Chapter Eight
“Asha… you’re up,” Mr Martyr calls out, and my heart thumps loudly in my chest.
I hear the surrounding students fall silent and direct their attention towards me. I stand up from the sidelines and try to control my breathing. My legs walk me slowly towards the platform, but my mind is telling me to turn and run.
Alex is breathing heavily, like a dog that can’t wait to eat its dinner. He smirks at me and mouths, ‘You’re dead, freak!’
I go cold. I try not to appear scared, not to look as weak as I feel.
I think about what my father would say before our sparring sessions: ‘Everybody has a pattern to the way they fight, a signature trademark; do they favour the right jab over the left? Which foot do they choose to lead with? How do they choose to come at their opponents?’
I just need to figure out his pattern. I am still scared, but a ray of confidence peeks through the shadows.
I step onto the platform, making sure to maintain a sufficient distance between myself and Alex.
I have seen the way he fights. ‘How does he choose to come at his opponents?’ He likes to make the first move, I say to myself, to charge.
What he lacks in skill, he makes up for in strength.
I look at his feet, his left foot slightly behind his right.
So, if he leads with his right leg, I’ll make sure to watch that one the most.
The sound of Mr Martyr’s whistle shrieks through me.
Alex glares at me hard, like a beast narrowing in on its prey, and sure enough, he charges.
I let out a slight chuckle at his predictability and gear up to dodge out of the way.
I am a foot shorter than him, so he has to change his stance and aim lower.
I consider this as I duck and dodge the two punches he throws at my head.
From my low position, I aim a sharp jab at his first pressure point, his solar plexus.
I make sure to hit him hard and fast, causing him to stumble back and clutch his chest a little winded.
This didn’t do much, just riled up the anger in him.
He takes a step back. I know he is going to charge again.
I don’t have a lot of time to react, so I retreat a few steps to create space and charge towards him.
Definitely not what he is expecting. He charges towards me too and doesn’t slow down at the sight of me.
Instead, he starts running faster. I use the slick of the sand to my advantage and slide into his charge, taking him out by his ankles.
I hear a loud thump as he lands on his front and the sound of him coughing and spluttering out the sand he has just inhaled. Now he’s really angry.
He rises fast like smoke and shakes his head, trying to shake off the attack.
He’s staring into my soul. He comes at me again, this time favouring his left jab instead of his right, throwing me off.
He catches my left eye, and I plummet into the sand below, wincing as the side of my face sears hot with pain.
I have to think quickly. I have seen what he does to his opponents when they are on the floor.
‘Every part of the battlefield can be used to your advantage. Your opponent will be thinking with their fists; you need to be thinking with your head.’
I clench my hands in the sand below and squeeze it tight between my fingers.
He’s standing over me. I spin myself over and dart a handful of sand into his eyes, causing him to shout and stumble back, lifting his hands quickly to rub at his eyes.
I use this time to jump up and swiftly jab him twice underneath his left armpit and send a kick directly into his kneecap.
I hear it crack. He falls to the ground, and a blood-curdling scream erupts from his lips as he bends down to console his fractured knee.
I retreat. I think he has learnt his lesson.
“Nice approach, Asha,” Mr Martyr beams. “Mr Rotherman, please make your way to the healing quarters.”
Alex grits his teeth and shoots me a glare as if to say, ‘This isn’t over yet,’ but gets to his feet and limps away, flinching with every step.
I can’t believe I beat him. A smile of triumph presents itself on my lips. I just got lucky. The adrenaline wears off, and the searing pain returns. I prod my fingers gingerly at the swelling around my eye. Yep, that’s gonna leave a mark.
“Well done, A’s. Now if B’s could take a stand, we can proceed with the next round of combat,” Mr Martyr calls out, clapping his hands.
In my group, there were a few standout fighters.
Alex obviously, but he stands out for all the wrong reasons, then Trina, Elijah and Carter.
They all had the most skill. Let’s just say you can tell who will and won’t be choosing Combat this year.
Mr Martyr approaches me at the end of the last battle.
“That’s some serious skill you’ve got there, Asha. You must have had a great teacher.”
I nod my head in agreement. I did.
“You should seriously consider taking combat. I think we all could learn a lot from you.” A genuine smile plasters on his face.
If I take combat and taming, I’m for sure signing my own death warrant.
I smile proudly and reply. “Thank you, sir. I will definitely think about it.”
The vision in my left eye is still kind of blurry.
It has swelled a little, but not enough to warrant a visit to the healing quarters.
I head on to the next activity. Archery.
The great mass of our group has definitely shed a few pounds, with so many now being tended to by Miss Aloe and the other healers.
Heading to Archery, I walk past a familiar face standing at the knife-throwing section.
River. Is there anything that boy doesn’t do?
He smiles and winks in my direction, making me blush a little, but I hide it well.
The first round of Archery was pretty simple.
We just had to hit the targets with our crossbows.
The third year explained how important it is to hone in on your precision and skills in preparation of getting your Gifts.
The better your accuracy, the better you will be at controlling them.
The second round is a little harder, as we have to hit moving targets.
The Influencers have enchanted all the targets to drift through the air.
There isn’t really an obvious pattern to the way the targets move.
Side to side, then up and down and round in a sort of loop-de-loop.
The speeds vary as well, so they are slow one minute and fast the next.
No two routes are the same; it is all completely random.
“When you are on the battlefield, your target may be in motion, whether it be on an elion, a Sky Serpent, or simply wearing a pair of Influenced shoes. It is your job to shoot with accuracy in a short space of time.”
The third year pauses for a moment. “We do not expect you to succeed at this task the first time. The moving targets take most students months to master; one of our best students is now Commanding Officer for the RHE Army. This is something you can work towards if you are interested.”
Sky serpents used to roam the skies at night. They were lethal creatures that could paralyse their victims with venom. These days, you would be lucky to even see one. They are mere fables, hunted down by Sunkind to near extinction after the Great Blackout.
I watch as the targets dart across the field.
I did archery training with my father, but nothing like this.
The third year hands out three arrows per student.
I take mine, and the cold rods wake up my fingers.
I watch as a few students aim for the targets, but no one comes close.
Elijah is next. His aim is good, and his stance is almost perfect.
He reaches his arm back with the arrow, and his muscles flex.
He waits for a moment, the wind blowing through his long brown hair, then releases.
The class goes silent. The arrow flies through the air at lightning speed and soars towards the target, missing it by a centimetre or so.
That was so close. He mimics his stance and tries again, but his next two shots wind up miles away from the target.
I’m starting to think this is impossible. It’s rigged; no one can do it.
I step up to the five-metre mark that is drawn on the floor and wrap my fingers around the grip, positioning my thumb along the side of the bow.
I line up the arrow and look ahead. It’s hard to focus on the targets without feeling dizzy.
I stand shoulder-width apart with my left leg slightly forward and pull the bowstring back behind my shoulder.
My eyes narrow as the target drifts every which way.
I hold my breath, focus, and release. The arrow soars through the air and clips the outside of the target, chipping a small chunk of wood off its axis. I missed.
Readying my stance, I fling the bowstring back, focus on the target, and release again, but I miss this one too.
This is my last shot. My fingers tighten around the slick wood of the bow, and I adjust the feathers on the end of the arrow.
Maybe I’m focusing too much on where the target is; no one actually expects any of us to be able to hit it.
If this is absolutely random, then there really is no logical way to hit the target.
I’ve just got to be as illogical and as random as the pattern is.
I get into position with my final arrow loaded up. I squeeze my eyes shut and release, not aiming or looking at where the target is. I hear a thud and my eyes jolt open. I can see my arrow now vibrating in the centre ring of the target. I am too shocked to move. I can’t believe that worked.
“Well done, Asha, first one to hit the target today!” the third year says whilst turning to the class. Wow, the first one today. I suppose that was just luck too.