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Gyowi ran as fast as she could down the moonlit cobblestone street. She was furious. Furious with Petrovoch for pawing at her, furious with her mother for inviting him into their home, and furious with herself for not running away earlier. She gritted her teeth and ran harder. It was when she saw the lights of the riverbank that Gyowi realized she still held her dagger in her right hand. The bloody blade glinted in the distant torchlight, bringing back in sharp relief the events earlier that night.

She had awoken to the sounds of her mother and her mother's lover, laughing raucously as they entered the home. Gyowi had rolled over and covered her head with the blanket, doing her best to ignore the sounds of lovemaking in the next room. She had finally drifted off to sleep and was dreaming of hunting with her father, when she heard Petrovoch's voice.

"Little sweet one," he said, his wine-soaked breath on the back of her neck. "Did you know you're a very pretty girl?"

Gyowi was wide awake now, her muscles taut, senses alert. She thought this might happen, had prepared for it. Her mother had probably passed out, as she often did when she drank too much. Petrovoch had been winking at and complimenting her for days now - as had other "friends" of her mother's ever since Gyowi's breasts had started budding. Still, she was terrified. It was one thing to imagine a disgusting, hairy man trying to touch you, quite another to actually experience it.

"Let me look at you," he said, pulling the blanket back.

The hunting dagger her father had given her was under her pillow. "Don't hesitate to use this if you ever feel threatened," he had told her. She gripped it firmly now, and executed a move she had practiced many times: she sprang off the bedroll and in one smooth motion turned and slashed. Petrovoch's hands were reaching out to grope her. The blade cut into both, drawing blood. He reeled back, screaming.

Gyowi ran toward the door. Her wooden chest was next to the entrance. She kicked the lid open and grabbed her traveling cloak and sack with her left hand - packed and ready for just such a departure. Her bow was leaning against the wall, her quiver hanging above it; she hooked them both with her right hand. Another kick opened the door latch and she bounded down the stairs.

Gyowi began to tire and her mind returned to the present. The river was very close. She could see soldiers loading boats, and hear their voices. What was she doing? She was a girl of twelve, barefoot, dressed

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