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The Tyrant's Tomb

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“So…let’s talk about how to aim.” My voice cracked, naturally. “Wide

stance. Full draw. Then find your target with your dominant eye. Or, in

Jacob’s case, with your one working eye. Aim along your sight pin, if you

have one.”

“I don’t have a sight pin,” said Marcus.

“It’s the little circle thingie right there.” Lavinia showed him.

“I have a sight pin,” Marcus corrected himself.

“Then you let fly,” I said. “Like this.”

I shot at the nearest target—then at the target next farthest out, then at the

next—firing again and again in a kind of trance.

Only after my twentieth shot did I realize I’d landed all bull’s-eyes, two

in each target, the farthest about two hundred yards away. Child’s play for

Apollo. For Lester, quite impossible.

The legionnaires stared at me, their mouths hanging open.

“We’re supposed to do that?” Dakota demanded.

Lavinia punched my forearm. “See, you guys? I told you Apollo doesn’t

suck that much!”

I had to agree with her. I felt oddly not suckish.

The display of marksmanship hadn’t drained my energy. Nor did it feel

like the temporary bursts of godly power I’d experienced before. I was

tempted to ask for another quiver to see if I could keep shooting at the same

skill level, but I was afraid to press my luck.

“So…” I faltered. “I, uh, don’t expect you to be that good right away. I

was only demonstrating what’s possible with a lot of practice. Let’s give it a

try, shall we?”

I was relieved to take the focus off myself. I organized the cohort into a

firing line and made my way down the ranks, offering advice. Despite his

warped arrows, Dakota was not terrible. He actually hit the target a few

times. Jacob managed not to blind himself in the other eye. Thomas and

Marcus sent most of their arrows skittering across the dirt, ricocheting off

rocks and into the trenches, which elicited shouts of “Hey, watch it!” from

the ditch-digging Fourth Cohort.

After an hour of frustration with a regular bow, Lavinia gave up and

pulled out her manubalista. Her first bolt knocked down the fifty-yard target.

“Why do you insist on using that slow-loading monstrosity?” I asked. “If

you’re so ADHD, wouldn’t a regular bow give you more instant

satisfaction?”

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