The Sad Tale of the Brothers Grossbart

by Jesse Bullington

  “There be also mine, eh, the,” Raphael mumbled something in a tongue none present save Sir Jean understood, then brightened, “the hostage! Still I maintain hostage.”

  “The knight?” Barousse squinted in the blackness, then switched to Italian: “You’re still with us, eh Jean?”

  “Sir Jean,” the knight shot back.

  “We don’t need any witnesses,” said Barousse. “Raphael, slit his throat.”

  “Wait!” Sir Jean yelped.

  “Wait,” Barousse allowed.

  “Hurry,” Hegel added in German, starting up the ladder.

  “While our plan has heretofore been flawless,” Sir Jean stalled, “murdering me might foil it.”

  “How’s that?” Barousse drew his cutlass and made toward the sound of Sir Jean’s voice.

  “If my body is found down here, or washes out in the canals, what then? They’ll know people escaped the fire!” Sir Jean smiled at his own wisdom. “And if you are discovered after we leave here, there’s still my priceless value as ransom.”

  “Shall mine ownself slay him open?” Raphael asked in German from behind the knight.

  “Nah,” Barousse whimsically decided. “Can always do him later. Don’t see how we’re going to get anyone to pay a priceless ransom, though. Up, then, all of you.”

  Hegel had chased off the dogs lurking at the mouth of the pit, taking his usual obscene pleasure in bashing one’s snout with his pick. The barking bounced down the alleys but in contrast to the quiet of the previous night the entire city reverberated with noise. Manfried came next, sliding in the fish-mire in front of Rodrigo. The rest followed, with the woman coming last after Barousse. Hegel had advanced to where their alley crossed another but found no trace of the dead street urchins. Leaning against the wall, he saw the setting sun alone did not light their way, a distant glow implying Barousse’s house still burned.

  The alleys were desolate save for a few drunken beggars, whom Barousse ruthlessly ordered put to the sword. Manfried and Hegel laughed at Sir Jean’s offer to assist, instead taking the duty upon themselves with aplomb. Al-Gassur recognized one of the victims as a swindling chum of his named Six-Toed Pietro, and his dislike of the Grossbarts shifted to outright hatred. The Arab attempted to make his escape of their vile company but they set him back on course with a series of kicks, and he cursed himself for rebinding his leg in the subterranean passage. The yelling of the murdered sots drew no attention, and they arrived at the back of the tavern without further incident.

  Angelino ushered them into the back room and through it, the blind barkeep the only other man present. The party fractured and rejoined beside the hearth, dragging chairs and wringing their clothes. The blind man could not leave his bar before the Grossbarts descended, liberating him of cup after cup of ale. While the old man’s face sagged he did not protest when they rolled a barrel out from behind the bar.

  Angelino grinned at Barousse. “What’ve you wrought?”

  “Brought him the Hell he would’ve had rain down on me.” The captain smirked.

  “Rain is right! A golden shower for Venezia, eh? If I didn’t know where certain things was located I’d surely compete with the throngs to snatch a few ducats for myself.”

  “And did the anchor make a sound impression?”

  “Anchor?”

  “An anchor right on Strafalaria’s head, if my laborers constructed it proper.”

  “Something to hope, to be sure, though I can’t testify to whether it struck true or not.” Angelino noticed the woman and winced. She sat on the floor with her ear to the wall beside the barred front door. “Christ.”

  “You’re a good man,” Barousse whispered, squeezing Angelino’s shoulder. “We’ll be rid of her soon.”

  “Not soon enough,” Angelino said, and, seeing the pain on his friend’s face, added, “Not too late, either.”

  “Where’s Seppe at?” Hegel interrupted.

  “On the boat,” Angelino replied, “soon as the rest of your men pull in we’ll pull out.”

  “What other men?” said Manfried.

  “The rest of the crew you said were coming.” Angelino cocked his head at Barousse, “What, you said more than six but less than twelve besides this lot?”

  Barousse shook his head sadly. “Wasn’t wagering on all but one of my guards being stomped like grapes.”

  Angelino bowed his head. “Oh Hell, Alexi, you mean we’re to sail to the ends of the ocean with this lot and nothing more? Not even a skeleton, just a bunch of loose bones!”

  “Can’t be helped.” Barousse shrugged. “So let’s get a move on.”

  Angelino again glanced at the woman. “You’re sure there’s no other way than on board with us?”

  “Angelino,” said Barousse, “please-”

  “Can’t be helped, I heard, I heard,” said Angelino. “Giuseppe won’t like it, though.”

  “Giuseppe?” Barousse scowled. “Say he isn’t.”

  “He is.” Angelino scowled right back. “As captain, I choose my crew. And if I don’t have a say in who you take, you sure as shit don’t get a word on my choices.”

  “Who else is aboard?” Barousse asked.

  “Find out soon enough,” Hegel advised. “Oughta left by now. Hey you bitchswine, give me a hand with this!”

  Ripping his eyes off her, Manfried made sure the bung fit snugly before tilting the barrel over and rolling it toward the door. The others crowded around the door behind Angelino, Raphael being sure to stay behind Sir Jean at all times. Hegel marched back to the bar and fished out Al-Gassur, who had slipped behind it and feigned sleep. Sending the Arab on his way, Hegel reached in his bag and removed a gold bar, turning to the blind barkeep.

  “Any man you fence that to tells you it’s less than genuine you bite his face, scream for help, and hold on to that til the watch comes,” Hegel said.

  The barkeep burbled something unintelligible, maybe Italian, maybe not, but the gold disappeared regardless. Turning back to the nervous group, Hegel grinned and drew his pick. The captain extended his hand to the woman, who took it and rose beside him.

  “Bid your city farewell and good passing,” Barousse announced. “Only the most foolish of you would dream of setting your eyes on it again, for now our crimes can scarce be counted. We must turn our back on it for all time, and with the grace of God we will come to a better end than all who dwell here. Their curses will not find us, and the judgment they would seek to level will go unpronounced.”

  Rodrigo closed his eyes and whispered goodbye to the only city he had ever known, the place where his family had lived and died for generations. Martyn yawned and Al-Gassur seconded it, while Sir Jean’s eyes welled at the realization that he would not actually be rescued. Raphael clung to the captain’s melodrama, the mercenary having less idea than anyone else what destination they made for.

  “Straight out and up to the end of the dock,” Angelino informed them. “They’ll hoist a light soon as we open the door so we’re all sure of course, but anyone you see to right or left catch and kill, young or old, man or not.”

  “Get on, then,” said Manfried, hefting his loaded crossbow.

  “Mary bless us,” Martyn intoned, and Angelino threw open the door.

  Subtlety had no place in their flight to the boat, the group all but whooping as they charged. Sheer ill luck had brought a tipsy couple toward the alehouse to celebrate the five ducats that had dropped into a gutter before them earlier in the evening, and Al-Gassur and Rodrigo averted their eyes as the Grossbarts did their business. Manfried’s bolt caught the surprised young woman in the chest, and before her head cracked open on the stones Hegel had thrust his pick through her beau’s neck.

  No other witnesses stirred and the Grossbarts quickly rolled the bodies off the quay and returned to their barrel. Rolling it up to the ship they heard a heated argument between Giuseppe and Barousse but before they could contribute Giuseppe had relented due to Angelino’s intervention. They took their time g
etting the barrel safely up the gangplank and a pair of burly young toughs in tarred breeches untied the ship. While the Brothers were curious as to how the vessel moved, Barousse hurried them out of sight below deck, and hopping off the ladder they saw their compatriots lounging in a large, barren room. Only when the sailors lowered their beer barrel did the Grossbarts relax, confident Gyptland lay just across the sea.

  “This boat got a handle?” Hegel asked the massive sailor named Merli.

  “You’ll get your sea legs soon enough,” came the reply.

  “You take the piss again and I’ll bring the red to yours,” Hegel said, irritated by his brother’s amused snort. “A name, boy, heard tell they name these things.”

  “The Gorgon’s Kiss,” said Merli.

  “Well,” said Manfried. “That’s a pretty name.”

  XXII. Sins of the Father

  After many days on the road Heinrich and the twins approached a village. Heinrich insisted they wait until after dark to investigate but when no fires were lit and only the wind stirred they investigated the empty hamlet. A flame-gutted building gave Heinrich miserable cramps, armpits pulsating and blood blistering his arteries. The feeling dissipated, only to return when they passed the scorched monastery during their ascent. They stayed to the roads, it being winter in the wilds, and while the boys ran down any game they scented Heinrich saw neither breathing man nor beast until they left the mountains.

  Heinrich’s intuition and the lads’ noses guided them down the left branch when the road split on the high hills past the forest. They took to traveling from dusk until early morning, spending the daytime foraging, hunting, and sleeping in the deep thickets choking the knolls. They skirted the towns and houses that now dotted the landscape, despite the curious youngsters’ whines of protest. The twins grew with each meal they caught, each now standing as high as Heinrich’s shoulder.

  Dozing by a creek late one afternoon, Heinrich awoke to a wail echoing through the ravine. Both boys were absent and, hope blossoming in his breast, Heinrich dashed through the brambles to the road. Sliding into the gulley the trail ran through, he saw several prone figures on the road and a few more running in opposite directions, Magnus pursuing one group and Brennen the other.

  Loath as he was to see them feast on innocents, Heinrich knew any witnesses would spread the word of their presence and then men unaware of their situation would be hunting them as they hunted the Grossbarts. The screams deteriorating into squeals just up the road, Heinrich drew his dagger and approached the half dozen prostrate men. Several of them bled from deep bites speckling their bare torsos and torn breeches but Heinrich realized that while a few were unconscious the rest were fervently praying, eyes shut, brows wedded to the dirt. Save for one dressed in white robes their backs were scratched and bleeding, as if they too had run through brambles.

  His long knife gripped in one hand, Heinrich bent and retrieved one of their scourges from the dirt. The barbed flail dripped onto the dusty road, and Heinrich smiled as he realized their identity. He had not seen a flagellant in over a decade, most vanishing along with the plague they had sought to avert with their corporeal mortification.

  Crouching behind one of the men, Heinrich reached around and slit his throat. The flagellant thrashed forward, a font of blood splashing the feet of the man before him. They knew he was among them without opening their eyes and their prayers grew louder even as their numbers dwindled with each slash of his dagger. Now only two remained, his boys baying like packs of hounds on each side of the road.

  Underneath his skin, deep in his veins where blood, phlegm, and black and yellow biles pulsed against each other, Heinrich’s companion protested angrily at this murderous turn. Upon first entering the turnip farmer it had felt relief to inhabit a host as eager for the same end as itself, but now the deranged man refused to do as he was bidden. Dead men’s ability to spread the blessings of the pit were negligible, and one after another Heinrich was insensibly murdering all of the potential carriers.

  Leaving the presumed leader unscathed, Heinrich began lashing the other man mercilessly, blood spattering on the high leaves over their heads. The man’s prayers remained strong even when most of the scabbed skin on his back came loose, but when the white of his spine shone in the dappled sunlight he shrieked and writhed, allowing Heinrich to flail his stomach, arms, and face. Only when the wretch went limp, his exposed musculature quivering in the chill wind, did Heinrich turn to the robed leader.

  Long-festering frustration partially sated, Heinrich addressed the praying man he mistakenly took to be a priest. “Remove your robes.”

  The man continued to pray, his voice cracking.

  “Remove them!” Heinrich barked.

  Still the leader prayed. Heinrich swiped the scourge under-handed so it whipped beneath the man’s neck, wrapping around his throat and chin. Yanked backward, the man choked and spluttered as he landed on his rear, his eyes still closed, his lips resuming the prayer as soon as the scourge slackened.

  “Pray for them!” Heinrich shouted. “Pray for my family!”

  Dragging the lash free in a welter of blood, Heinrich dropped his dagger and brought the weapon back down with both hands. Heinrich’s delight grew with each wet smack of the scourge, the pleasurable warmth in his guts recalling the sensation of eating a bowl of Gertie’s stew, or watching Brennen pull his first turnip. He remembered how pleasant his wife had smelled after they made love, how Brennen laughed and clapped when his mother made shadows on the wall, how his littlest girls would kiss him on his cheeks simultaneously. Inside Heinrich the demon continued to plead for the man’s life, a whisper trickling through his mind like the fluids dribbling down his victim’s face, but Heinrich would not heed the council. It was not enough that those who wounded themselves to stop the plague become hosts themselves. They were servants of a God so cruel He would absolve the Grossbarts, and so they must be punished as only Heinrich and his lads could.

  After a time Heinrich realized the man had expired and he whipped an exposed skull, embedded strips of scalp, hair, and gore dulling the scourge’s impact. The skeletal face now resembled those of his boys who sat watching him, gnawing on flagellant bones. Glancing at the carnage, Heinrich now saw only Gertie bleeding to death from an ax wound, Brennen’s gurgling throat, the blackened husks of his daughters, and the four children they had buried before, some still from Gertie’s womb, others living a year or five before being stolen by God. He heard the screams of his little girls, smelled the stink of gravedirt and his burning home. His face hard, he spit in the dead leader’s gaping mouth.

  “Let us be demons, then!” Heinrich screamed. “Let us be the pestilence upon those that would abide such cruelties as this! Let us riot and rampage upon the servants of that devil in the sky who deceives the whole world into His worship! Vengeance is our name and deed! Vengeance for every murdered child, for every raped woman, for every soul who toils only to see all they have loved and wrought wither and sicken, suffer and die! No absolution! No confession! No last rites! Grossbarts, we come for you!”

  Magnus and Brennen howled from every mouth and wept to see their master weep. The scourge bit into Heinrich’s back with every oath but his tears were not for his own anguish, they were shed for every innocent who held false hope for some final apology, some explanation. As he threw down the barbed whip and fell to his knees, the terrified boys hastened to lick his wounds and whimper their devotion.

  By dusk they had removed the bodies from the road, the twins devouring a mind-boggling amount of flesh before lounging in the shade, their stomachs distended, every tongue lolling. Heinrich had meticulously cleaned the scourge in the stream and donned the leader’s soiled robes. His ablutions complete, the moon dangled low over the thickets as they again sought their bearded quarry.

  XXIII. Ever Southward

  Below deck, the forecastle housed a table, a few chairs, and several water and beer barrels. A narrow hall staggered around the masts to the back of the
ship, with two rows of bunks depressed into the walls on either side. At the end of the hall a storeroom contained nets, food, and everything else, and there the captain and his lady established themselves. With two people occupying a sleeping space where fifteen would fit, there were not enough bunks for the crew and the Grossbarts’ party; they traded off the beds with the men toiling above. They, of course, being everyone except the Grossbarts, who were quickly avoided by the crew due to the twins’ tendency to jab anyone foolish enough to disturb their sleep.

  When the Brothers stirred late the following afternoon they saw one of the young sailors from before and the lummox Merli sleeping on the bunks opposite them. Extrication proved especially difficult for Manfried, who had gone to sleep with his shoulders still plated in iron. Even their toes and fingernails were sore from the previous day’s exertions but they awoke laughing at the memory of their triumph. They staggered to the open room and guzzled water, paying no mind to the half-naked Sir Jean or his shadow, Raphael.

  “Where’s the rest?” Hegel asked after dunking his face in the water barrel and leaving a sheen on the surface.

  “Aboveward.” Raphael nodded to the ladder. “Taking sunny, salty air. Captain with them, want to council at you.”

  “Speakin ain’t your strong suit, is it?” Manfried leered.

  “Truly honest, mine ownself prefer the tongue all men speak.” Raphael rattled his loaded crossbow at Sir Jean, making him flinch.

  “True words,” Hegel agreed, and they went above.

  Crawling into the blinding square of light, they crouched like beasts freed after too long in a cage. When their eyes adjusted the Grossbarts reeled from more than the rocking of the ship. On all sides lay water, vast hills and valleys of the stuff, glowing in the sun without a hint of land to be found. Both felt extremely queasy and took small pulls from their skins, and when Manfried spilled his drink refitting the stopper, Hegel noted with interest that his brother’s apparently held water for a change.