He saw her even before she had stepped into the tavern, having long noticed the strange lady the moment she passed through the gates of El Nath. She was not inconspicuous; no stranger wandering around in this small town would be. Deepwinter here was harsh and bitter, and no foreigner or merchant with a drop of sanity would call on the town in this season unless out of sheer desperation.

Conall continued to watch the lady wander through the Marketplace, her gaze bold and open as she stared all around her in undisguised curiosity. He smiled at her naivety. There was nothing much to see right now in the El Nath Markets. It wasn’t even Marketday today. She must have never been to this part of Ossyria, if she could be dazzled by the deepwinter Markets.

She turned to inspect a stall, and now Conall could see that she wore a plain homespun tunic beneath a simple suit of light armour, a Gladius sheathed at her hip. Here is a lady Warrior then, Conall thought, still entranced by her progress through the Market square outside. Lady Warriors were a rare breed indeed.

Even more curious still, the lithe girl he was watching wore no colours of any Guild that he recognised, even though she looked seasoned enough a warrior to belong to one.

A lady mercenary, then? Conall felt his own eyebrows rise. Now, those were even rarer than Spring in these parts.

There were those who say that female mercenaries were even deadlier than male ones; being life-bearers, these hired swords saw life in a different light from their male contemporaries, and tended to take it quickly and more efficiently.

Indeed, most guild lords preferred female mercenaries, for there were plenty more ways in which female mercenaries could be broken in the interrogation chambers…

Conall snapped out of his musing the moment the door to the tavern swung open, the bell attached to the door jingling merrily even as the frosty air from outside rushed to usurp the warmth within.

The lady Warrior was now in the tavern, brushing off the snowflakes from her cloaked shoulders.

Conall took in the features on her pale face: slanted amber eyes with heavy lashes hiding their secrets, full lips set unsmilingly, and taut skin flushed pink from the cold stretched over angular cheekbones. Hair a strange hoary shade of white fell to her shoulders, glittering with frost for a brief moment in the lamplight as she surveyed the tavern room for an empty seat.

Her amber eyes found Conall’s and stayed there for a second, before sliding off him to alight on the empty chair beside him. But in that very second, Conall felt as if that girl’s gaze had trapped and pinned him down, like a hapless prey beneath the power of a calculating predator.

She came close to him now, unfastening the cloak’s clasp at her throat. Conall rose automatically and gave what he hoped was a winning smile as he extended an arm, ‘Lady, may I?’

An eyebrow raised in surprise, she silently allowed Conall to take her cloak and seat her. Her feral amber eyes followed Conall as he returned to his chair, as if weighing his every move.

He, in his turn, acted only politely and casually as he took up his tankard of ale again: he didn’t want to appear to be trying too hard, after all.

‘Would ye like t’ drink ‘nything, miss?’ Tyrone, the tavernkeep, greeted the lady heartily.

‘Tyrone, can’t resist a pretty lady, can you!’ Gael called from his usual corner of the tavern. ‘I don’t see you cheering up like this for the rest of your loyal customers, you cur!’

In response, the stout tavernkeep threw Gael a rude gesture that made the few other occupants of the drinking room roar in laughter.

It was true that Tyrone was usually grumpy at this time of the year, where his only customers were the local folk; in comparison, Tyrone was downright cheerful during lightwinter, for that was when Marketdays filled his tavern’s drinking room to the brim with travellers and merchants.

But as lightwinter gave way to newwinter, and then to deepwinter again, the man would descend into gloominess, as sure as chill and frost of winter stayed with El Nath all year round.

‘Well, he has other reasons to be happy under this deepwinter’s silverface, don’t you, Tyrone?’ Conall raised his tankard up at Tyrone and gave him a wink.

‘Frost an’ fire, so I do,’ Tyrone grinned back. ‘An’ it’s all thanks t’ ye, Conall m’lad.’

‘Nah, don’t mention it,’ Conall made a humble gesture before cracking a wide smile at him. ‘Just you supply me with your fine spiced ale at no charge till next deepwinter, and I’ll be much gratified.’

‘Wot, ye’ll put this ol’ man out of bus’ness, ye rascal!’

‘Your name be Conall?’ A throaty voice entered the conversation suddenly, making the men pause in their uproarious exchange. It took them a few moments before they realised that it was the lady that had spoken. Her amber eyes regarded Conall with some curiosity, something which the man thought was most fortunate for himself.

‘Aye, ma’am. That be him alright,’ Gael called out from his corner.

‘Bain’t no other like Conall hereabouts, ma’am,’ Tyrone agreed, ‘We call ‘im the Bounty Hunter.’

‘As if I’m the only one,’ Conall gave a deep chuckle and a wave of modesty.

‘Dam’ right you’re th’ only one. No one else could ‘ave gotten rid o’ tha’ rascal wolf fer me,’ Tyrone said darkly. ‘Me son woke up one mornin’ and found one youngling lamb gone. Woke up the next, and then two o’ the expectin’ ewes gone. The wife was weepin’ a storm, a-wailing about how we goin’ to survive till lightwinter! Bally, thought me ears were goin’ t’ march off the side of my head in protest ‘ny moment.’

Despite the dire nature of Tyrone’s trouble, the men couldn’t help but give a grin at Tyrone’s description of ‘the wife’. The missus was no one to trifle with indeed; it was popularly thought that one would rather face deepwinter troubles than face Tyrone’s missus.

‘Conall there reckon’d the rascal was human-smart, taking me flock like that, and reckon’d it might’ave been one of them, what wit’ yon lady silverface big and roun’ now.’

Interested now, Tyrone’s patrons seemed to lean nearer to him as he told his tale. Under the deepwinter moon, any storyteller spinning a tale with them in it was sure to gather an audience, and this would be no different.

Who were them? Who knew? Who could tell? Their appearance changed as often as lady silverface waxed and waned, and they slew where the lady turned her baleful countenance to in the wintry wilderness.

No wonder they were the most powerful animals dedicated to her name.

‘So’s I asked Conall t’ help. Wasn’t gonna let no bastard silverface-addled beast take me sheep just like that, but I could’na do nothin’ in me old age,’ Tyrone continued mournfully.

‘Old age nothing, you lazy son of a Bain, you just didn’t want to go after them y’self!’ someone else piped up from their corner of the tavern, and the tavern roared in laughter.

When the laughter died down, the lady spoke again, ‘So. Was it one of… them?’

——————————

First of a three-part short series inspired by the vague recollection of an old story I’ve read.
Hope I do it justice. Enjoy.

And special thanks to Tninja for helping me do a first-reading of this. ^^