The trees formed a thick screen between him and the Genovesans. He was further away from them than he’d like to be. If he had to shoot, his arrow could be deflected by any one of a dozen trees or branches. He estimated that he was sixty metres out, and he really needed to get closer to be sure of his shot.
Whatever it was that he’d heard moving a few seconds ago, and he assumed it was Halt moving into cover, had attracted their full attention. There was no risk they’d see him if he moved, unless he was stupid enough to step on a dry branch. He flicked the cover flap away from his quiver and drew an arrow, nocking it onto the bowstring. Then he stepped, light-footed as a fox, out from behind the tree that sheltered him and began to close in on the two crossbowmen.
Five metres. Ten. Another five. Still they kept their full attention on the trees to his right. If they hadn’t been watching so intently, there was a chance they might have seen him in their peripheral vision. He was approaching them on an angle, just behind their right side, not from directly behind. But he could tell by their body language that they were completely focused away from him. They were like two hunting dogs, bodies almost quivering with excitement and tension as they caught the first scent of their quarry.

Halt's Peril, Chapter 22