(I decided to attempt some Robert E. Howard on this one.)
Ulnine raised his tree of an arm to point down into the green valley, a pleasant mixture of peat and sheep pasture nestled between the arching mountains to the north, the sea on the east, the river on the west, and the rolling forests to the south. In the center, a small hamlet of pointed-roof cottages and a single two-story inn were puffing out dinner-smoke into the budding twilight. The distant wail of annoyed sheep, upset at being driven back to their evening pens, drifted up to the brown-haired man who was squinting intently to where his larger companion was gesturing.
It was a squat, unimpressive stone church that rested perhaps a half a mile to the north of the village proper; and even though the dusk mist were already gathering, the man's azure eyes could still make out the silhouettes of hundreds of gravestones; They surrounded the church like termites swarming about their hive.
"That is the place, Germane," said Ulnine, his voice deep like the rumble of a distant landslide.
Germane flicked his eyes from the church to his companion. The firbolg stood nearly two feet taller than Germane, making him an average eight feet tall (average for a firbolg, anyway). His somewhat bestial face was framed by a powerfully square jaw, adorned with a short goatee; red like the mangy mass of dreadlocks atop his head. Two intimidating fangs peeked their way from between his seriously clamped lips, as if they were trying to stab the often-broken nose just above them.
For his part, Germane had a sort of angular look common to the southern parts of the island, but a rough stubble and a few too many lean days made his cheeks bony, as if his visage were chiseled from some soft stone. He rubbed at his beard in thought. "We'd better hurry down there to that tavern before dark, yes?"
Ulnine's overlarge, almond-shaped eyes grinned green down at the smaller human. He shrugged, three-and-a-half feet of shoulder blades rippling under his scale mail, "If you believe the rumors."
Germane frowned at the disappearing sun, "Better to be safe until we find the truth of the matter." He adjusted his longbow so that it would hug tight across his chest and cloak. "Let's go."
The slope down into the valley was gentle, making the hasty trot of the adventurers easy, if a bit noisy. Weapon sheaths, backpacks, and armor clanked together despite the leather strappings designed to muffle such revealing noise. But the added momentum of gravity pulling downward resulted in heavier footfalls. Needless to say, the retiring shepherd boy beginning his hurried trip home easily heard the pair's approach.
As Germane and Ulnine emerged from a small copse of trees, the young boy was already taking startled steps back and away; His youthful eyes bulged as Ulnine's giant form burst into view.
"Peace!" Germane was quick to shout, "We mean no harm!" He knew that firbolg were widely considered legendary monsters, reavers and beasts, and he wanted to avoid a potentially hostile gathering of ignorant townsfolk. "We are hungry travelers on paths north, looking to make town before dark for food and ale."
The youth, still wide-eyed and trembling, only managed to shake his head slowly in an expression of disbelief. His eyes never left Ulnine.
Germane sighed. There wasn't time for this. "We're not bandits, kid. Watch. Would bandits do this?" He began removing his cloak, bow, and sword.
"Traveling show?" growled Ulnine.
"Yeah. Make it huge, so we only need to do one."
The massive firbolg grinned evilly and grabbed two fistfulls of Germane's clothing, "You got it."
Germane shouted to the child, "Watch!" He turned his head to look back at Ulnine, "Now, not too har-", but the firbolg heaved him off the ground like a doll, took two bounding steps, and then hurled Germane through the air like a living javelin.
The young shepherd's bulging eyes followed Germane's twenty foot ascension, and then they squinted into laughter at the sight of a man face-planting into the soft peat at high velocity. Ulnine's smile parted into a roaring guffaw as Germane staggered to his feet, pushing his shaggy brown hair out of his face and spitting out small bits of moss. The booming firbolg laughter was then joined by the high-pitched cackle of the shepherd boy.
"See?", Germane scraped his fingernails along his tongue, "Would bandits do that?"
The youth's smile faded into a line of cognition. After a moment, he said, "No. I guess you ain't bandits. Come on, I'll show you to the inn once I get poppa's sheep in."
Ulnine glanced about. "What sheep?"
"Oh, they are just about that hillock there. I was looking for a stray. They like to go up the ridge towards the forest for some of the high grasses. But it's too close to dark now." The boy began trotting hurriedly away. "Come on! We need to hurry! The light will be gone soon!"
Germane and Ulnine shared a glance and then broke into a trot of pursuit. "We didn't see any sheep up the hill, I'm afraid. Did we, Ulnine?"
"Nope," said the firbolg, as he picked a bit of mutton from his teeth and grinned.
"Cool it!" Germane hissed.
Firbolg chuckling boomed out once more.
True to the boy's word, the sheep were gathered about the other side of the hillock, lazily munching at some of the nearby grass. With a few high-pitched "Hee-yaaah!"s, the herd began complaining its way back towards town at a leisurely pace. Ulnine clapped his hands together with a deafening slap, and the sheep came to an agreement to move with a bit more alacrity.
As the procession made its way closer to town, the growing twighlight quickly shrunk the world in gloom. A brakish bank of clouds was rolling in over the mountain to the north, shrouding the distant church in shadow as they moved over the vale. A brief, cold wind came as a vanguard, and the sun-warmed land grew banks of mist as the heavy chill pressed down upon it.
"Well, this looks ominous," said Germane as the lights of hamlet houses were swallowed up. The sheep, for their part, silenced themselves as if by some mutual desicion. The leading child slowed to a stop as the new fog shrouded the last of the town from view. Germane placed a hand on his small shoulder to give him courage, hard as it was to be lost, afraid, and with only strangers and sheep for company.
"What's wrong, kid?" grunted Ulnine, "They're still there, and we're half there already."
The boy jerked his head around in surprise, as if he had forgotten the firbolg which had so terrified him earlier was still there. He shook his head, "It's too dark. They come out when it's this dark." His eyes began taking on their bulging quality again as he scanned the surrounding mists.
"So, it's true then?" mumbled Germane as his eyes joined in the mist-roving. "The dead walk here?"
Ulnine snorted, wincing while massageing the back of his own neck. "I say it's wolves talked up by shepherd's fancy."
Germane frowned up at his companion, "My friend, you always forget-"
A scream echoed out from the near-darkness, high-pitched and strangled, as if something foul had been abrubtly dragged to a place it did not wish to be. It faded into the air like a bad dream, and it must have been the breaking point for the tenative sanity being held by the sheep. In a mass, they began yowling in domestic fear, and then as if on cue, scattered into the darkness till their individual mewling was swallowed up by the mists. All was silent in their wake.
"That's not a good sign," said Germane. He noticed his hand was empty; the boy had feinted away at his feet. The wandering warrior was bending down to slap the youth to, but approaching footsteps brought his hand to the hilt of his short-sword instead.
Ulnine grunted.
Man and firbolg waited as the thing in the mist approached. They both swayed slightly as their muscles tensed and releaxed in anticipation of surprise and danger. Then, the silloutte of a man slowly took shape in the fog, but stopped short of being clearly visible to the two anxious travelers.
"Hello? Are you from the hamlet?" Germane startled hiself with the volume of his own voice in the surrounding silence. "We have a boy here. He's feinted."
The shrouded man did not respond, but two coals of evil red glow appeared where eyes should have been. Two more shapes walked from the mist to join the first, and they too stared with devlish light
"Like I was saying," said German as he slowly, silently, drew his short-sword from its sheath, "You always forget that you're a shephard's facy yourself."
Ulnine gave another of his grunts. "Fancy shutting it?" His massive two-handed blade cleared the scabberd in a challenging ring, "COME ON!" the firbolg bellowed, and in a frenzy of lashing limbs, the red-eyed shades did.
They were gangly things; mobile rot that took mannish form. The flesh of each seemed ready to flake off at the slightest touch, but none did even as the creatures charged, howling frothily with their blackened lips; and ever did the red eyes burn.
Two went for Ulnine first, and the audibile whoosh of the firbolg's blade split one in half at the waist, torso and legs tumbling to the ground in a tangle of limbs and spilt organs. Greyish blood splattered across Germane's face, stinging his eyes. He barely recovered his vision in time to raise his left elbow into the charge of the monster attacking him. Half-blind, the wanderer fended off clawing talons while thrusting his blade under his own guard and into the fiend's torso. The sharp metal sunk in hungrily, but if the creature minded the peircing of its bowels, it did not show sign; it continued to flail and bite at Germane, teeth grating on the warrior's hardened bracer.
Frustrated, Germane bowed his shoulder to the thing and shoved explosively, sending the creature stumbling backwards until it lost balance and fell to the ground. To the right, Ulnine chopped the second creature with a barbaric, overhead swing; his sword ate its way through shoulder bone, through ribs, through blood,sinew, and spine, until it fastened itself stubbornly in the creature's pelvis. Again, the blow did not seem to dampen the devil's blood lust. It frantically clawed at the blade in an attempt to pull itself along the weapon's length to get at the roaring firbolg, roaring in the effort to wrench the blade free. Meanwhile, the upper half of the first creature had crawled forward to bite uselessly at the giant's armored legs.
Yet Germane could spare his friend no time, for his own enemy was regaining its feet, and the shepherd boy was still helplessly oblivious on the ground beneith him. In a quick bound, Germane closed with the rising creature, akward in its undeath, and he chopped savagely at its right leg. The reddened eyes and hungrily sneering mouth revealed no pain, but the demon toppled sideways anyway as its shorn knee buckled, unable to support weight. It flailed about in the peat while Germane retreated to drag the boy away from its searching grasp.
Ulnine abandoned his stuck blade and reverted to primal instinct. He cocked back his right arm, and punched the offending creature in the face. The ham-sized fist slammed home with a sickening crunch, the creature's face snapping back as the red glow vanished from its cavernous eyes. It collapsed to the ground, motionless. Grinning savegly in anticipated victory, the firbolg then brough his fist smashing down on top of the skull of the ankle-biter, and that creature also went listless.
Seizing the idea, Germane strode back to where the final creature was still futily attempting to stand. It scowled at him in hatred, dead lips curling over blood-stained teeth, yellow saliva squeezing through the few gaps like juice from squeezed grapes, unholy eyes focused in nightmarish ferocity. A strong thrust sent Germane's blade into its eyesocket, and that unholy red faded as decrepid ichor sprayed out over the biting steel.
Only Ulnine's ragged breathing broke the silence which settled back on them like a heavy weight. Veterans of countless battles, both warriors quickly cleaned their weapons on the peat and returned them to their scabbards; Unlnine then tossed the unconscious boy over his shoulder like a sheaf of wheat.
"Should we wake him up?" Ulnine glanced around the darkening fog. "I can't see any trace of that hamlet."
Germane shook his head. "No matter. Night is upon us, and he would be just as lost as we are." The Irishman knew they needed to get somewhere more fortified. If more of those things (assuming there were more) found them again, the outcome could be drastically different. "We know the hamlet is north, and we know the largest mountains are north. So perhaps an echo might lead us in the right direction?"
"Or direct everything out there to us," said Ulnine while he continued to scan the perimeter.
"Yes. But we can't wander aimless in the night, either. I think we might get away with my bird call; it's loud enough."
"I think you're a moron."
"Thanks, Ulnine. Especially considering when you're drunk, I have to make sure you don't eat rocks and die."
"Those rocks looked like pastries!"
"They were in a streambed! Why would they be pastries? Who made them? Mama Catfish? Ahh, forget it- we're wasting time. Get ready for a wee bit of a run."
Ulnine huffed. "You're the one with small legs."
Germane shook his head and raised his hands to his mouth, palms cupped together. He blew a long, wailing note, like that of a loon, and it returned from every direction; but strongest off to the right.
"We'd better move quick." Germane imagined dozens of gangly demons turning their red eyes in their direction, peiricing the fog with vile perception. The two adventurers took off running, eyes alert for more attackers.
Yet their fears seemed unfounded, and both man and firbolg sighed in relief when the lights of the hamlet broke once more through the mist.
"Head for the big one," whispered Germane "it's probably the inn."
The "big one" was a humble two-level of wooden construction. In Dublin perhaps, it would have been a minor place of ill-repute in the poorer areas of the city, but here where it was the only business, it dwarfed the farmers' humble peat homes.
Ulnine tried the door and found it bolted, though the murmur of many voices could be heard within. He pounded at it, rattling the building and drawing a few started screams from inside.
"Open up!" shouted Germane, "Weary travelers in search of shelter! We have a shepherd boy who we found-"
Moving locks could be plainly heard, and then the door flung open, spilling warm light into the chilling night. There was an outrage of voice:
"-mustened be opened!"
"It might be my son! Please let it be my son!"
"The things will come!"
"Shut the door, damn your eyes!"
Then a voice of authority drowned out the others. "All of you! Quiet! Bring them inside and secure the door quickly. Quickly!"
The inn was a humble establishment, featuring a cozy common from for about thirty people. However with the entire population crammed inside, the villagers had difficulty in backing away from Ulnine, who caused a bit of a stir as he bent over to enter the small doorframe and then stood again at his towering height.
The firbolg held up the limp form of the shepard youth. "This belong to anyone?" He looked a little like a hawker trying to sell a melon. A woman near the crackling fire keeled over, drawing a few more excited screams.
"Enough with the racket!" said the authority, and a few villegers shuffled this way and that to reveal a short, frail, old man with the longest beard Germane had ever seen. He was short, almost child sized, and his bones seemed more like sticks hiding under dried sheep skin. A stooped back contributed slightly to the shortness, and it brought the wipping end of his white beard within brushing distance of the floorboards. Yet peering from that aincent face were eyes dark with experience and confidence.
"Thank you, strangers," the old man bowed his head (and his beard piled up a little on the floor), "for returning Emil to us. His mother, as you can see, has been on the verge of storm since he was late coming in from the pastures." He turned his head to the side, "Take them both to a room upstairs and lay them down." Immediately, several people swept forward to receive the unconscious boy and whisked him away upstairs. The group with the woman by the fire followed closely behind.
"Now then, it's only right we respond to kindness with kindness. Come this way and we'll get you some food and spirits to warm belly and heart." The aincent one turned and walked towards what Germane assumed to be the kitchen, and the crowd parted before him. Germane and Ulnine followed slowly im his wake, each with pleased grins despite the staring eyes and awkward silence surrounding them.
Some unlucky villigers were shooed away from a bench and table, and almost instantly two frothy mugs of brew and a spread of mutton, cheese, and soda bread was before them. The old man sat across from them, watching politely while his guests sated their hungers. Around them, conversations began to spring up, adding some comfort of regularity to the room's atmosphere.
Swallowing a mouthful of mutton, Germane raised his tankard and enjoyed the smooth feel of the brew as it quenched his pallet. It had a bitterly sour sort of flavor that was full, rich, and immensly satisfying. He was an avid beersman, but he could not quite decide if the brew tasted more like a dark ale or more like a lighter porter; perhaps a bit of both. Pleasently indecisive, the wanderer swallowed and enjoyed the bubbliness of the finish and its tangy bitter memory.
"A fine brew!" gasped Ulnine, his tankard already nearly empty.
The village elder grinned a gummy smile. "We call it the Irish Death. No, not because of things out there. But because a few of those will make even the most hardened man dead to the world till morning- and then wish the world had just finished him off!" He let out a sharp, wheezing guffaw.
"So-" Germane took a large bite of bread, "What are those things that wander here?"
"Evil that walks. A plague cast upon us, undeserved." The elder's hard eyes softened. "If you wish, I'll tell you of our sorrow."
"We wish it." said Ulnine, holding his tankard up for a refill.
"As you wish, then," said the elder with a bow of his head, "It began......"
TO BE CONTINUED.... (When a beer with a proper name is found)
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