The Sad Tale of the Brothers Grossbart (7 page)

“Hegel!” echoed through the trees and that Grossbart stopped, trying to determine where it came from. Either his brother lay
close by or the nature of the wood amplified his voice. When no other sound followed save that of the nearby brook he again
charged into the underbrush, intuition his only guide.

It bounded over the water at Manfried. Blabbering prayers to Mary, he swung with his mace and grazed its scalp but it went
low, knocking his legs out from under him. Fortunately its mouth held human teeth, the bite to his thigh only tearing his
hose and bruising the skin before it jumped away, avoiding another clumsy swing of the mace.

Pouncing onto a nearby boulder, it watched Manfried attempt to gain his feet. The bite had not damaged him but when it retreated
it had kicked his calf with a rear paw. Blood welled out when he tried to stand, but he managed to get to his knees and heft
his mace. He screamed wordlessly at it, and it descended upon him again.

His mace smashed into its shoulder, sending it rolling away in a blur of lashing claws. He found the strength to stand but
knew at his best he could not have outrun it and his left leg throbbed miserably. It scrambled upright and charged but stopped
short of striking range and then began circling him, growling low in its throat.

It moved quickly behind him, and with his wound he could not fully turn before it rushed in. It went for his hamstrings but
Hegel burst from the trees, startling both of them. Manfried tripped over its back but avoided the claws. It dodged Hegel’s
sword and leaped back across the creek, disappearing into the forest.

“Get up,” Hegel hissed, helping his brother rise.

Manfried swallowed, unable to speak.

“Can you run?”

Manfried shook his head, gesturing to his bloody leg.

Hegel cursed, peering around.

“Wrap it up,” Manfried finally croaked.

“What?”

“My leg. Tie it off, and I can run.”

Hegel gave the wood a final going over and knelt down. Three nasty cuts marred the sullied hose covering his brother’s hairy
calf and, wiping the blood away, Hegel tore his shirt and bound the wounds. That damnable laughter came again, and to their
dismay it emanated from the thicket behind them. Hegel felt confident that if they broke the treeline they stood an honest
chance to get away, depriving it of any cover to ambush them. He scampered along the creek, Manfried close at his heels despite
the pain each step brought.

They darted under branches and scrambled through brushwood, but within minutes they both realized the hopelessness of their
plight. The creature waited on a stump just downstream, making no attempt to hide. Realizing the futility of an action and
altering said action are two entirely different matters, however, and the Grossbarts plunged off into the forest anew, away
from their stalker.

Wheezing and wide-eyed, they stumbled over rocks that hid beneath the loam. A thick grove of yews covered a steep decline,
and before one brother could caution the other they both slid down the embankment. They caught themselves midway down on slick
branches, but before they regained their balance the thing had appeared between them in the mossy tangle of tree limbs.

Hegel almost dived down the slope but paused, more from fear of later facing their adversary alone than from true courage.
Manfried held on to a bough ten feet up the hill, the lattice of branches allowing the creature to advance above him. A tapered
limb sagged under its weight just above Manfried. Instead of jumping up to meet his end the Grossbart leaped toward a lower
tree. He slid past it and his brother, who now hurried after, the trees shaking around them.

At the bottom Manfried scrambled up but his brother crashed into him, both of them wet with dirt and bruised with rock. They
seemed to dance a few steps, arms wrapped around each other to keep from falling. The trees overhead swayed and the creature
lunged.

The Grossbarts shoved themselves apart, making it land between rather than atop them. Even disoriented, exhausted, and terrified,
the Brothers excelled at this sort of scrape. Operating purely on instinct, they fell on the beast before it could get out
from between the two. Manfried embedded the flanged mace in its haunches and Hegel brought his blade across its face, slicing
into the bridge of its nose and eyes. It swiped Hegel’s arm in the process but he held his sword even though it suddenly felt
a hundreds pounds heavier.

It blindly tried to run but Manfried’s mace moored it, and it kicked at him with its hind legs. He let go of his weapon to
avoid the claws, but as it skittered away into the hollow Hegel pounced, aiming for his brother’s weapon protruding from its
back. The sword ricocheted off the head of the mace even as that weapon came loose from its flesh, and Hegel’s blade cleaved
into the creature’s raised spine.

Toppling forward, it let out a distinctly human scream. Hegel stared in shock, the thing pulling itself forward with its front
legs despite the wreckage of its haunches and the wound to its face. Manfried appeared beside him, hefting a large rock he
had unearthed. A delighted grin appearing from under his beard, he slammed it into the monster’s wispy pate. It went still,
shitting itself all over their boots. They beamed at each other, then each grabbed a back leg and dragged it out of the thicket.

A loud crack came from behind them but after the initial fear they understood thunder to be the culprit. Snow lightly filtered
through the canopy as they pulled the dead thing into a small clearing. Manfried retrieved his mace and kissed its gory head.
Hegel’s numb right arm dripped even after he clumsily bound it. They both poked at the corpse, their earlier jubilation now
darkened by the sheer nastiness of the thing.

“Four legs,” Hegel mumbled, “four goddamn legs.”

“Stands to reason,” said Manfried, not needing to elaborate.

After a period of quiet observation Manfried turned and vomited. His brother moved to heckle him but something in the corner
of his eye stopped him dead. He turned back, his hackles rising.

“Mary’s Teats!” Hegel barked, pawing his brother’s back as he drew his sword. “It’s movin!”

Manfried looked up, tried to say something, and vomited again. The sticky fluid had not finished coming up before he stumbled
toward the thing, fumbling with his mace. True enough, its flank rose and fell, and one paw began digging into the dirt.

Manfried rolled the thing onto its stomach with his weapon. The shallow wounds on its back were far less severe then they
definitely had been when they had dragged it out of the brush. Seeing this, Hegel went berserk. He hacked the crushed head
free and kicked it away from the bleeding stump, then stomped at its cranium until the pulpy chunk bore no vestiges of humanity.

Occupied with his task, Hegel did not see what happened to the corpse. Manfried could not open his mouth, hypnotized by the
sight. Steam pored from the mutilated remains, its legs pulling inward, its back arching. In moments the skin holding it together
melted off into a greasy pool, taking all color with it. The musculature and bones remained but these were sallow and pasty
as a grub. Its hair came loose and floated in the pool save for a wide flap of pelt running from shoulders to haunches, resting
on the gruesome lump like an ill-fitting cloak. This scrap retained its odd coloration, shining black and gray, red and blond.

Finally tearing himself away from splattering brains, Hegel took one look at the mess in front of Manfried and dropped his
sword.

“What in Hell did you
do
?” Hegel was more than a little impressed.

“Power a prayer.” Manfried shuddered.

“I, uh, didn’t mean to. Didn’t mean to—” Hegel swallowed. “Didn’t mean to take Her, uh, Bosom in vain.”

Manfried waved it off, eyes locked on the pelt. Something about it intrigued him, maybe the way the different hues played
off each other. Hegel watched his brother, apprehensive that a reference to the Virgin’s chest failed to get a response, regardless
of extenuating circumstances.

Hegel narrowed his eyes, steeling himself for the coming blasphemy. “Mary’s Wet Ass.”

“Uh huh.” Manfried leaned out to touch it, to see if it felt as warm and dry as he suspected.

“Stay away from that!” Hegel barked, grabbing his brother’s wrist.

Manfried shoved him away, suddenly light-headed. “What’re you on bout?”

“What am I—No, what’re you on bout? Why you want to touch that nasty thing?” Hegel could not articulate why the idea bothered
him, but it did.

“Dunno.” Manfried grumbled, standing up slowly. “Looked nice.”

“Nice? Nice! It’s a rotten old skin from some demon and you think it’s pretty?!”

“Suppose it
is
a demon-skin,” Manfried admitted, still staring at it. “Guess I probably shouldn’t lay hands on it.”

“Damn right,” Hegel huffed, secretly relieved Manfried had not picked up on his defamation of the Virgin.

“We can’t just leave it here,” said Manfried, “some heretic might find it and put it to evil use.”

“What use?”

“I ain’t no heretic so I couldn’t say. But they’d find a use for it, rest assured. So we should probably take it with us.”

“What fresh Hell is this? We’s not takin that mangy hide no place. It stays where it lays.”

Manfried worried his lip. “Can’t have that. Maybe we oughta bury it?”

“Sound enough, though I reckon the fire would suit it better.”

“That’d mean touchin it, though, to carry it back to camp,” Manfried pointed out.

“Could carry it on a stick.”

“Stick might break and it’d land on your hand.”

“You’s keen on just that a minute ago.”

Manfried grunted, still curious whether it would feel soft or bristly.

“We can start a blaze here, burn it up,” Hegel suggested.

“Might not burn.”

“What?!”

“Think bout it. Demons crawl up out a Hell, so stands to reason their skins don’t burn. Otherwise they’d never get out a Hell
in the first place.”

“If it’s a demon,” said Hegel.

“What else you think it is?”

“Seems more like the thing that Viktor in Ostereich was talkin bout. Lou Garou, or some such,” Hegel ruminated.

“Lou Garou?”

“Yeah, them folks what turn into wolves.”

“That demon look like a wolf to you?”

“No need to condescend,” said Hegel. “Chance Old Scratch tricked him, turned’em into somethin else. Sides, look at his bones,
more like a man than a cat’s or a demon’s.”

“Or a wolf’s.”

“Well, I never heard a no demon preferred daylight to moonshine.”

“Manticore,” whispered Manfried, his eyes widening.

“How’s that?”

“Goddamn, brother, we killed us a manticore!” Manfried clapped Hegel’s shoulder. “Heard mention a them from Adrian.”

“Which Adrian? Huge Adrian?”

“Nah, Stout Adrian. Yeoman we camped with two summers back what had a predilection for sheep.”

“Huge Adrian had a taste for bleaters, too, if I recall. Reckon they’s kin?”

“Possible,” said Manfried. “Regardless,
Stout
Adrian was sayin his da’s da’s uncle’s cousin or some such went off to Arabland in his younger days, and there was thick
with manticores.”

Hegel scowled. “Mean there’s more a them things where we’s for?”

“Yeah, but we’s in practice now.”

“Why don’t I recollect him talkin bout’em?”

“Probably drunk. I think he said they’s poisonous, too.”

They both took a step back from the corpse.

“Manticore skin burn?” Hegel asked.

“Dunno. Best bury it rather than takin a chance. If it’s poison-pelted it might let off vapors if we try, kill us dead.”

They dug a shallow pit and peeled the hide from the remains with a branch. Hegel dropped the stick in with it and refilled
the hole. Manfried had surreptitiously gone to a large pine and carved their sign into the trunk with his dagger: a crude
G, the only character the illiterate Brothers knew. If they ever came back through these parts he wanted to be able to dig
it up and see if it kept its luster underground.

Tamping the rocky earth, Hegel gave a final scowl to the decapitated skeleton and began trudging in what he hoped was the
direction of their camp. Manfried hurried after, giving the tree a final jab for good measure. Hegel had seen Manfried’s endeavor,
however, and several times he feigned urinating to creep off and mark other large pines in a similar fashion. He had no intention
of ever coming this way again, but one could not be overly cautious when a soul was in danger. Hegel had long ago realized
his brother occasionally became fixated on things he ought not to.

Eventually they found the stream again, the winter-dust thickening along its banks, and from there picked their way back to
Manfried’s ditched crossbow. After pawing through the under-growth for an hour they discovered his ax, and from there the
camp quickly came into sight. Horse lay gutted, his corpse still warm and his head mangled. Their belongings were scattered
all over the ground, and the monster had taken the time to piss on their blankets, the ammonia stink turning their raw stomachs.

Still badly shaken, the Grossbarts rekindled the embers and sat in the falling snow, oblivious to the storm-grumbles and how
cold the air had turned. Hegel wasted no time in cutting into Stupid’s legs and heaping spits with the fresh meat. He avoided
any areas where claw marks rent the skin, greatly displeased that the creature had attacked the head. He had looked forward
to more headcheese but would be damned before he would risk being poisoned.

Manfried helped his brother skin Horse, pitching the wide flaps of hide upright to cure beside the fire. They had already
burned the tainted blankets, only one of them spared a soiling. The meat went down far better than turnips, and the two soon
felt rejuvenated.

The flurries and impotent thunder abated and the light faded, leaving them damp and dark. Neither had the strength to tend
the coals throughout the night, let alone keep watch, but the bitter cold forced Hegel awake several times to blearily rekindle
the fire. He sat up and began eating before cockcrow, mulling over the previous day. Be it shapechanger, demon, or manticore,
they had definitely smote it back to Hell. When the snow began floating down again and the haze of morning arrived, he went
to wake his brother, meaning to have a word with him about the propriety of leaving some things alone. Manfried would not
stir, despite Hegel’s mounting efforts. He would not awaken at all, for his arrow-punctured ear had reopened and turned sour,
infecting him with a mortal fever.