image [https://c10.patreonusercontent.com/4/patreon-media/p/post/114245177/0843f1a06b074df59fb9232ee8188935/eyJ3ZWJwIjowfQ%3D%3D/1.jpg?token-time=1731369600&token-hash=0vZ44OfrLatU-Ux2m2WcmmaBTxRswDkfA2YMUdrXVfc%3D]

One of the best scouts used to love stopping by to visit Saint Václav on her way back. This was after she had already given a beating to anyone who happened to cross her path. After she herself had some bruises to scratch. When she wanted a big gulp to heal up a bit. And maybe a steam bath, one that would leave her barely standing, with a good dousing of ice-cold well water. In short, a good time with good company after a hard-working week.

At first, it was difficult to locate the rebellious bishop’s hideout. In the early days of his career, he lived in the ‘no-man’s land,’ roaming the Dark Lands with a couple of hermits on iron-clad wagons. He traveled back and forth from the south to the north several times. Eventually, he settled in Dijon, a city first built by the Romans, expanded by the French, and finally plundered by hordes of vagrants during the Great Plague.

Strategic importance played its part, and soon mercenaries wrested the city back from the undead, establishing a kind of island of calm amidst the chaos. High stone walls, a clean river, and seven large farming villages nearby, all enclosed by a sturdy wooden palisade. And not a single king or tax collector within a cannon shot’s range.

The only issue was finding a suitable priest. They came and went, but the gang of freebooters would smack the holy fathers at the slightest provocation, so they never stayed long. Then His Excellency Václav arrived, and he was just what they needed.

The first time he knocked a blasphemer out with his censer in the town square, the locals cheered. Then, the restless priest scoured the whole area, putting the most notorious creatures to rest, along with some hired thugs. He even found work for the hermits, assigning them to tiny churches. So when he returned to Turin on church business, they quickly gave him a promotion, holding a council to celebrate his new rank. The church bureaucrats thought they’d stashed away a too-energetic fellow in a bandit hole, forcing him to labor for the benefit of some lazy crooks. But Václav had his own ideas.

He began collecting tithes in Dijon, but used them to benefit the local community. He repaired the cathedral, opened a school for children, and raised donations for a hospital. He occasionally spoke in the city council, urging the free barons and mercenary captains to think a little about the future, not just boast about their loot. By the way, who mentioned the fat castle next door that you’ve ransacked and have been partying in for a week? Where’s the tithe, fools?

Now, the official powers found themselves in an awkward position. They tried sending written orders and banging their fists on the table, but the locals valued their bishop and wouldn’t trade him for empty promises. In the heart of the dead lands, he had created an oasis of normal life—who would refuse that? People flocked to Dijon, mercenaries kept order, weddings were celebrated, babies baptized, and the dead were properly mourned. Nine churches around the area were active, and every weekend there was a grand service at the cathedral. If you had your head on straight, you could settle well in Dijon, and no one would bother you. But if you thought of causing trouble or acting lawlessly, they’d take away your weapons and kick you out west. The monsters around Avalon would gladly take you if you couldn’t live among decent folks.

That’s how things went. They sent gifts to Rome a few times, and from there came the Pope’s personal blessing. With such support, the local dignitaries dared not bark at him, though they muttered in corners and called Václav a rebellious bishop. In response, he’d make an obscene gesture from the bell tower towards Turin and carry on enjoying life.

And now Agnes had come to visit her old friend, to heal her bruised ribs and try the local moonshine in the taverns. They made a good brew here with fly agarics—it hit hard, making the demons scatter into the corners.

“Your Excellency, please accept this gift.”

The law in these free lands is simple—if you arrive here barefoot and bare, you’ll be clothed, fed, and given a roof over your head. But if there’s money jingling in your pocket, then you’re expected to treat others. The stingy aren’t welcome here. Leave a bad impression just once, and next time the gates won’t open for you.

“Now, let me tell you right away, my daughter. We won’t be galloping on wights under our saddles around the walls. Last time I tumbled over headfirst, and it took me a week to recover my back. It still twinges now and then when the weather’s bad.”

“Agreed. I’m feeling a bit off myself today, so I’ll stick to something more peaceful.”

The man, who looked like a bandit, rubbed his hands together cheerfully:

“That’s the right attitude! So, we’ll pray! From what I gather, you’ve racked up quite a few sins. It’s morning now, so we’ll cover most of them by evening.”

“What?” Agnes looked at the empty table, disappointed at the lack of the usual jug of ‘Christ’s blood’: “Oh, come on! You must’ve baked your head up on that bell tower, Your Excellency. I dragged all those gifts from dear Ulle, and you’re treating me like I’m a stranger.”

Noticing that she was trying to tuck a large wooden box under the chair, the bishop immediately shook a huge fist and barked:

“Where do you think you’re going? I was just told from the kitchen that breakfast will be ready soon, and I’ve even cleared a space on the table. And here you are, acting all innocent. That’s not the Agnes I know.”

Royal Road is the home of this novel. Visit there to read the original and support the author.

“Breakfast? Well, that’s a different story... I was riding and riding, got a bit tired, and had to make a detour through Troyes. So, you know...”

“Troyes? I thought we’d already hauled all the useful stuff out of there.”

Smiling, Agnes shook a heavy purse hanging from her belt:

“Of course. You need church vestments, the library, and provisions first and foremost. And me? I just pick through the burial sites. Like a little bird, I peck here, stroll there with fresh eyes… By the way, I’m ready to pay the tithe. With some information, perhaps.”

***

Breakfast smoothly transitioned into lunch. After eating and drinking his fill, the bishop, feeling a bit drowsy, leaned out of the open window. Down below, in the square in front of the residence, mercenaries returned from a raid were roasting about a dozen deer, getting ready to celebrate their successful contract to clear a new plot of land for fields.

“My beloved flock, do you need anything from me? Any souls to bless or penances to impose for misconduct? No? Well, alright then. It’s Friday, and I declare it a day off. Tomorrow, I’ll punish whoever deserves it… So, what’s with the gift?”

Agnes lifted the lid of the box, displaying the goods inside.

“Ulle spent a couple of months working on this. Look, there’s even an engraving here: ‘To my beloved Saint Václav from a loyal friend and admirer.’ He still dreams of a rematch since he couldn’t outdrink you last time. Gave up on the tenth tankard.”

“Needs more practice,” scoffed the great rebel as he pulled out a gleaming, polished firearm. “Interesting piece. What’s this for?”

“It’s a telescopic sight, modified from a naval spyglass. You attach it here, look through it, and you can shoot up to a thousand paces.”

“A thousand? My daughter, are you pulling my leg? The local sharpshooters can barely hit a barrel at five hundred.”

“Wanna bet? Can you wager ten reichstalers?”

“Ten? That’s no problem… So, what are we aiming at?”

“I don’t know,” Agnes leaned out the window, looked around, and sighed: “Nah, we can’t do it in the city. You’ve cleared out all the filth here.”

“Oh, I remember. We once had an idiot in the convoy who tried to sneak in a scavenger. He wanted to fatten it up at home and butcher it to sell the fresh entrails to an alchemist.”

She could only shake her head at that. It would be nearly impossible to keep a rampaging creature under control, and inside the walls, it could easily cause trouble. Night patrols walk around, of course, but people prefer to sleep rather than sit in their basements, spears in hand, when darkness falls.

“So, what happened to that fool? Was he exiled?”

“The community pleaded on his behalf, so he’s out there in stocks, working in the garden beds. Once he’s worked off his fine, we’ll send him over to you so he can ‘inspire’ you with his ideas... As for the scavenger, we tied it to a post and used it for undead combat training for the dogs. You know, search dogs need to get used to the scent or they’ll wet themselves with fear and won’t follow the trail. The creature died yesterday, but it’s still hanging there. Perfect target, wouldn’t you say?”

For half an hour outside the city walls, they argued over measuring the distance. Agnes tried to step carefully to avoid aggravating her sore side, while the bishop cursed and accused her of cheating:

“You might as well goose-step! Who walks like that? No wonder you counted a thousand steps. This is how it’s done!”

“You might as well do the splits, Your Excellency! If you want it official, let’s grab a surveyor from the farmers. He’ll get us a quick result with his measuring sticks.”

“Pay for that? No thanks. Fine. A thousand one hundred from the wall to the post, give or take. Ten reichstalers say you’ll miss.”

“Me? With a piece made personally by Ulle? Ha, no chance…”

Agnes knew what she was talking about. She’d tested the prototype at the monastery herself and then tailed the gunsmith, begging for the toy. He’d held firm, promising it as a gift, so she had to be patient. Eventually, he said he’d make something similar for long-range or short-range, depending on what materials were available. Meanwhile, he gave her a box lined with velvet to store it—and admonished her for wasting fifty bullets shooting into the sky.

“Here’s the powder measure, the powder. Special stuff, from the new mill. We lured some craftsmen over, and now we’ve got our own production. Here’s a bullet—each weighed precisely. The monastery alchemist was screaming that I’d meddled in his work without permission… Now, let’s load up. Check the wind… Whose pants are flapping on that line over there? Nice target… Alright, I see the dead thing’s face. Anyone who’s bothered can cover their ears…”

Boom! When the gray smoke dissipated from the city wall’s top, the woman grinned in satisfaction:

“Guess I’ll be able to buy some drinks at the tavern tonight.”

“Here’s your money; you won. Now move aside, it’s my turn… Why’d you bring so few bullets? These won’t last half an hour!”

“Well, the bullet mold is in my luggage; I didn’t bring it at once. It’s heavy as hell.”

“Alright then, let’s measure, load, check the pants… Hmm, not much left of the head, so I’ll aim for the left paw…” Another thunderous shot rang out. “Oh, look at that! Tore it right off! Ulle’s really outdone himself with this one. That old rascal knows how to please!”

***

In the morning, Agnes managed to lift her head from the pillow with some effort. Her side didn’t hurt anymore—the local healer had patched her up, charging five silver coins for his work. Expensive, but he was the best around. When you have torn, bitten, and mangled folks brought in after encounters with all sorts of nasty, toothy creatures, you inevitably get good at your trade.

Then came the bathhouse. This time, the bishop was the first to escape the steam room—after healing, Agnes could’ve gone bare-skinned into Hell and only complained about it being a little chilly. Afterward, they hit the tavern, where familiar faces sat at nearby tables, and they all sang a rousing rendition of ‘The Goths Are Marching on Rome.’ The rest of her winnings disappeared as if they’d never existed. She had to pull a fair bit more from her purse to cover a broken window, a shattered table, and a disassembled bench, courtesy of an unruly body. Not easy to swing that thing intact. In short, they had a good time. St. Wenceslaus couldn’t be calmed until morning if her memory served right. And it did seem like his snoring was coming from the next room over.

Reflecting on this, Agnes rolled over, pulling the blanket higher. She could still sleep until noon. Then she’d wash up, freshen up, and think about how to get back home. Not today, of course. Tonight, there would be the absolution of sins, tomorrow the official mass, and then she could set out on Monday. Besides, her purse still jingled. And that wasn’t all she’d managed to retrieve from other people’s graves along the way. She’d have another chance to raise some hell around midnight if she wanted. Fortunately, it was good company—good for both shooting and pondering the fate of the world. A proper bishop, one who understood. If all of them were like him, the undead would be finished for sure.

***

Early access to the book: https://www.patreon.com/olegborisov