The Archer's Heart by Astrid Amara

sounding the alarm for the city guards?” Jandu cried.
    Keshan glared at Jandu like he was insane. “This is a Suya temple.” A loud thump shuddered against the door, causing the wood to bulge inwards. Keshan flew forward towards the fearful crowd.
    “They’re breaking the door!” someone cried.
    “This is ridiculous,” Jandu said. His bewilderment had cleared, and now he was just angry. “All I wanted to do was go and see a show, and now these bastards ruin it. Fuck this. Let’s go get them.”
    Keshan narrowed his eyes. “There may be as many as twenty men out there, Jandu.”
    “I don’t care,” Jandu said. “I’m a fucking prince and I don’t pay robbers. These bastards picked the wrong temple today.”
    Jandu wished he wore armor, and almost laughed at the thought. That would show him for making fun of Triya who dressed in helmets and breastplates just to attend festivities. He spotted an iron breastplate, which was part of the decorative armor of the Prophet Bandruban. He pushed his way through the crowd and untied the leather bands from the statue, grabbing the breastplate and the dull, decorative sword from the statue’s hand. He returned to the door, which now pulsed and groaned with each ram from the outside. Smoke poured over the wall, choking the crowd trapped in the temple.
    “Put this on,” Jandu demanded, throwing Keshan the breastplate.
    Keshan shook his head. “You wear it!”
    “I’ll be fine. Hurry.”
    Keshan glared at Jandu again, but quickly strapped on the breastplate. It was too large for him, and the metal was cheap,  but it would be better than nothing. Jandu looked at the dull, ornamental sword. He gave Keshan his own sword instead, keeping the prophet’s sword for himself.
    Keshan in armor was a strange sight—such a slim body in such bulky attire. Jandu found his mind drawn to it. More fiery torches rained down over the temple wall. People scattered and screamed.
    Jandu drew his sword. “You ready, Keshan?”
    Keshan nodded. He turned to the crowd. “Stay back! Back away from the door! Everyone stay inside!” He placed his hands on the bolt.
    “If I use a sharta, are you going to be angry?” Jandu asked suddenly.
    “There is a time and place for magical weapons. And this is both of them.”
    Jandu closed his eyes and brought his hands together. He visualized the Barunazsharta in his mind, focusing all his thoughts on the poetry of the weapon.
    And then he spoke. Quickly, quietly, he whispered the words he needed. He groped on the ground for a stone, which he spat the sharta onto, and then tossed the stone over the wall, into the midst of the robbers.
    “Close your eyes,” he told Keshan. He shut his own.
    The world exploded into light.
    Shouts of surprise filled the air as the blinding light blazed overhead. Jandu immediately opened the door and pushed himself into the cluster of robbers.
    “Lock the door! Lock the door!” he cried to Keshan behind him.
    The bandits were still blinded, rubbing at their eyes, groping for their weapons and stumbling towards Jandu.
    Keshan rushed up beside Jandu, sword drawn.
    Jandu’s skin raised in goose bumps, and he heard the soft, silent uttering of a sharta. Keshan spat out the curse so quickly that Jandu had missed which one it was.
    The men in front of them exploded backwards, propelled by a force of air. And then Keshan and Jandu charged.
    Hand to hand combat was never Jandu’s strongest skill. But he was energized this night, fuelled by the panic of the audience, by the outrage of having his evening ruined. He thrust the temple sword into the skull of one of his attackers. As the man fell, Jandu tore the sword from the man’s lifeless grip. Another robber drove in with a short knife. Jandu parried his thrust with the temple sword and then stabbed his new blade deep into the man’s chest. As the robber fell dead, Jandu saw fear kindle in the faces of his would be attackers. He threw himself upon them, slashing with both