Like a demon dressed in the colours of winter, the wind rattled down though the empty mountains into the sleeping village. The night had fallen: tired, heavy, strong, filling the air with inescapable darkness. The moon had hidden in the clouds to keep warm: the villagers had locked their doors and pulled the shutters closed. Already the houses were encased in a coral thin layer of snow.
Only one figure, the night watchman, disturbed the snowy silence of the darkness. Back and forth he tramped through the sleeping village, passing the lonely houses one by one, his lantern on his pole high above him. A fur-lined hood obscured his features and his hands were encased in leather gloves. Against the snow he stood out starkly: black and alone, watched only by the eyes of the night birds and the passing black bear.
But far above the village, in the mountain pass, other eyes were watching.
Dark, cold eyes that glinted fiercely and shone as they regarded the illuminated watchman.
Voices whispered in a strange, secret language. Rough tongues chattered and gabbled, muted by the falling snow. A band of maybe two score men, huddled in the curve of the mountain, out of the way of the dragon wind. Their cloaks lay flat and silent around their shoulder: brown hoods covered their shrewd features.
Two metres away stood their leader. Fully in sight, bombarded by the wind, he lifted his head to look up at the clouded heavens.
'Give me guidance in what I do, Great Mother.'
Below, the watchman stamped his feet and rubbed together his hands. He longed for a cup of hot coffee or chocolat, and the warmth of his bed and wife. The cold had covered his eyes with the longing for warmth: he did not glance at the slopes above. But the man there saw him, and knew him, like a friend of twenty years. Amber eyes flared.
And a cruel face twisted into a smile.