There was a suffocating thickness in the air as the hunting ground came into view. At the first sound of the horn, the riders immediately picked up speed and one hundred horses thundered up the hill, racing each other toward the bowl that lay up ahead. Hasheem drew a long breath to steady his nerves as the ground underneath him rumbled, and was hit with a raw, overpowering scent produced by a mixture of sweat, saliva, and freshly oiled leather that mingled with the horses' strong odor. Nothing raised your pulse and snapped your mind into place faster than that stench of excitement. 'Men,' Dee had once said, 'are creatures driven by a desire to prove themselves through danger, more so in the presence of other males.'

It was stupid, but true nonetheless, and why he was where he was, riding at killing speed to catch up with Nazir, not quite to get out of danger, no, not completely. There was an undeniable yearning in the pit of his stomach, a thrill so close to seeing a beautiful, naked woman that made it near impossible to retreat in the face of danger. He could see fear in the riders around him that matched his—fear, of course, was what made it so exciting. It was written on their faces, in how tightly they held the rein, in the stiffness of their shoulders. They were all smiling and breathing as hard as their horses, almost as if they were riding a woman and were getting close to reaching climax.

The horn continued, piercing through and rising above the deafening roar of the stampede and the hammering beat of his heart, carrying with it a promise of death that awaited them in the valley, of madness that was about to erupt.

They reached the top of the hill, and Hasheem realized with a punch of disappointment in his stomach that the plain below was empty. Not a single gazelle was seen on the ground or around it. Not a soul.

Where are they?

Just then, another horn sounded from the opposite direction, and the rider next to him smiled, showing a full row of teeth as he shortened the reins and secured it onto the saddle.

From the eastern slope, the gazelles poured in, numbering near a hundred. Behind them, a different group of riders was driving them hard, pushing them forward into the valley. Hasheem turned and looked around him for a signal to slow down to give the hunters time to ready their bows and didn't find it. The riders continued at full speed as they descended into the plain, heading straight for the herd. One hundred galloping horses were about to clash head-on into as many gazelles on a stampede. On purpose.

This is suicide, Hasheem swore under his breath, staring in disbelief at the catastrophe that was about to unfold.

At the very front, about a hundred paces before they clashed into the herd, Nazir unslung his bow and nocked an arrow. He did so on a galloping horse, while standing high on the stirrups, back straight as a spear. The action was followed promptly by the riders behind him who appeared to have copied the stance with incredible ease without slowing down. They watched in silence, bow in hand, steering the horses with their knees as their khumar made his aim. The feathers were painted blue and gold, Hasheem noticed, like the sash he was wearing. This was, after all, a ceremony as much as a game. The gazelles were to be offered to the goddess tonight. It was why they hunted only adult males.

Hasheem held his breath as he watched, still galloping hard toward the herd, and realized that the other riders, too, were all staring at Nazir. It was the first time he was leading the hunt, and the first ceremonial shot had to be done right. A defining moment for Nazir that would stay with him for as long as he was their khumar, and most likely as kha'a. A test he had to pass in front of a hundred spectators. Hasheem's stomach churned at the thought. Don't miss, he caught himself praying—something he didn't do very often. Don't fucking miss.

Nazir's hands shook a little. He paused. Checked himself. Drew a breath. Exhaled. Those hands were steady now, gripped tight and sure on the curve of his bow and the shaft in it. High on his galloping stallion, his body barely moved with the motion as he fixed his eyes on the target. A gust of wind rushed through the valley, and Nazir's long silver hair danced wildly behind him as he pushed forward, his attention focused only on one thing and one thing only—the life he was about to bring to an end.

And in that short moment of suspended time, when one could almost sense the arrival of Death that came for its offerings, Nazir flicked his fingers, and released the arrow.

It pierced through the air, flying straight into the herd and buried itself into the throat of a gazelle, killing it instantly. The hunters erupted into a high-pitched battle cry as they drove their mounts forward, crashing into the stampede made up of a hundred panicking animals. In a blink of an eye, arrows were being loosed in all directions and almost at once. Around him, horses were running at full speed, chasing gazelles that zig zagged around other riders, causing havoc in the small, confined space of the valley. Men were shouting, yelling at each other to get out of the way, and amidst all this, he was supposed to shoot down an animal and ride out with his life and his limbs intact. More importantly, he had to get Summer out of this madness without a scratch or risk being skinned alive by Djari. One could definitely die doing this (or afterward in his case), and he wondered how many usually did every Raviyani.

There was only one way out of this mess, Hasheem realized with a groan, which was simply to get out of it as soon as it was humanly possible.

Without wasting anymore time, Hasheem unslung his bow, fitted an arrow, and shot at a gazelle. It didn't touch him—wasn't supposed to—but it landed close to a horse, causing it to jump to the side, nearly throwing its rider off its back. The rider swore a string of words that had something to do with his mother as he righted himself on the saddle. By the time the hunt was over, Hasheem figured he could become the most hated man on that side of the peninsula.

There were four shots left in his quiver. All hunters including the khumar were allowed just five arrows, all fitted with blue and yellow feathers resembling those of Nazir's, each one painted with a specific number on the shaft to identify the rider who made the kill. It meant that he would have to shoot four more times in the middle of it without hitting a horse, a man, or a female gazelle before he could leave the field with some honor intact. Easier said than done, considering what had happened on the first shot.

The truth was, he had expected it to be a one-sided mass slaughter—a hundred riders taking his pick from just as many gazelles. The reality, as much as it pleased him, was far more complicated. They hunted on a galloping horse with a bow in hand, steering with only their knees to dodge other riders cutting closely in front or running into them in the middle of what could only be described as utter chaos. And in the midst of all this, one was expected to carefully pick out a male gazelle, identifiable only by the white blaze on their forehead, which required facing it head-on to be certain. As close as they were, the gazelles were no bigger than the size of a small fox and quicker than their horses. By the time one could get close enough to identify a male target, it was almost always too late to make a proper aim at the animal.

All the while, one could only pray that the fellow archers were as good as they were meant to be and that their arrows didn't end up halfway in your thigh or in the flank of your horse. The latter would also result in a bad fall, followed by being trampled to death by the other horses or the gazelles you were meant to hunt. It wasn't even hunting. This was more like battle, where carelessness or a small mistake could kill you.

And so Hasheem did the only thing he could do to save Djari's horse, which was to shoot his arrows ceremoniously to empty his quiver and ride out of the hunting ground as soon as it was done. The original task was impossible, as far as he was concerned.

And yet, sitting atop Summer on the slope, looking down at the scene below, Hasheem realized it wasn't, not to these people. These warriors—in gray for that matter—were accomplishing all this with such unreasonable ease and humor that it was becoming more and more ridiculous to Hasheem the longer he watched. While very few had managed to shoot down a gazelle, no one had died or seemed to be dying despite the chaos and the impossibility of it. All the hunters took great care before releasing their shots and would often allow the gazelles to get away rather than risk injuring other riders or their horses. Apparently, it was more embarrassing to accidentally shoot someone than to go home empty handed, Hasheem had later been told. Some did miss, however, and while he found himself wincing every time a rider came limping out of the plain with an arrow wound, the men on the slope who'd already emptied their quivers were seen placing bets as to which loser's arrow it was that they saw embedded in someone's thigh or other more hilarious body parts.

Which was what Nazir was doing, leaning his weight on one side of the saddle listening to Khali's suggestion regarding whose arrow they'd just seen sticking out of his cousin's butt.

"How many did you get?" Nazir asked, having noticed his presence for the first time on the slope.

Hasheem raised a brow. "Grays or gazelles?"

Nazir chuckled. "Both."

"None and none," he replied. "I got myself out with my ass intact, does that count?"

That earned him a laugh from both the khumar and the young Gray by his side. Hasheem glanced at the boy's quiver and wondered how many of those arrows had been shot ceremoniously and how quickly it had taken him to finish shooting the rest after knowing Nazir had emptied his. Between gazelles and Nazir, there was no question which one of the two was the better catch, if one were smart enough.

"How many did you two get?" he asked, guiding Summer to stand closer to Nazir.

"I got two. Khali shot one," Nazir replied lightly, then added with a touch of stress in his tone, "Looks like we're going to be short today."

Short meant that there was a certain number they were supposed to bring back. That was new information to him. "How many are you supposed to get?"

"Twenty-five to thirty gazelles is good," Nazir said, keeping his eyes on the valley down below. "Anything below twenty is...unfavorable."

Unfavorable wasn't good for a khumar's first time leading the hunt, Hasheem thought and began to regret having shot those arrows so ceremoniously. He looked down at the plain below and counted the gazelles and hunters. There were about fifteen downed gazelles that he could see and about twenty of the latter left. There was still a good chance, wasn't it?

"How many can one bring down on average? Given more room?" He asked.

"About five to one, if we're lucky."

Hasheem swore. "Hunters to gazelles?" That would give them just four more, if they were lucky.

Nazir nodded. "Unless we have really good archers down there still. The gazelles have more room to run."

It was true, now that he looked again. With fewer riders, the field was wider now and a large number of gazelles had already fled the valley. The best chance was at the beginning of the hunt, and a truly competent archer would have already taken his shots. One could do that very effectively in that chaos if he could aim and release fast and accurately enough in quick successions.

"What's the most someone had shot down in a day?"

Nazir drew a breath. "Four."

Hasheem's eyes went wide. Four out of five. That was one hell of an archer. "And you didn't bring him?"

"I didn't bring her," said Nazir, sighing heavily. "That was Djari's number earlier this year."

Of course. Djari was their best archer, and could ride like she had been born on a saddle. This would have been a perfect playground for Djari, if only she could come. "Why didn't you?"

Nazir looked a little uncomfortable about answering that question. "It would have taken five Gray escorts," he said, still fixing his gaze on the action below. "Five of our best who would miss out on the hunt..."

Five Grays who would have preferred to hunt than to guard a girl. "And they weren't willing," Hasheem finished the sentence. It wasn't hard to arrive at the conclusion. One complaint and he could see Djari taking it as her duty to opt out of the event. Djari was Djari. Responsibility came first, always.

Before he could voice his protest, Nazir turned swiftly to the sound of a different horn coming from the western side of the valley.

Khali swore, turning to the same direction.

"They're early," Nazir said lightly, too lightly for anything good to come out of it.

Being new to the hunt, Hasheem didn't quite understand what was happening. What he knew for certain, however, was that Nazir's expression at that moment was going to become one of his nightmares.