Chapter 1:

The snow fell lightly, yet each time a spiraling flake hit Tino Väinämöinen, he felt as if a ton of bricks crushed him. "Tino!" his childhood friend, Ilta, hissed, "Come, we do not have much time!" Tino scowled. As if he wasn't aware of the time they didn't have. Escaping like this was extremely dangerous, and yet it was the only viable option that Tino could come up with. The blond Finnish man dragged himself from the snow, smoothly pulling himself onto the fallen tree Ilta stood on. She cut a fine figure in the clothes of a male, her sharp cheekbones and slanted grey eyes taking in everything. Her hair was cut strangely; short in the back and sides of the head, but long in the front, enough to cover one side of her face. And yet . . . she was a gorgeous young man. Tino couldn't help scowling again. While his female friend Ilta got the handsome male features, he was stuck with a soft, child-like face and a slim-waist, round-hipped figure. His eyes were wide and violet, trusting, and his hair was soft like a newborns. The times he was mistaken for a girl was the same amount of time Ilta was mistaken for a male. Tino set them straight quickly. Despite his delicate form, he was the best shot in their village. As Tino and Ilta struggled through the snow, he thought back to one particular moment of pride. A caravan had passed through. Tino was wearing a long tunic, one he disliked because it accentuated his femininity even more. It didn't help that he was sent out with a basket to collect herbs in. A group of five of the caravan workers had seen him, and mistook him for a female. They halted him in his path and tried to flirt; it escalated to the point that they began pinching him. Angered, he challenged him to a competition to regain his honor, as was custom. They laughed and ignored him, and loomed closer. Then Ilta had come. She wore breeches and a tunic, as always, with her breasts bound flat.
"What's this?" she asked, hands in pockets. Tino glared at her and she stopped meters away from the group of men. She took the situation in quickly. "You know," she began, "In the civilized world, we challenge those who besmirch our honor to a competition." Her grey eyes narrowed, "Even women have that honor here." It implied nothing and everything. To Tino and Ilta, it merely meant that Ilta could step up and defend Tino's honor, something he'd never let her do. To the caravan workers, it meant that the little maid they were picking on could stand up and fight. A particularly cocky young male accepted Tino's challenge to the bow. Everyone from the village and the caravan watched.
Tino beat the boy, every arrow hitting the bullseye.
It was the proudest moment of the Finnish man's life; everyone had seen his mastery with the bow.
In fact, ever since then Tino had not missed a shot ever, not even to Ilta (even though her skills with a dagger were none he could ever match).
And that was saying something, seeing as their village was one of assassins.

Berwald Oxenstierna sat in his room, staring at the fire set in the grate. For a lord, he had surprisingly small chambers with enough room for a wardrobe, a small bed, and a fireplace. He was confronted with a rather large problem. His captain of the guards had died just yesterday, from old age, and he needed a replacement. Oddly enough, his personal secretary had been killed the other day from a bandit's arrow. Both incidents were unwanted events and made things difficult for Berwald. He needed a replacement for these two positions and he needed them now. He rubbed his face tiredly, knocking his glasses askew. What was he to do?

The captain was hired by his father, and the secretary was also his father's. Then, when his father died, they stayed with the younger lord to help him along. Both were loyal, good men.
And now they were dead.
It was not an encouraging situation.
Berwald ran his fingers through his hair, eyelids drooping. He'd have to go to sleep soon; all the stress was building up and he wasn't getting a good sleep lately. Before undressing for bed he went down on his knees and prayed. He prayed for a miracle, for God to send him someone who could help. Then he undressed and went to sleep.

When he woke, it was in the middle of the night to a knock on his door. Grumbling, he didn't bother to clothe his naked body before answering the door. The one who knocked was his manservant, Emil. The boy of nineteen winters had a face of ice with hair nearly the same shade.
"Sir." Emil said, "They've struck again." Berwald cursed loudly, and ran back into his room to dress.
Ten minutes later, Berwald was dressed and mounted on his great stallion in the castle courtyard; the whole castle was awake and moving, after hearing about the bandit attack. Berwald reviewed the information he knew as he ordered the troops to assemble. That was normally the captain of the guard's job, but he was gone so it fell temporarily to Berwald to do so. The bandits called themselves 'Vikings' even though they had no ships for conquest. They were downright vicious though, stealing from even those who had no money. And since they were in the Oxenstierna territory, it was up to the Lord Berwald to stop them. And stop them he would.
"Ride out!" he roared and the soldiers jerked into motion. They were used to the high, battlefield-carrying voice of Captain Henrikki, and were unfamiliar to their Lord Berwald's gruff bark. When they had spoken with the Lord, he had been speaking in short sentences, almost as if he abhorred speaking at all. They were all loyal to him though, almost to a fault. Most had been picked up from old, tattered villages, ones the other lords had abandoned way far north in favor of heading south. Lord Berwald had stayed though, and offered them and their families a place to stay. Their wives bore sons who would grow up to serve Lord Berwald's children as the soldiers had their father. As their horses picked up pace outside of the castle walls, all the soldiers focused on calming themselves, preparing for the carnage they'd see ahead. And maybe even a battle.