Sad Tale of the Brothers Grossbart - By Jesse Bullington Page 0,43
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.”