Day 1

The storm showed no sign of easing. Wind and rain continued to lash the isolated mountain village of Stüden in the Black mountains. In the timber-framed cottages, families huddled by the fire, thankful to be inside out of the rain, and warmed by the fire.
The tavern, The Flying Pig, was empty, apart from the owner. Marcus was an elderly man who, in his younger years, had travelled past the nearest town that was the limit of most villagers experience and on to the big city at the edge of the ocean. Now, years later, his tales of the sea and the huge ships that travelled the length and breadth of her still fascinated and enthralled the youngsters. Taking over the tavern when the previous landlord died was a natural step for Marcus when he returned to his home village. With no desire to travel further and with no family to support, he was kept happy with regaling the villagers and travellers with tall tales of his adventured.
Apart from the usual collection of local villagers who used the Flying Pig’s main tap room as the village meeting room, there would be occasional travels passing by on the Road who would stop during the day to water the horses, or who preferred to spend the night in a bed instead of the usual bedroll at the side of the road.
Tonight, however, was no normal storm. There was a feeling in the air that had kept even the most ardent drinker, Old Tom, from his usual tipple, and Marcus had been left to clean tankards without an audience.
“It’s an evil storm that blows tonight”, Marcus said to no-one in particular other than the old battered cat sulking under the bar in fear, “the worst I’ve ever known. And I’ve known some storms, that I have.” That cat, in its terror, ignored him, trying to force its way further into hiding.

At the back of the tavern, in Marcus’ room, nothing stirred. The occasional bolt of lightning illuminated the room, showing the basic furniture in there. A rough wardrobe, a battered wooden frame bed with an old sea chest at its foot. The chest was clearly very old and had seen a lot of use. The faint carving of a sea serpent could just about be made out, decorating the lid.
Suddenly, the shutters burst open, and the wind roared in. Sparks of lightning outlined the furniture, as though flying through the carved wood, bringing it to life. This internal storm grew stronger, with the lightning growing brighter and brighter until with one final boom and sudden flash, it was gone.
The storm outside even seemed to abate slightly, as though some of its energy had been taken. However, as the natural lightning flashed once more around the mountains, something in the room had changed.
An object, at the foot of the bed, dark, unclear.
It moves, resolving itself to be a man, crouched down on the floor.
The figure stood up. Male, tall. With no clothes on apart from a battered leather hat, and a rifle slung across his back.
The man looked around at the room, surveying it with a professional eye. An expression of wariness, and alertness, checking for threats or danger.
Then, as though noticing his nakedness for the first time, he uttered three words “Bugger, not again!”

Downstairs, Marcus had heard the shutters burst open and had just started up the stairs as the loud bang had occurred. The flash of light outlined the door to his room. Being a superstitious man, he had uttered a soundless prayer to the local gods. Being a sensible man, he returned to the bar and lit a lantern. Since he was also not completely stupid, he also picked up the heavy cudgel of wood that was propped in the corner ready for overly boisterous clientele, or those who refused to pay up.
Returning to the foot of the stairs, he could just make out some one cursing from behind the door. Hefting the cudgel, he cautiously crept up the stairs to face the intruders. There was the sound of someone rummaging through clothes. The wardrobe being opened. A cry of “Aha! This will fit nicely!”
Marcus advanced. Placing the lantern on the step, he hefted the cudgel, and reached out for the door handle.
Suddenly, the door burst open before him. A figure stood there, wearing what appeared to be Marcus’ own jerkin and trousers, and a battered hat.
As Marcus jumped back, raising his cudgel to protect himself from this strange man, the figure offered his hand in the friendliest of traditions.
“Good evening, my friend. My name is Archie Furrows. I hope you don’t mind me borrowing some clothes?”
To be fair to Marcus, this was not what his imaginative mind was expecting. He was, somewhat on edge. Long unused survival instincts cut in as his mind gibbered in fear. He swung the heavy piece of wood at the figure.
Almost nonchalantly, Archie reached out and caught the cudgel as it was swung at him. Twisting to the side, he pulled the surprised Marcus toward him, and hit him on the side of the head.
Catching Marcus as he slipped into unconsciousness, Archie said, “That wasn’t very friendly. Although under the circumstances, not unexpected.”

Archie carried the figure down the taproom, and lowered Marcus into a chair by the fire. He returned upstairs and brought back down the lantern and cudgel. He went over to the bar, propped the cudgel back in the corner and poured two tankards of ale. These were placed on the table by the fire, and Archie settled into the chair opposite the motionless Marcus. Taking a sip of the ale, Archie smiled contentedly as the drink warmed his throat. “Ah,” he said, “Old Chestnut. I haven’t had this in years.” He settled down as the storm continued to rage outside.
Archie had just finished his drink when Marcus came to. With a start, Marcus remembered the figure in the darkness.
“Its okay, my friend. You aren’t in any danger,” Archie said.
“What…who…” stuttered Marcus.
“My name is Archibald Furrows. Archie, to my friends. My deepest apologies for the fright I gave you and for the bruise...” Marcus raised a hand to the swelling on his neck, “but you were about to brain me.”
“Who…what?” Marcus continued.
“Here, have a drink, and calm your nerves. You aren’t in any danger,” Archie assured the still-frightened man. “At least, not from me,” Archie added as an after thought.
As the fear, and pain, began to subside, Marcus calmed down. Aided by the ale, he was soon able to string a sentence together.
“You are not from around here, are you, Master Furrows?” he asked.
“No, I’m from a place far from here. A traveller, if you will, to these mountains.”
“What brings you here?”
“I am not sure exactly why I was…brought…here. But the reason will become clear soon. In my line of business, it usually does.”
“And what sort of business is that, if I may be so bold?”
Archie glanced across at his gun, now leaning next to the cudgel. “Trouble, usually.”
“That’s a cryptic answer. And what manner of tool is that, anyway? A broken crossbow?”
“Not quite. That is a weapon you will not have seen here. It’s called a gun, and is far more powerful than any crossbow. I am not allowed to explain how it works, and you would not understand my explanation in any case.”
“Magic?” gasped Marcus, his fear returning.
“No,” chuckled Archie. “Technology. A far more dangerous thing, in my experience. Have you seen Cannon?”
“Once. Long ago. In the City by the Sea. Some ships had them. Military sailing ships carried cannon. Great heavy things they were. Sounded like thunder.”
“Think of this as a kind of small cannon. And please, don’t touch her, if you want your inn to stay in one piece.”
“Her? It has a name?”
“Yes. Bertha. She has saved my life more times than I can remember.” Archie turned to the window. “The storm is dying down. Perhaps we can continue our conversation in the morning?”
“Of course, sir.” answered Marcus. “I have one more question, if you would permit?”
“Ask away, Marcus”
“Why are you wearing my clothes? Where are yours?”
“Ah. I had hoped you had forgotten. When I arrived, I had nothing with me other than my hat and gun. I hope you do not mind my borrowing them? I will reward you for their loan, and of course, for the ale and room for the night.”
Marcus, in his bewilderment at the night’s adventures, did not think to ask how a man who had arrived stark naked was going to have coin on him. Instead, he showed Archie up to the main guest room and, leaving a lantern for him, retired to his own room. There, the combination of events and ale meant Marcus soon drifted into a deep sleep.
Down the hall, in the guest room, Archie stood looking out the window at the calming night sky. If the moon now shone down on Stüden, and the mountain peaks beyond. There was no-one to hear Archie muttering to himself.
“Why have you brought me to this time and place, my lady? What evil lurks on these mountains that you need me to destroy?”
There was no-one to answer.
He pulled the shutters closed, and walked over to the bed. Sighing, he undressed and lay down on the bed. Soon, sleep took over.