Staggering through the tavern door, Paul Harriman knew he was drunk the moment he set his foot on the top step of the stair -- and missed. Helplessly, he slipped and only a blind reflex saved him from skidding all the way down the stairs on his pants bottom. Or was it just dumb luck? Harriman didn’t really care, though he wondered how in the world he could have gotten so hammered.

Harriman paused for a moment to find his balance while he listened to the raucous noise streaming out from the tavern, contemplating whether to turn back and have just another small one. When he found the floor swaying dangerously underneath his feet, he decided that it might be best to call it a night after all. Clumsily, he descended the remaining steps and began to walk unsteadily down the street. Muttering under his breath, he turned into a small dirt road that led out of the village and towards a light forest.

Suddenly, off in the distance, he could hear a strange noise. He raised his lolling head as if to listen to the approaching sound. It was filled with the rumbling clatter of galloping horses, but the sound was strangely hollow and echoed through the dark night. Harriman turned slowly and pointed his eyes in the direction of the sound. On the horizon, he saw a small group of riders coming his way. They were hard to make out, merely dark shapes, in the overcast night. He squinted his eyes in an attempt to see them more clearly but his fogged mind simply wouldn’t let him.

“Riders?” He mumbled in his drunken stupor. “This time o’ night?”