Academy of Death

“I’m not defensive,” he spat defensively, his muscles aching and bruised, arms red from blow after blow of the quarterstaff.

“Yes, you are.” sighed the instructor. “I gave you three opportunities to strike, and I know you saw them too, but yet you just stumble away. Why?”

Saying nothing and attempting to stand up, the boy raised his arms, wary of the startling speed of the instructor, a roughly million-year-old man, with greying hair, glasses, gnarled hands, a short and well-kept goatee on the tip of his chin – just to give you a sense of what he looked like. He was an all right teacher though, and a nice man who liked to read books by the school library’s open fireplace. But the old man was fast. And James already knew that.

[ Read all Fighting Words contributions here ]

The staff fell like lightning through the air, smashing the sandy floor where James had been moments earlier. He wobbled slightly on unsteady legs but stayed well away from the instructor and his staff of death. Smiling lightly, the instructor whipped the wooden staff through the sandy floor, spraying sand into James’s eyes. Momentarily blinded, he cried out and tried to wipe the sand away, only realising his error when the instructor sent him sprawling with a punch that didn’t seem physically possible from a man so old.

Your top stories on Thursday

---

Relations with Drew Harris have never been worse, say gardaí

---

Ciarán Murphy: Whether you’re from Waterford, Donegal or anywhere else, playing intercounty is a fairly noble ambition

---

We are at last creating AI approaching human intellect but the underpinnings are insubstantial

---

Tumbling head over heels, only coming to a stop when he hit one of the eight wooden posts that held up the ceiling, James lay defeated, winded, and with a rapidly bruising arm. He heard some of the other boys laughing in the stands as the instructor walked over, offering a helping hand that James gladly took.

“Not bad, James,” commented the instructor. “Just, when you see an opportunity, don’t be afraid to take it.”

Nodding and nursing his arm, James stumbled off the arena’s sandy floor, stepping up on to the wooden steps that led to the stands. The training arena was a sort of octagonal amphitheatre, with tiered seating surrounding the central sandpit. The arena was a bit of overkill considering there were generally only about twenty or so kids, plus an instructor, there at maximum. There was an opening in the ceiling above the pit, supposedly to provide sunlight, even though it was closed at all times save for a few short hours in the summer when the air got too stuffy for combat lessons.

Pushing aside a low-hanging banner, James collapsed on a bench, draining his entire water bottle, enjoying its coldness as he splashed some on his face. Another boy passed under the banner, heading down to the sandpit. He was a Brute, a gang known for being, well, brutes. Tall and powerful, defined muscles rippling under a tightfitting shirt. Silver chain around his neck. Typical. Passing a group on the way down, you could see the boys physically move away, either through intimidation, or the smell of musky deodorant.

Sighing, James sat up and limped to the random freezer at the top of the amphitheatre that the coach used to store bags of frozen peas and rock-solid bottles of water that people mostly just used as makeshift skates to slide around the halls. Choosing a bag of peas and hissing as he pressed it against his rapidly purpling arm, James grabbed his kit bag and left the training room.

The rest of the week became a blur – combat classes, weaponry classes, 50-ways-to-kill-someone classes ... maths. The weird subjects began to mix in and become normal ones. Although James and a few others wondered why they were being taught how to kill someone alongside learning algebra, no one thought to question it. Until winter began closing in, with frost latching to the windows. The campus was coated in a fluffy layer of powdery snow.

The academy was located near the summit of a mountain and a new teacher was brought in for snow survival, guerrilla tactics and skiing lessons. Supposedly to make them more well rounded and good at adapting to anything, but there must have been something behind that, because from that point on, James began to notice strange people talking to the headmaster late at night in his office, most of whom were well dressed, with an armed bodyguard.

Now, James didn’t know, or rather, couldn’t remember, what other schools were like, but was pretty sure people didn’t just blatantly carry loaded guns on their person. Whatever the case, something was up and someone was going to have to do something. And no one else was going to so, unfortunately, that left it up to James.