The pressure was bearing down on Tarbon. Never before had he had such stiff competition. Normally, even if he shot poorly, he still won. Durbar, however, was incredibly accurate. The only reason Tarbon was still in the match was because of a faulty arrow. Sweat poured down his face and his palms were moist. The target suddenly looked blurry to him. With his senses unreliable the archery captain was forced to fire from instinct alone.
Durbar, on the other hand, had nothing to lose. None of the people there knew him, nor did he care for any of them. He had nothing to prove to anyone. The only reason he was there was because of an overzealous prince. There was virtually no pressure to make a shot and win. He knew how good he was and knew that if he was using his own arrows he may have had a perfect score at that point.
Tarbon stepped to the line to fire shot ten. He glared down the range considering the slight breeze. His heart beat too hard and his breath was too fast. All he could think of was beating the Sureshot. Everyone waited in anticipation. Hardly a breath could be heard from the crowd. Finally, Tarbon drew back his bow and held it a second to try to get the perfect aim. At last he released his string and his shot sailed down range and hit the second circle scoring eight points giving him a total of ninety. The crowd cheered their captain, but Durbar had one shot remaining.