandro, how exactly do you plan to fly? On a cannonball, or have you invented something else?”
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“I’ve nearly finished a machine, based on the designs of the great Leonardo da Vinci.”
Upon hearing a name familiar to everyone in the Brotherhood, the abbot and the Plague Midwife crossed themselves in unison. Yes, the great sage had left behind much useful knowledge. A third of the Church’s artifacts were created based on his foundational work, ‘On the Protection of God’s Creatures from the Spawn of Lucifer’. The problem was that more than half of his brilliant legacy had yet to be used. It was too revolutionary, often putting the Church in an awkward position. Consider his treatise, ‘On the Equality of Men and Women as One Whole’. Such a violation of foundations was utterly unacceptable in these dark times.
“All right, so you’re assembling something based on the sage’s designs. But how is this thing supposed to rise into the air?”
“A special rotating screw. Look, I brought a copy of the plans with me. And I have all the parts in my cart.”
The guest spread a large sheet of paper on the table and began tracing the fine blue lines with his finger, explaining the details.
“Two rigid wings, a tail, and a place for the pilot, who will control the craft. The internal beams are made of treated bamboo—I managed to get enough through traders dealing with Africa. The exterior is covered with silk.”
“Why rigid wings? Birds flap their wings to fly.”
“Leonardo conducted many experiments and proved that we don’t have the strength to lift ourselves that way. But to glide and ascend slowly, the screw’s rotation is enough. He even built a model that he demonstrated to his students. Instead of a steam or other engine, it used a twisted rope to spin the screw.”
Admiring the diagram with its many markings, Agnessa shrugged, “Well, keeping in mind that da Vinci suggested confessing every creature we pierce with steel, I see no major issues. I just don’t understand why you came here, Brother Alessandro. With the materials you’ve acquired, you could have built something similar back home.”
The monk tapped the core of the diagram, replying, “The rotating engine was assembled by the Clockmakers’ Guild. But to power it, I need a dark entity, one that’s contained. The kind they once placed in mechanicals or in craftwagons. Something like a Rotting Drowned Spirit or a demon of equal strength. I was hoping to find such a thing around here. Back home, most of the evil creatures have been eliminated.”
Agnessa tapped the wooden tabletop:
“Bite your tongue, Brother Alessandro. Better yet, bite it twice. The last time we dealt with something that foul was about fifteen years ago. It took a select guard of the three episcopates with the best spellcasters. Thankfully, while there’s a lot of filth around here, it’s all shrunk down. That’s why I can venture into most holes alone without much worry. But our monastery couldn’t stand up to a Drowned Spirit.”
“Then I won’t be able to fly up to the sun,” sighed the guest. “I bought an enchanted chamber, spent all my remaining funds. But I don’t have a demon.”
In the morning, the woman returned from her walk—the dogs insisted on regularly checking the area and refreshing their scent markings. In the yard, the monk was sadly preparing for his return journey, adjusting the numerous bundles on his cart. The abbot stood nearby, shifting from foot to foot. He also seemed disappointed that he couldn’t help. After all, his interactions with the Brotherhood’s total renegades had left their mark on him.
“Brother Alessandro, may I take a look at the accumulator?”
Silently, the man opened a leather case and pulled out a glass flask entwined with numerous bronze tubes. Agnessa examined the device carefully, muttering to herself, “I’ll need to show this to Klaus and Master Ulle, the armorer, so they can check the seals and everything else… I can’t get you a demon. But if you put three revenants from different graveyards in here—or even five—they’ll tear each other apart. And we’ll just have to pray the container doesn’t burst from the excess malice. They’d spin any screw nonstop for a month.”
“A month? A demon lasts six months.”
“And there are so many revenants around that you can eat them with your ass... Yes, yes, Your Reverence, I’ll say a prayer of penance tonight for my foul language. It’s just that I can catch you a whole heap of minor undead. If some die, I’ll shove in fresh ones. I’m really looking forward to seeing you soar, just like a cherubim.”
In the evening, she indeed had to say the prayer—her superiors personally ensured it. As they blessed the meal, they inquired,
“Why are you so interested in this flying contraption? You’re not planning to ascend to the heavens yourself, are you?”
“Heavens, no, I’m afraid of heights. Firing a rifle from the bell tower is one thing, but dangling in the open air is another. I just thought—if Brother Alessandro actually manages to get it working and can hover near the clouds for even half an hour, he could observe some useful things from above. He’d see where bandits lay logs across the road, where packs of fanged creatures gather, or where a dark patch appears that isn’t marked on the map. It seems like a useful endeavor to me.”
“Interesting thought. I’ll have to ponder it when I have a moment.”
***
Brother Alessandro only began to hold his own on the ‘ass with wings’ with some confidence by the second month of flights. At first, he would crash into trees or city walls that appeared unexpectedly in his path. Or he would plummet downwards when strong winds folded the wings, sending the entire structure plummeting to the ground. Sometimes, the revenants, fighting for space in the accumulator, would spin the propeller to its limit, causing it to come loose and snap off the tail.
But they kept repairing, refining, and patching up Leonardo’s ‘flying boat.’ The clearly unhinged pilot was nursed back to health, given elixirs, and, wearing a tin helmet stuffed with straw, the monk with the brown robe and sad eyes would read a prayer and take to the skies again.
Eventually, the monastery became accustomed to seeing white wings flit above them three times a week when the weather was good. The ‘mad as a hatter’ Alessandro took to regular patrols of the surrounding area. Because of this, bandits avoided coming near the city, large packs of undead were mostly wiped out, and they even received a commendation from the bishop for this godly work.
Still, no one else felt compelled to leave the ground. One madman was enough. Alessandro often limped around for a month with his leg in a cast, waving an arm in a sling. The others—they were much more sensible people. And that meant they’d probably live longer, as long as the ‘flying boat’ didn’t come crashing down on their heads like a vengeful cherub from above.
***
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