The Sad Tale of the Brothers Grossbart (15 page)

The Grossbarts made their own fire farther up the road lest their new friends attempt to flee in the dark. They took shifts,
and when Hegel felt his ears itch he ensured that he made a lot of noise loading his crossbow. He heard footsteps retreat
back to the foreigners’ fire and he returned to his horse-marrow stew.

The next day passed in similar fashion, as did the one after that—except the Grossbarts’ rations shrank with each meal. During
their nocturnal vigils nothing braved the firelight, so their stomachs remained the only things growling. The third morning
never fully came, the flurries replaced by heavy snow blotting out everything but the road in front of the horses. The Brothers
debated, in their sibling language, the benefits of abandoning the wagon, reckoning they would make the same time and not
have to worry about tumbling over the edge if the horses stepped wrong in the drifts.

They moved through a white fog of snow, steam pouring off the horses, snot freezing in the Brothers’ beards. Only the cliffs
jutting up on one side and falling away on the other told them they kept the road. Any banter the men had provided over the
previous days had frozen on their lips. They traveled slowly, and Hegel sensed something foreboding in the snow, something
sinister waiting up the road. He told his brother, who nodded and readied his crossbow. The attack Hegel knew would come never
did, and several hours later the foreigners shouted in triumph.

Mustache jumped from the rear and ran beside the slowing wagon, the other guard hopping down as the horses stopped. Hegel
felt sick, sweat-ice on his brow and lips. They had to get away but their only option was the void stretching out on all sides,
the cliffs having faded away without their noticing. Instead Hegel prayed, begging Mary to take away his frantic disquiet.

“Open up!” Mustache yelled, and his ally yelled presumably the same in his alien tongue.

The Brothers made out a high shadow through the windblown snow, and from the rattling sound a barn or other door lay ahead.
They kept shouting for several minutes but got no response, and after a quick word with the shivering driver, they both vanished
into the snow. The Brothers shifted closer to the driver, crossbows ready.

“Where’d they go?” Manfried asked.

“To open the gate,” the driver chattered, his tan skin implying such weather did not suit him.

“Where we at?” said Manfried.

“Rouseberg,” the driver replied. “Passed through a few weeks ago, so they should be expecting us.”

“Ill name for a town,” Manfried decided.

Hegel paid no mind to their conversation. His eyes darted everywhere, futilely trying to spot the source of the danger he
knew lurked just beyond his vision. He could not be sure if it was the witch, her husband returned, or something worse.

A groaning came from ahead, and Mustache reappeared, calling out: “Lend us a hand!”

Manfried hurried forward while Hegel refused to budge, trying to warn his brother but unable to speak. Manfried saw a large
wooden gate the two men heaved against, snowdrifts keeping it from opening more than a crack. The three kicked and shoved
and got soaking wet before it opened wide enough to fit the wagon through.

The driver urged the horses in, Hegel squinting to catch a glimpse of the town. Only a few sagging roofs and shadows of buildings
came through the snow, no sounds emanating from the blanketed hamlet. Manfried climbed back onto the bench while the guards
closed the gate and secured the supports, locking them into the village.

Only snow and dilapidated houses greeted the Grossbarts and the wagon-men. Several roofs had caved in from the weight of the
snowdrifts and the horses struggled to move the wagon at all. They plodded through the cavernous street until they came to
a large building, dark and uninviting as the rest, and here they brought the wagon around the side to a barn. Mustache and
the other guard wrestled the door open and the Grossbarts jumped off rather than ride into the black interior.

The two guards waited outside the barn rubbing their hands but the Grossbarts recognized an alehouse when they saw one, no
matter how vacant it appeared. They found the door latched and suspected knocking would do little good, but Hegel’s dented
sword fit through the gap and, putting their backs into it, they dislodged the plank holding the door shut. It swung open
and they tumbled in with a mound of accumulated snow.

The grave-wise eyes of the Brothers Grossbart spotted several tables and benches in the darkness of the room, and as their
eyes adjusted further they noticed a large fireplace against the back wall. They picked their way through the gloom and upon
seeing a shelf of bottles against the back wall they set to business. Each seized a bottle and sampled, Hegel with favorable
results, Manfried spitting out a mouthful of greasy oil. They each stowed a bottle of oil and as many bottles of apple schnapps
as their bulging packs would allow before turning back to the empty tavern.

“Where’s everyone?” Manfried gave voice to his brother’s thoughts.

Hegel took another stiff pull of schnapps, trying to drown his paranoia. It only grew worse. They moved along the rear wall
until they found an unlocked door and pushed it open. Finding what lay beyond too dark for immediate exploration Manfried
went to start a fire and Hegel nosed around the rest of the room.

A ladder extended down beside the fireplace, and Hegel climbed it with his dagger in one hand. It led to a large loft whose
ceiling bowed under the weight of snow, particularly under the tarp covering the smoke-hole. Slicing it open and watching
the avalanche of snow vomit down, even the amusement of Manfried suddenly floundering under the deluge of frozen powder did
not lessen his worry.

Hegel climbed down and rooted about for a rushlight, and once he got it sputtering on the fresh fire he slowly ascended again.
Sadly, the loft yielded naught but moldy blankets, rotting straw, and a stinking pisspot. The stench hinted at something more
than urine, sweat, and decay, but he could not place it.

Manfried kept busy, first making a snowball with a stone at its core to lob at his unsuspecting brother, and after he heard
a most satisfying yelp as the missile reached its mark he scooped up snow with their cooking pot, dumped in the rest of their
meat, and hung it from a rung over the fire. He dragged two benches over and got comfortable, scowling at the draft when the
other three men entered. His brother definitely had put the shivers on him, but Manfried refused to give in to speculation.
After all, free drink and shelter should never be examined too closely.

The driver and his assistants crowded around the hearth, lakes emerging from their boots on the worn floor. Hegel came down
from the loft and sat beside his brother. None spoke, all staring into the fire while sensation returned to their extremities.

“Something is very wrong,” said the driver, standing and pulling a thin dagger from under his cloak.

“You think so, huh?” Manfried leaned back, his boots heating up nicely.

“You don’t?” The driver looked around, and retrieved an unlit rushlight from the shelf.

“He’s right,” Hegel said, although the warmth had chased off some of his jitteriness.

“So when yous was through a ways back there was people here, eh?” Manfried would not be unsettled. He had battled demons and
witches, after all.

“Plenty of them,” the driver said, eyes flitting about. “Big town for so deep in the mountains. Many children playing in the
snow.”

Mustache said something in the southern tongue, and both the driver and the other man nodded. The driver responded in the
same language, and glanced back at the door. This skulduggery did not sit well with the Brothers, particularly the suspicious
Hegel.

“Speak proper, now!” Hegel shouted, jumping from his stool. “None a that beast-speech, hear? We all speak the same, and if
someone don’t catch it, well, that’s his business.”

“Seeing this,” Mustache replied, getting up from his bench, “the people may have go to the… the…”

“Monastery,” helped the driver. “To what purpose all would go, however, is unclear. The houses look several days vacant at
least.”

“Yeah,” Manfried agreed. “Seen some all boarded up, same as this.”

“And there’s no one else here?” the driver asked. “Not in the back or front?”

“Well,” Hegel said. “If this is the front, no one’s here, but we didn’t check out the back. No light.”

Clicking his teeth, the driver lit his fat-coated reed. “Come along, then.”

“You wanna look, go ahead.” Manfried tested his stew. “If you catch any more meat or turnips, bring’em on back.”

“I’ll go.” Hegel withdrew his pick, eager to bury its point in the source of his anxiety.

The two other men made no move, finding the puddles at their feet most interesting. The driver spit a string of harsh words
of the foreign variety, but this time Hegel smiled at their usage. Admonishments of cowardice he recognized regardless of
the language.

“I am Ennio,” the driver told Hegel.

Manfried laughed. “He’s a
what
?”

“That a name where you come from?” asked Hegel.

“Yes,” Ennio said sharply.

“Well damn,” said Hegel.

“And by what do I address you?” Ennio asked.

“I’s Hegel, my brother there’s Manfried, and we’s both Grossbarts.”

“Seeing this truly.” Mustache smiled.

“What’s that supposed to mean, dirt-stache?” Manfried glared at the man, who stared back blankly.

“That is Alphonse,” Ennio said, “and his cousin is Giacomo.”

The cousins stared at the Brothers, the ice thicker than ever.

“Al Ponce?” Manfried grinned at Hegel. “He struck me as a ponce from the moment I laid eyes on him. Ask Hegel, told’em myself.”

“Honesty,” Hegel said, but his mind lay elsewhere.

The Grossbart and the driver advanced on the back door, Ennio pushing it open and thrusting the rushlight into the darkness.
Hegel followed, sweating from more than the welcome heat. They went down a tight hallway and discovered several sacks of grain
and barrels of turnips at the end. Another latched door opened into the snowy void, and they quickly closed it again. Along
the hall three doorways draped with cloth revealed sparse chambers with straw mats and nothing else.

Alphonse and Giacomo noticed the shelf where only a few bottles remained, and each took one back to the fire. Manfried considered
murder, then chided himself for not hiding whatever would not fit in his bag. Of the two, Manfried hated Alphonse slightly
more, what with his bushy black hair and mustache and dimpled cheeks stupidly contrasting his large frame. Not that Giacomo’s
chiseled face and arms and dark complexion failed to grate on him as well. Like most men who are ugly on both sides of their
skin, Manfried detested handsome people on general principle.

“Found us a good place to bed down,” Hegel said, stepping back into the room.

“Out here, Grossbarts,” Ennio said firmly.

“What’s that?” Hegel stopped and turned on the man, pick still brandished.

“We five sleep out here, she will sleep in the other rooms,” said Ennio, turning back to the hallway. He added something in
his native tongue for Alphonse and Giacomo, and disappeared with his crackling rushlight into the back.

“She?” the Grossbarts echoed.

Giacomo blanched and took a long swig and Alphonse muttered to himself.

“Talk, Ponce,” said Manfried.

“None of yours.” The guard scooted closer to the fire.

Manfried’s boot upended Alphonse’s stool, knocking him to the ground. The man scrambled up but Manfried had casually raised
his loaded crossbow, its end pressing against Alphonse’s codpiece. The startled Giacomo’s hand fell to his sword but paused
when he realized Hegel’s pick had found its way under his chin, the iron point chill against his Adam’s apple.

“Talk, Ponce.” Manfried smiled.

Alphonse looked at Giacomo, who began shouting at him to do whatever the crazy bandits said. The Grossbarts did not approve
of their conversing in an unknown language, so Hegel pressed his tool enough to prick Giacomo’s throat. This quieted him instantly,
his eyes burning into his cousin’s. There would be opportunities to dispose of these two foreign bastards later, Alphonse
thought, and did as Manfried commanded.

“The woman is the, the woman of Alexius Barousse,” Alphonse said, hoping that would be sufficient. It was not.

“Who’s he?” Manfried prodded verbally and physically, the bolt’s point rising to jab at Alphonse’s doublet.

“A capo, er, sea captain.” Alphonse stammered. “In Venezia. She is his, we retrieve her for him, take her home.”

“What’s she doin up these parts, eh?” Manfried asked.

“She was in…” Alphonse bit his lip, then almost got it correct. “Abbess. She stay in abbess some years in your empire, now
we fetch her. Anything happen to us or her, he will hunt you for rest of your lives, and punish—”

“Yeah, I got you.” Manfried lowered his weapon. “Now shut your hole. Both a you’d do to remember you owe us your lives.”