“Knock ’em dead, soldier,” he stated, and shut the door between us.
That was the last thing he ever said to me.
*
“Hey, Sebastian!”
I looked up warily. It had been three months since my arrival at the academy, and in that time, I’d made as many enemies as I had friends. The school itself was quite small; in my class there were only eight of us. The recruits, I’d learned, were drawn from temples and monasteries around the world. St. George was an ancient order, with ties to the Church and other religious organizations that stretched back for centuries. Every year, a few boys were chosen to serve the Order and were sent to the academy to be raised as soldiers in the holy war against demons. It gave St. George a constant supply of troops while allowing them to control their numbers, as they were still a secret organization and could not afford to draw attention from outsiders. With few exceptions, most of the recruits arrived with little to no training and only the barest knowledge of the war. They knew they had been chosen to battle evil and protect mankind, but didn’t truly understand what it meant to be a soldier of St. George, or the truth of what the Order really fought, until they came to the academy.
Peter Matthews was an exception.
He was the son of a lieutenant, part of a family who could trace their ancestry back to the Knights Templars themselves, and he had come to the academy knowing exactly what was expected of him. Much like myself, Matthews had been trained by his father in the ways of St. George. Not only that, he was big for his age, intimidating and a decent shot with a firearm. He had been at the top of his class in nearly every subject.
Until me.
Today at the shooting range, Brother Adam had corrected his form, saying he was pulling left because he was overcompensating for the recoil, and Matthews had argued that his form was fine; it was the sight on the gun that was faulty. Adam had then handed the same weapon to me, and I had proceeded to hit the target on every shot. The look on Peter Matthews’s face, as Brother Adam told the rest of the class to follow my example, promised retribution, but I hadn’t thought much of it. I was used to his insults by now, and his anger had never progressed to actual violence. Though that was more due to my never letting him catch me alone and unawares. Sometimes he would meet me in the hall with a hard shove and a warning to watch my step, but it never went further than that. Fighting among recruits was severely punished, and Matthews was careful to give the impression of a model recruit when the instructors were around.
Today, however, it seemed the festering anger and resentment had finally reached a boiling point because Matthews didn’t look like he was going to be satisfied with a shove and a warning to back off. He stood in the doorway of the bathroom with his palms planted on either side of the frame, blocking the exit. His two friends, Levi Smith and Edwin James, flanked him like attack dogs, but Matthews was bigger than either and was the far greater threat.
“Think you’re smart?” he demanded, stepping into the room, out of sight of any monks that might catch him loitering in the hall. “What was that today, Sebastian? You think you’re better than me?”
“No,” I said calmly. “I don’t think I’m better than you. I know I am.”
He lunged at me, swinging a fist at my face. I ducked my head and raised my arm, taking it on the shoulder rather than the chin, and lashed out with a punch of my own, striking him in the jaw. He staggered back with a yelp, and then his friends were on me, kicking and flailing. I covered my head and backed up, trying to disengage, but the bathroom was small, and I was soon pressed into a corner. Blows hammered down on me, six hard fists striking wherever they could land, but I kept my guard up and threw back punches when I could, trying to protect my face.
“Enough!”
My assailants were yanked away, and the rain of blows came to an end. Panting, I looked up to see Brother Eli glaring at us, his large frame a barrier between myself and the others. Levi and Edwin had instantly backed off and were huddled together, looking guilty, but Matthews stared at me with murder in his eyes.
“What’s going on here?” the monk demanded, as though it wasn’t obvious. My head ached, my mouth tasted like copper and I could feel blood trickling from my nose. But my attackers hadn’t escaped unscathed, either. Matthews’s jaw was already swelling, and Edwin had a split lip that was dripping blood into the collar of his shirt. “Who started this?” Brother Eli asked, eyeing each of us, and our wounds, in turn. “Sebastian? Matthews? I’m waiting.” When we didn’t answer, his voice grew hard. “One of you had better start talking in the next three seconds, or your entire class will be punished for this transgression.”