image [https://c10.patreonusercontent.com/4/patreon-media/p/post/114172803/ecdbabd296f341e4ab4fa5715658be10/eyJ3ZWJwIjowfQ%3D%3D/1.jpg?token-time=1731283200&token-hash=4LR8dV7RN8GXIPvi8nABMLBcR_ZEQjR5IZgqyGWUGuo%3D]
Agnessa rarely visited the Plague Sisters Lyceum. The memories were just too specific. When her mother and father died together during an undead outbreak in Trier, they didn’t leave the orphan to perish in a drainage ditch. Especially since she came from a family of inquisitors known for their reputation in the brutal battles of the Dark Times. So it was decided: the lyceum, training, and the only possible path forward. Fortunately, the girl loved all sorts of iron and wielded it quite successfully.
However, the training methods were a bit nerve-wracking. For Venus the Warrior, everything was simple: if you didn’t meet the daily quota, no dinner for you. If you messed up during training, repeat the exercise fifty times—another fifty for arguing. A march with full gear? Bring along stones from the quarry too, they needed to repair the wall. And this was in any weather, any time of the year. Even in the infirmary, you had to do push-ups if you were at least able to breathe. Everything was clear-cut.
The elderly nuns, who had seen the old days, called the headmistress “The Marine” among themselves. Agnessa took the trouble to dig through the old texts and figured out the reason behind it. The Holy Valkyrie had been given the name Marine at birth, which resonates with the ancient Roman name Marinus, meaning "of the sea." Another name for Venus, the Sea Goddess. Hence, the nickname. The stately woman in polished armor didn’t care for such titles. She was more concerned with the students and her daughter, who clearly aspired to surpass her mother one day.
Right now, the four-year-old little angel was strolling along the edge of a ditch filled with mud, asking the “capo di tutti capi”:
“Mommy, can I hit this one on the head with my shovel? She called me a fool during the morning run.”
A young girl, her face smudged with dirt, glanced nervously at the shovel—a small, sharp-edged iron spatula—and quietly ducked deeper into the ditch.
“It’s not ladylike to frown after you’ve been made to eat your porridge,” replied Venus, striding along the ditch’s edge. “Then they won’t tease you.”
“But just once?”
“Better go poke the training dummy. They put up new ones yesterday.”
The angel wasn’t keen on poking straw; she wanted to use the shovel so they wouldn’t tease her. So, the little one pouted and held her position:
“It’s okay, I’ll wait. She’s not a frog; she can’t breathe underwater.”
However, the girl was distracted from her vengeance by a visitor—a bald woman in a blood-red robe with a wide golden belt. As she approached, the Plague Midwife knelt and said:
“Lady Dragoness, it’s an honor to see you again.”
Hearing the stranger address the headmistress by her nickname, the rest of the girls dove into the black muck. But it seemed that certain liberties were forgiven for some.
“Agnessa, my girl. How are you?”
“Alive, thanks to your teachings, my lady.”
“Do you have something urgent?”
“No, it can wait until at least tomorrow.”
“Then I’ll leave these tadpoles with you and handle lunch myself. It’s rare for former students to visit me. Usually, I receive death notices, which is never pleasant... By the way, Suzy, why do you think this lovely lady is considered one of the Lyceum’s finest graduates?”
The little girl circled around the guest who had just stood up and ventured a guess:
“Because she has a pretty dress?”
“No, my dear. But I’m sure you’ll figure it out…”
Watching her mother leave with a sullen expression, the little angel muttered:
“I hate riddles.”
Leaning down, Agnessa whispered quietly:
“I can give you a hint. It’s because I have the coolest Panzerkraftwagen around. And if someone doesn’t break their shovel on silly heads, I might even let you drive it. Deal?”
Turning to the reviving clumps of mud in the stinking sludge, the guest commanded darkly:
“Get out, stomachs. Can’t even sit underwater for a minute, can you? Brainless meat…”
Half an hour later, Venus returned to the Lyceum’s courtyard, hidden from prying eyes by a high wall, and saw an amusing sight. Dirty and exhausted, the girls were swarming around a heavy iron machine, pushing it in a circle like ants. Standing on the driver’s seat was a little girl, giving loud commands while waving her favorite modified shovel. Agnessa sat in the passenger seat, helping with the steering. The little angel issued another directive:
Stolen story; please report.
“To the left! Left! You pregnant hens, when will you learn where left and right are? What a mess...”
It seemed the younger generation was enthusiastically adopting the vocabulary of the Inquisition’s combat units.
Realizing her daughter could keep herself entertained until dinner, the headmistress made a decisive announcement:
“End of shift! Everyone, wash up and prepare for lunch. Guests may follow me. I hope you haven’t forgotten where everything is over the years?”
“That’s something you never forget.”
In the dining hall, the Valkyrie smirked and pointed to the massive beams overhead:
“I remember who made a path up there at night to sneak food from the kitchen.”
“And now, are there traps set up there?”
“Well, that would be a bit too extreme. And then we’d have to treat the injuries... No, we just shaved them down a bit to create a sloped top and greased them with oil. Now, all you hear in the evenings is people crashing down onto the tables. At least they’ve learned to do it without breaking any bones. And we’ve saved the cookies from being raided.”
Over lunch, they discussed recent news and raised a glass to remember those who didn’t make it. They also regarded the latest orders from Rome with a fair amount of skepticism, especially the directive to “strengthen and prevent.” The plague had passed, and the population had grown considerably, but things remained the same: officials, settled in relatively peaceful lands, issuing decrees that were getting more foolish by the day.
“You know, Agnessa, I got a bit worried after reading this year’s statistics. Yes, the undead have grown weaker, but there’s still a lot of them. And now the officials want to freeze the empire’s borders and reduce the number of colonists on frontier lands.”
“That’s bad. As long as we have a buffer in the form of outposts, we have time to deploy people to dangerous areas. But if we start hiding behind flimsy walls, the breaches will just keep coming.”
“That’s why I doubled the recruitment... What advice can you give from experience?”
“Buy more gunpowder,” replied the guest, rubbing the scar on her cheek. “Iron and enchanted gadgets are useful for scouting raids. But when defending the walls, there’s nothing better than cannons and rifles.”
“But they’re not very accurate.”
“Against a horde rushing the walls, accuracy isn’t crucial. What matters is the amount of lead per square meter. I’ve been carrying four pistols with me for six months now. I load them with small shot and a bit of chopped silver. One shot takes a ghoul’s head off.”
“Interesting... Have you come up with anything else?”
Agnessa pulled out a large tube and handed it to her mentor:
“I had our archivist help me put some tangled thoughts together. Here, it’s got a bit of everything. Some on weaponry, some on organizing patrols. I showed it to the rangers, and they left some notes. I’d be glad if it helps.”
“For this—thank you. I’ve always said you’re the sharpest of them all... So, I’ll look this over now to prepare some questions for the evening. And you, say a few words to the little ones during their after-lunch rest. It’ll be good for them.”
***
At the improvised meeting, Agnessa kept it very brief. She wasn’t much for giving speeches—that wasn’t her specialty. But she had a few words to share.
“I can see the way you’re looking at me. You’re envious. Like, ‘she’s a cool reitress, decked out in gold and silver. Her purse jingles, enchanted blades, artifacts brimming with power…’ It’s all nonsense, girls. Etch that into your memory, and maybe you’ll live a little longer. While you’re here in the monastery, licking your wounds behind four walls, you can afford to relax a bit and occasionally glance over your shoulder. But the moment you put on that mask, you’ll be tearing throats on your own. Even when escorting a caravan with a crowd of armed men—they’ll push you to the front because you’re supposed to be the ‘elite.’ So you’re the one expected to die first...”
Darkening, the guest continued:
“My best friend, the one I graduated from the Lyceum with, was killed after leaving a tavern. She stepped outside, a spineless creature dropped from the roof, injected venom right into her open mouth—and that was it, I lost my partner… I have too many stories like this. Out of our graduating class, only three of us are left. Fifty-six left for the monasteries… Seven years—and only three remain... So I’m not going to paint you any rosy pictures. I’ll tell you what I believe is right: every morning, get up, no matter how much it hurts, and give your all in training. And every evening, bow to Venus the Warrior. She drills you so that you’ll live long enough to start a family—if you’re very lucky. And if you master every last trick of the craft, you’ll get a fancy cloak and a Panzerkraftwagen.”
“And cookies,” came a plaintive voice from the back rows.
“Yes, those too... By the way, just between us, if I have to climb slippery wooden poles covered in slime or mold, I use things like these on my hands.” Pulling out metal plates with attached spikes, she showed them to the girls. “I also strap something like removable claws on my feet. And then, it’s just a matter of practice.”
At dinner, the curly-haired little angel not only got to try the jam brought as a gift but also put on a demonstration of how Knight Ronald would cut down dead Saracens in the south. The living Ottomans were entrenched in Asia, but every so often, the undead would raid from Africa, providing some entertainment. Unfortunately, during the reenactment of “and then he strikes,” this took a fatal toll on her favorite little shovel, which snapped, breaking into two pieces. Before her mother could console her upset daughter, Agnessa offered an alternative:
“Suzie, you’ve got a strong swing. With a bit more practice, you’ll be able to split a training dummy clean in half. But a warrior girl like you needs the right tool. May I offer you my trowel? It’s just sitting around unused.”
“A shovel?”
“Let’s call it a shovel. Come on, take a look.”
The shovel was perfect—about forty centimeters long, with a blade lined with runes, a handle polished smooth from years of use, and an overall look that would make any undead creature think twice about keeping its head too close.
“It’s heavy,” Suzie said with satisfaction, weighing the gift in her hands.
“Your mom knows the perfect way to solve that problem. Porridge with berries for breakfast, meat for lunch, and plenty of greens for dinner. Trust me, in a couple of years, you’ll be asking for something bigger.”
“Yeah... I’ve seen my mom fencing with a claymore. When I grow up, I’ll do that too.”
“This is right.”
“Where’s your sword?”
“Ah, well, I didn’t eat much as a kid, so I mostly use knives—or a flamethrower. I’ve gotten lazy. I’ll show up somewhere, yell, ‘Where are all you filthy bastards hiding?’ and that’s it—just have to bless them left and right... Now, let’s go, and I’ll tell you a story.”
“Yes, yes!” the little one jumped excitedly, clutching the iron close to her chest. “Tell me the one about the dead princess, the undead dragon, and the cursed knight! And make sure the monks burn them all at the stake!”
“My favorite. Alright, once upon a time...”
***
Early access to the book: https://www.patreon.com/olegborisov