The bushes rustled with birds. The slope of the ravine, ending in an emerald green expanse of water, was overgrown, a dense mass of tamarix and acacias, a perfect place to nest and prey. No wonder, then, that they were full of birds. Stubborn larks, doves, and storks chirping, every sound resonated, every moment the sonorous wail of a crow. Buzzards warning of rain, though Barrats, instinctively glancing towards the sky. There were no clouds. But the crows were calling. They could use a little rain at last. The place in front of the ravine was an excellent post, giving potential for a successful hunt, especially here in the desert, a wild stretch full of beasts. The few traders who occasionally strolled past rarely hunted, and men even more rarely dared to venture here. Here, an avid hunter of meat or hides itself became the object of hunting. The creatures here, thirsty for any liquid wether it be water or blood, had no mercy for intruders. The trio had experienced this first hand.

In any case, animals were not lacking near this oasis. However, Barrats, Fel, and Roals had laid in ambush for nearly all of noon and still they had not spent a single arrow. They could not hunt on your feet here – a drought had prevailed for several months leaving the leaves crisp underfoot, dry branches creaked with every step, despite the presence of the lake. Under such conditions, only stillness in the ambush could lead to eventual success and reward. A butterfly delicately landed itself on the neck of Barrats's bow. Unflinching, he watched it as it folded and unfolded its wings, looking simultaneously at his bow, a new acquisition, which he had still not ceased to find pleasure in. Although he was a beloved writer and up-and-coming statesman by trade, he loved a good weapon, and that weapon which he held was the best of the best in such dire times.

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From a mound of brush, a twig snapped. The birds launched their furious noise. The larks and storks broke into flight, their tail feathers flashing white. Barrats gasped. Finally. A crow squealed. Again, a twig snapped. He adjusted the worn-to-a-shine leather protector on his left forearm, held together with a bunch of grips attached to a loop. He plunged a hand into the quiver on his thigh. Instinctively, out of habit he inspected the blade tip and fletching. The blades, along with the bow itself, were a result of their latest experience with bandits – he choose on average just one out of ten offered to him - but he always feathered the arrows himself. With most commercially available ready-made arrows, the feathers were too short and arranged directly over the pole, while Barrats applied his to find in a spiral, lying no shorter than five inches.

He readied an arrow onto the string of the bow and looked out over the ravine inbetween a patch of verdant palm trunks with clusters of dates which stood out from the rest of the trees. The larks flew not far away, resuming their song.
Come on, little deer, she thought, lifting and stretching the bow. [i]Come on. I'm ready.[/i]
But the antelope moved away from the ravine, towards the marshy springs flowing into the water. The young antelope rose from the valley. A beautiful beast. At a glance it could weigh forty pounds. He raised his head, pricked up his ears, then turned to the brush and crunched a few leaves.

It was easier to shoot it from behind. If it weren't for the trunk covering his target Barrats would have fired without hesitation. Upon hitting the thigh, it would sever the artery, and the animal would fall soon after. He waited, not releasing the chord.
The deer again raised its head, took a step, went behind the trunk – advancing slightly. Barrats, maintaining the bow at full stretch, cursed silently. A shot from the front might fail: instead of planting in the lung, the tip could pierce the stomach. He waited, holding his breath, feeling the salty taste of the chord at the corners of his lips. This was one, almost inestimable advantage of his bow - a heavier weapon or one less perfect, he could not have held for so long in suspense, without the risk of hand fatigue and poor accuracy in his shot.

Fortunately, the deer lowered his head, nibbling a few blades of grass that sprang from the moss, turning sideways. Barrats breathed calmly, aimed for the chest, and gently released the bowstring with his fingers. But he did not hear the snap that was expected of the ribs pierced by the arrow. The deer jumped up, kicked and disappeared to the sound of dry branches and trampled leaves. For a few heartbeats Barrats stood motionless, like a marble statue of a petrified god in the forest. Only when all the noises had subsided, he removed his right hand from his left cheek, lowering the bow. Noting the escape route of the animal in the corner of his memory, he sat quietly, propping his back against the trunk. He was an experienced hunter, he had trotted in from the woods since childhood, having shot his first deer at eleven, and a fourteen-horns stag - an extremely happy hunting omen - on his fourteenth birthday.

But experience had taught him that pursuit of a wounded animal was pointless. If he had hit well, the deer would had fallen no more than two hundred paces from the escape route. If he had hit badly - in fact he could not rule out such a possibility - rushing could only make matters worse. After a flight in panic, a badly injured animal, undisturbed will slow its pace. A hunted animal will race at breakneck speed and not slow down for quite some time. He had half an hour at least. He stuck between his teeth a blade of grass he had pulled from the ground and returned to the makeshift encampment his compatriots had organized at the end of the slope.

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The two of them said nothing, just watched as Barrats dismounted, then led his horse to the water and retrieved the leather bucket so that he could drink. For a moment or so the only sound was the soft bump of the bucket on an underwater rock as the liquid was fetched, then the slurping as the horse drank. Barrats drank too. He sipped then gulped, wetting the sizable beard he'd acquired from the two week journey and wiping his face. He filled his flasks and took water to the two other horses, making sure to tether them both. When he looked at the duo they were curled up asleep, their heads on their packs, robes wrapped around them, hoods pulled up and arms resting on their provisional pillows. Barrats took a blanket from his own pack, found a spot on the other side of the lake, and laid down to sleep, intending to wake up in time to find his target again.