Free The Sad Tale of the Brothers Grossbart by Jesse Bullington

in the grave.
    Hegel nearly dropped his sick brother a dozen times that day, sliding on moss and rot as he staggered through the dim forest.
     Clearly the miasma found in low-lying regions had affected Manfried, Hegel assumed, refusing to allow the possibility of manticore
     venom. The solution lay in reaching higher ground where the wind prevented the pestilential vapors from gathering.
    Both had nearly expired from the plague when they were ten years old and Hegel knew the cure as well as the symptoms—since
     Manfried had yet to sprout the buboes, clean wind and prayer might save him. Their mother had known, which is surely why she
     delivered them into a decayed lean-to high in the hills and abandoned them when their humours became disturbed so long ago.
    Hegel dragged Stupid’s hardened skin behind them by its former owner’s tether, but with his brother’s dead weight on his shoulders
     Hegel had to leave most of the meat behind. He wheezed his way up the creek, reckoning it to be the surest path to higher
     ground. Pausing only when it was necessitated by exhaustion, Hegel trudged onward, his injured right arm dripping more than
     sweat from his exertions. Midday never came in that dismal wood, evening following directly after morning. The snow fell steadier
     than before, and his brother’s damp body pressing against his back gave Hegel a stubborn cough.
    With the light almost gone and the forest even thicker, Hegel laid his dying brother on the ground and collapsed beside him,
     hacking up phlegm. He pinched Manfried’s nose and poured water down his throat and unsuccessfully attempted to force him to
     swallow some horse meat Hegel had chew-softened. He gathered wood but his numb fingers hampered his ability, and he glumly
     realized the smoke leaving his mouth with each breath would probably exceed what he could coax from the damp branches. Returning
     to his equally snow-brushed brother, Hegel began to pray.
    The pitiful fire he managed hissed and popped, and no matter how hard Hegel blew the thick pieces would not catch and the
     thickening snow sizzled as it smothered. As he looked up to curse the heavens, his sharp eyes caught a hint of red in the
     forest. Holding his breath, terrified it was only his own paltry fire reflecting off a wet leaf, he stood and stared. He took
     several weak-kneed steps forward, squinting. His wide grin split his cheek anew, blood dribbling into his beard.
    Hurriedly gathering their scant provisions and hoisting his brother, Hegel plowed through the underbrush, blind but for the
     white cloud of snow around him and the distant beacon. He broke into a clearing and stumbled onward, free of the limbs and
     roots that impeded his progress. Now he could make out the roof and walls, and the single window glowing through the white
     and black night. He had feared it to be fairyfire or worse, but Mary be praised, a cabin emerged from the snow and darkness.
    Without setting down his brother he slapped the flimsy door with his good hand, bellowing out:
    “Open up! Ill man out here, open up! Open up in the name a Mary and all the saints!”
    Nothing. No sound at all, save the Brothers’ labored breathing. Manfried moaned in his sleep, and Hegel banged again.
    “Open up or I’ll knock it down,” Hegel roared. “Give us our sanctuary or by Mary’s Will I’ll take it!”
    A shuffling came toward the door. A voice, faint enough to be almost drowned out by Manfried’s whimpering, floated through.
     Hegel could not say if it belonged to man or woman, child or parent.
    “Your word first,” flitted out. “You’ll do no evil, lest your soul be blackened for all time.”
    Impatient beyond reckoning, Hegel yelled even louder. “Course I ain’t evil! Open up!”
    “And you’ll try no mischief, nor do no harm?”
    “There’ll be mischief plenty if you don’t let us in!”
    “Your word.”
    “My word, yes, and my brother’s, and Mary’s, and her moon-fruit boy’s if you open