...A Tarn warrior stepped out of the river-edge willows. He held a bow at the ready, aimed toward Vachel, but turned to eye the girl. Perhaps he had noticed an errant strand of red hair before she had repositioned her cap.

Vachel had already knocked arrow to string and he let fly. The Tarn had been standing at too great an angle. The arrow struck his leather vest and glanced away. As Vachel snatched a second arrow, the Tarn grinned broadly and released his own.

It flew wide. Under a hail of flung stones, the warrior had stumbled backward into the stream. Stunned, he struggled for handholds on the moss-slippery rocks, but within moments, the swift-flowing current carried his thrashing body over the rim of the waterfall.

Megedehna, a large rock clutched in her right hand, crouched at stream edge.

As Vachel ran down the slope toward her, a second figure emerged from the willows. The warrior's minion faced Vachel, who stopped abruptly and raised his weapon.

For an instant the two stared at each other over drawn bows. The Tarn was a boy, no older than Vachel. Stoutly-built, with steady eye and resolute expression. Vachel saw his hesitation, read his reluctance to release the arrow. Yet the young minion was a warrior-in-training and must do what he'd been taught. The muscles of his arm tensed. The fingers grasping the arrow whitened.

"No!" Megedehna shrieked.

Two arrows flew. That of the Tarn boy whispered past Vachel's ear. His own shaft pierced the minion's upper right arm. The Tarn cried out, and his bow fell from a hand gone limp with pain.

With his left hand, he drew his bodkin from his belt sheath, and lifted it to drive into his own belly. But his movement was awkward and Megedehna sprang forward in time to turn the weapon aside.

By now Vachel was close enough to snatch the bodkin from the boy's grasp. The Tarn dropped to his knees and lifted his face to the sky, baring his throat for the blade. "Kill me," he begged. "I cannot live with my shame."

With shaking hands, Vachel fingered the knife he held. What's wrong with me? he thought. Why do I tremble at prospect of ending my enemy's life? How can I be a warrior like my father if I cannot set blade to flesh?

"Get up!" he commanded. "You will be my prisoner, just as I planned."