Chapter 3:

Tino and Ilta helped the shepherd for the day. After losing a guessing game, Ilta was the one milking the goats and taking care of the flock. Tino went to collect wood and spent time in the warm kitchen, cooking. At the end of the day, they collected a bag that contained frozen meat, and a small, near-frozen wheel of cheese covered in a thin cloth. There was also a wineskin filled with water. Tino and Ilta slept again in the barn, waking before dawn and leaving without a word. They said nothing.
"The family didn't find out our names or our sex." Tino said brightly, after they had travels miles in silence. His childhood friend tweaked her mouth, forming a half-scowl.
"If the others find them, it won't matter much. How often do you think they get visitors up here in the middle of nowhere? They'll know we stuck to unused paths, and will follow our tracks right there. Damn, there's just no escaping them is there? Damn it damn it damn it!" Tino winced. It was his fault they had to leave the village; it was Tino's fault that Ilta had to leave her family, her friends, and her lover behind. It happened in Russia when Tino made a fatal mistake.

He was the type of assassin to take his target down from behind, an arrow in the back to end things. Tino was no stranger to killing. But this assignment was different, he was to go after the target and confront him like Ilta normally did.
The target was a 9 year old boy.
He was hired by the Streltsy to kill this boy, nameless and innocently asleep.
And Tino couldn't do it.
He ran instead.
That was a forbidden act in the village. By running, he left a job incomplete, with a chance he was seen, even if the boy was fast asleep. But Tino had revealed his face, a face that belonged to their assassin group, Kasvoton, the Faceless. So Tino had to die to keep the members a secret. Ilta had helped Tino escape, but was spotted and had fled with him. The Finnish man had almost no doubt that they would be hunted down and killed because despite their young age, both Ilta and Tino were talented killers. Talent that could be used against them.
They had to do the only thing they could: run and keep running.

Ilta was stuffing more snow into their wineskin when they heard it.
Men.
The only cover the barren winter landscape provided were scant rocks, skinny trees and . . .
"Snowdrift." Ilta hissed and the two dived behind a particularly large one. Ilta closed her eyes and listened. "About twenty. Too many for us to handle. Lugging things. Some horses." Her eyes flashed open. "Bandits or traders. I guess we'll tell from their clothes when they pass." Tino heard raucous laughter and bawdy jokes and songs.
"They're bandits." He determined, "Their words and slurred and they are too loud. Drunk, most likely." Tino shook his head, "Traders would never do this." Ilta peeked over the ridge.
"You're right. They could be ambushed or something if they weren't careful." She settled back. "They're behind the copse of trees over there. If we're quite enough, we can skirt them and continue." She shifted from sitting to a squat, something Tino did as well. "I doubt they remembered scouts."
"Let's go." Tino said and they raced off. Their weight evenly distributed as to lessen the sound of crunching ice.
"Whassthat?" came a loud yell. Ilta cursed silently.
"Hey! I think its peo'le!"
"Run. Fast as you can. Don't look back." Ilta said. Tino nodded and their carefully quiet steps changed until they were flying across the wooded landscape.
"There they are! Af'er 'em!"

Berwald was smiling, though it was miniscule. Ander had assembled his men perfectly, and equal number of trackers and soldiers, all of whom had experience in wooded areas, where the bandits had escaped into. He knew the tracks were at least a day old, which would normally spell disaster seeing as they had no tracking hounds (not that'd they help much: snow was water). But it was a certain bottle that made Berwald smile. Holding the alcohol container in his gloved hand, he could smell it was the cheap stuff, but strong. Ander was not smiling, though the men were. As Berwald signaled for them to move out, Ander came up beside his Lord.
"This can't be the Vikings." He said quietly, "They'd never be so dumb as to drink while escaping."
Berwald had to agree, and though it quelled his eagerness, it didn't completely disappear.
"We will still wipe out scum, Ander." He said gruffly; Ander, though looking unsatisfied, nodded and fell back to speak to a scout that had returned to report.

It was hours later, when the troops and horses were resting, when a scout came back. Due to his training, he made a valiant effort to appear calm, but it was clear he was excited. The men picked up on the scent eagerly; they could tell this man had information. The end of their hunt was nearing. He fell to one knee before Berwald with his head bowed, waiting for permission to speak. Berwald looked at the man while eating a piece of hard bread and grunted, giving permission.
"The tracks went a while more north-eastward, but they backtracked. I couldn't tell for a while what caused it, but in the end." He held up a piece of cloth, bright blue in color. "According to what the villagers said, the bandits were dressed in furs. They were chasing someone, or some ones. I can only assume some of the village maids they kidnapped have escaped." The scout smiled. "Now they head south-eastward." Berwald stood, and didn't have to say anything before the men were cleaning and mounting up. The tall, ocean-eyed Swedish man allowed himself a small smile.
The end of the hunt was coming.

As the scouts came in, they confirmed what the first scout said: a sudden chase south-eastward. It was a while before the last scout came he reported that it wasn't two females, but rather two small males. He had seen them running. From what he said, there was a blond and brunette and they were picking off the bandits one by one before running again. That's why the scout was late; he was watching the couple kill a bandit. From the way the scout described it, the brunette would draw them off and an arrow would come sailing out of nowhere to hit the bandit, normally straight in the throat, presumably by the blond. If a bandit dodged, then the brunette could dash close, a flash of metal, and the horse was down, blood streaming from its throat. The rider would be falling as well, the saddle straps cut. Through the confusion, the brunette would run and disappear into the trees again, despite the lack of cover. There were several close hits, but the scout was confident that the brunette got away.
"That's not normal." Ander said, at the end, "That's really not normal."
"Regardless, it just makes our job easier. We have to go faster."
Ander nodded and signaled the men.
Soon.