Ferro frowned over at him, then up at the few birds circling above. She shrugged her bow off her shoulder.
'Hah!' chuckled Logen. 'Good luck.' He watched her slide an arrow smoothly out from her quiver. Futile gesture. Even Harding Grim could never have made that shot, and he was the best man Logen had ever seen with a bow. He watched Ferro nock her shaft to the curved wood, back arched, yellow eyes fixed on the gliding shapes overhead.
'You'll never bag one of those, not in a thousand years of trying.' She pulled back the string. 'Waste of a shaft!' he shouted.
'You've got to be realistic about these things!' Probably the arrow would drop back down and stab him in the face. Or stick his horse through the neck, so it died and fell over and crushed him under it. A fitting end to this nightmare of a journey. A moment later one of the birds tumbled down into the grass, Ferro's arrow stuck right through it.
'No,' he whispered, gawping open-mouthed at her as she bent the bow again. Another arrow sailed up into the grey sky. Another bird flopped to the earth, just beside the first. Logen stared at it, disbelieving. 'No!'
'Don't tell me you haven't seen stranger things,' said Bayaz. 'A man who talks to spirits, who travels with Magi, the most feared man in all the North?'
Logen pulled his horse up and slithered down from the saddle. He walked through the long grass, bent down on wobbly, aching legs and picked up one of the birds. The shaft had stuck it right through the centre of the breast. If Logen had stabbed it with the arrow at a distance of a foot, he could hardly have done it more neatly. 'That's wrong.'
- Before They Are Hanged, Part I, Campfire Politics