The Paladin Prophecy

by Mark Frost

  On the map, more images appeared: battlefields littered with casualties. Wagons carrying stacks of wooden caskets. Military graveyards. Rows of white crosses fading into the mist.

  “So ask yourself, Which of these ‘demographics’ do you aspire to? Spending your life at the nickel slots in a cut-rate casino? Or at a table in the high-roller penthouse where the game’s really played? That’s the velvet rope of the great divide. Which side are you on?”

  The question hung in the air. Sangren looked directly at Will.

  “Don’t answer yet. Pay attention. You’ll be shocked by what you learn. Before the penny finally drops, there will be nights when you want to cry yourself to sleep. Then, one fine morning, you’ll wake up, look around, and see the world the way it really is. Lucky, lucky you.”

  The dire images faded away and a breathtaking image of the earth floating in the dark void of space appeared on-screen.

  “After all, this lovely, fragile little blue sphere is going to be your amusement park someday,” said Sangren. “Isn’t it in your best interest, before that comes to pass, to learn how it really works?”

  When class ended, Will staggered down the risers toward the door. In one hour, Sangren had stretched his mind in directions no teacher had taken him before. He felt invigorated, but overwhelmed: He had a world of catching up to do. Brooke waited for him outside, but before he reached her: “Mr. West!”

  Professor Sangren, packing his valise at the lectern, beckoned Will over.

  “We’ll talk later,” said Brooke, squeezing his arm. “Hang in there.”

  Will walked back to Sangren and realized he was actually taller than his teacher.

  “I frightened you today,” said Sangren.

  “That’s all right, sir—”

  “I’m not apologizing. That was my intention.” Sangren regarded Will with a patronizing smile. “We need to determine, rather quickly, if you belong here. Not many do, and there’s no shame in that, but this will be trial by fire. Get that through your head: The Center is a meritocracy, not a charity day-care facility.”

  Will felt his guts churning and struggled to hold in his anger.

  “Do you know what’s at stake? We’re in a global knife fight. Will America and the Western democracies remain the most powerful, resourceful, and innovative force on earth? Or are we just going to wave China and India on ahead and say, ‘Yo, catch you later.’ Your generation’s going to make or break this battle. You’re either smart enough and strong enough to lead on the front lines, or you’re not. As teachers, we need to state the stark reality of what’s expected and demanded of every student. You’ll have to do whatever it takes to survive here, and it is going to be hard.”

  Will noticed something peculiar about Sangren’s eyes. His left iris was solid black, as if dilated by an optometrist. Something about this weird contrast made it feel as if two different people were looking at him through the same set of eyes.

  Sangren smiled again. Will didn’t like it. “I’m guessing none of our cuddly old softies in administration explained it this way.”

  “Not in so many words.”

  “Then let me be the first to use this many words: You have five weeks to make the grade. Best of luck to you. It appears you’re going to need it.”

  Sangren strolled away, lifting onto his toes with each step, swinging his case, whistling “Singin’ in the Rain.”

  Will watched him go. The little professor had just dumped ice water all over his sense of security. If Sangren was telling the truth, what if he didn’t make the grade? If they showed him the door five weeks from now … where in the world would he go?

  Will wandered out into the hall. His only class for the day over, he felt lost and a little helpless, and paid no attention to where he was. He heard piano music from down the hall, classical, expertly played. A woman joined in, singing in a foreign language—French, he thought. Her voice stopped him cold; powerful but restrained, it was deeply emotional. He tracked it to a room and opened the door.

  A grand piano stood in the center of the room. Sitting at the piano, both singing and playing, was Elise. She stopped when she heard him come in.

  “Sorry,” said Will. “Please, don’t stop.”

  She scowled at him. “You’ve never heard Lakmé before?”

  “I’ve never heard anything like that before.”

  “Well, don’t get all moony over it, Jethro,” she said. She started again, improvising the classical phrase she’d been playing into effortless jazz.

  “Where did you learn …?” he asked, astonished by her skill.

  “Dad’s a first violin. Mom used to headline at a nightclub in Hong Kong. So it’s not as if I had a choice, okay?”

  “You sound embarrassed about it.”

  “If you’re not embarrassed about your parents at our age,” said Elise, “you’ve got a plate in your head.”

  Will listened as she riffed the same melody into pop, R & B, and hip-hop idioms. Dazzling.

  “You ought to just turn pro,” said Will. “I mean it. Right now.”

  Elise laughed. “And then what, spend my life giving piano lessons to the tone-deaf spawn of suburbia to subsidize my passion? No thanks.”

  “So what is your passion?”

  “The usual,” she said, running glissandos up and down the keyboard. “Writing. Recording. World domination.”

  She looked straight into him with that wide-open unnerving gaze, but this time Will didn’t look away and he was struck by a feeling he’d seen her eyes before.…

  “I saw Sangren grab you after class,” she said, turning back to the piano. “Did he gut-punch you?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Don’t play dumb, West. You know what I’m talking about.” Will fidgeted. “I guess he said a few things that caught me off guard—”

  Elise slammed down the cover on the keys. “Would you just stop?”

  Will jumped. “What? Stop what?”

  She locked eyes with him. He tried to make himself blank, unreadable, which only seemed to make her angrier. “Stop hiding. Maybe that’s how you survived with the hicks back at Nowheresville High, but you’re not the only smart kid in the room now. And you’re not gonna make it unless you come out from under your rock.”

  He realized she was trying to be helpful, reach out to him in her own complicated way, just as Ajay had earlier at breakfast. He took in a deep breath and tried to let down his guard as he exhaled: “I’m not sure how to do that.”

  “Show yourself,” said Elise urgently. “Trust somebody. Lose your game face. Figure out who your friends are—that would be us, by the way—and ask for help. Be real with us, be who you are, or be gone.”

  Part of him appreciated the advice. But the way she so effortlessly sliced through his defenses infuriated him. Before he even knew what he was saying, he heard himself lash back at her: “Is that what happened to Ronnie Murso?”

  Elise flinched, as if the question had cut her physically. It came as a surprise that Miss Above-It-All could be wounded. Will immediately regretted it. He braced for a counterattack, but instead of baring her claws and striking back, she just looked at him, completely unguarded, and let him see how much he’d hurt her.

  “Someday you’ll realize just how unfair that was,” she whispered.

  Elise left the piano and brushed past him, out of the room, leaving him holding a big bag full of What the hell did I say that for?

  “Damn it,” he said.

  Will looked at his watch: He was due at the field house to meet the coach. He needed a run more than ever. He hurried outside and struck out across the commons for the field house. Elise’s voice echoed in his head: “Show yourself. Trust somebody.”

  He’d been taught, trained, and conditioned to never trust anybody. Drop his game face? He’d been living with his guard up for so long that if his game face was taken away, he wasn’t completely sure who he’d find underneath.

  After everything he’d learned the
last two days, he wasn’t even sure he could trust himself.

  THE FIELD HOUSE

  The field house stood on the far edge of the practice fields, and it was bigger than an airport hangar. It was made of sturdy weathered red brick, supported by latticed black wrought-iron struts and stately colonnades surrounded by a concrete plaza. The style reminded Will of an ancient ballpark, like a place Babe Ruth might have played. LAUGHTON FIELD HOUSE EST. 1918 was carved into the brick near the front doors, but everyone on campus called it the Barn.

  A life-sized bronze statue of the school’s mascot, the armored knight pictured in the Center’s escutcheon, stood outside the entrance. Coiled and menacing, poised to attack, it carried a short sword and shield, and a hatchet hung from its belt.

  The coat of arms was carved on the knight’s shield. The knight was depicted in the bottom panel, pointing its sword at the neck of a defeated foe. But the fallen figure on the statue’s shield had demonic horns growing out of its head and a forked tail, details missing from images of the crest he’d seen before. And up close, the knight’s armor didn’t look medieval at all, but sleek and fitted like a second skin. A shiny brass plate fixed to its pedestal said THE PALADIN.

  Will wandered inside, into an immense, cavernous space crisscrossed by exposed steel beams. It was lit by casement windows near the roofline and circular spotlights suspended on long steel cables. An artificial turf field occupied half the structure, circled by a four-lane running track. A lacrosse squad practiced on the turf. Hardwood basketball courts filled the other side. Expanding wooden bleachers on rollers were collapsed and stacked against the walls on three sides. Spirited pickup games filled smaller courts subdividing the main one.

  Following signs to the locker rooms, Will went through a door beyond the courts and then down a corridor filled with the pungent smells of liniment, ancient sweat, laundry soap, and, from somewhere, swimming pool chlorine. Framed black-and-white photographs of old school sports teams lined the walls: football, baseball, basketball, hockey, soccer. Each one bearing the school’s nickname: the Paladins. Will found the men’s locker room and felt as if he’d stepped back in time.

  Long wooden benches fronted row after row of tall, battered steel cage lockers. The concrete floor was worn smooth and scalloped by a century of use. Wide-bladed fans hung overhead beneath an arched ceiling. He passed showers and an open rest-room, tiled in pale blue, dotted with piles of plain white cotton towels. He heard footsteps moving through the room ahead of him, then hung back when he realized they belonged to Lyle Ogilvy. Lyle was alone, moving toward a small door around the corner from the showers. He took a quick look around before exiting through the door. Curious. Will moved on to the far side of the showers. Around that corner he found a wire mesh wall, painted white, with a sign that read EQUIPMENT ROOM.

  A wide stainless-steel counter ran the length of the cage. A desk bell on Will’s side and one of the black phones on the other were the only objects on the counter. A substantial padlock secured a gate to Will’s left. On the far side of the counter, honeycombed walls were filled with every variety of sports equipment. The shelves extended away until they disappeared in shadow. Somewhere back there, an overhead light flickered silently.

  Will rang the bell. It echoed through the empty cage. Moments later, he heard rhythmic squeaking as something rolled through the shadows at the end of the hall. As it got closer, Will realized it was a motorized wheelchair with a squeaky wheel and a very unusual passenger.

  He couldn’t have been more than four feet tall, twisted and contorted by some sort of neuromuscular disease. He wore an oversized sports jersey and a baseball cap with the Center’s logo. A cargo vest with multiple pockets covered the jersey. His arms looked weathered, but he had large, expressive hands. His right hand operated a joystick that drove him forward. His twisted legs splayed to either side of the chair, his feet shod in spotless blue and white Nikes.

  The guy’s square, oversized head tilted left and shook slightly, a constant tremor. Will couldn’t tell how old he was. He didn’t see any hair under his cap. He seemed both youthful and ageless. A name tag on his jersey read JOLLY NEPSTED, EQUIPMENT MANAGER.

  “I know what you’re thinking,” said Nepsted, his voice high and slightly garbled.

  “What’s that?” asked Will.

  “What does he have to feel jolly about?”

  Will laughed as he realized Nepsted was grinning at him.

  “You tell me.”

  Nepsted’s hand moved to his waist. He pulled out a crowded brass key ring—holding every sort of key imaginable—on a zip line from his belt.

  “I’m the guy with the keys,” said Nepsted. He released the keys and they jangled back to his belt. He grinned again.

  “Then you’re the guy a new guy needs to meet,” said Will.

  “Will West,” said Nepsted.

  “How’d you know that?”

  “How many noobs you think we get this time of year?” Nepsted looked him over. “Shoes: nine and a half. Waist: twenty-nine. Inseam: thirty-one. Sweatshirt: medium.”

  Nepsted pushed a button at the base of the joystick. A steel drawer slid open below the counter beside Will. A black rectangular wicker box sat inside. Will took out the box and set it on the counter.

  Inside were two pairs of running shorts and color-coordinated jerseys. A dozen pairs of white quarter socks. Two sets of new gray sweats with the name of the school above the Center’s logo: the helmeted head of the Paladin, eyes visible through slits in the steel, two hot sparks of light. One set of sweats was lined with fleece for cold-weather work. Everything was in the exact sizes Jolly had mentioned.

  At the bottom, Will found a pair of Adidas Avanti ultra-lightweight distance spikes. Gunmetal-gray mesh with three royal blue Adidas stripes. They were the road shoes he’d always wanted. Will knew just by holding them they’d be the perfect balance and fit.

  “Your locker key’s there, too,” said Nepsted.

  Will found it in the corner of the box. A single brass key on a wire ring, with a faded number engraved: 419.

  “Buy a combination lock as backup if you’re not the trusting type. Sign that form for me, please, and drop it in the drawer.”

  Will took out a clipboard holding a receipt. He signed at the X with an attached ballpoint and set it back in the drawer. “The trusting type,” said Will. “I’m getting that a lot. Do I seem like the trusting type?”

  Jolly tilted his head to the side. “How should I know? I’m alone in a padlocked cage. Do I look like the trusting type?” He pressed the button on his joystick and the drawer slammed closed with a resounding thud. Nepsted collected the receipt and stuffed it into his vest.

  As Will gathered up his gear, he asked, “How’d you get your nickname?”

  “It’s not a nickname.”

  “Your real name is Jolly?”

  “No, my real name is Happy. Jolly’s my middle name. Happy Jolly Nepsted. Happy and jolly, but only on the inside,” said Nepsted, his expression never changing. “Let me know how the gear works out. You looking for Coach Jericho?”

  “Yes, where can I find him?”

  “He’ll find you,” said Jolly.

  “Thanks, Jolly,” said Will. “Something tells me if I want to know what’s going on around here, you’re the guy I need to talk to.”

  Nepsted stared at him. “You don’t want to know what’s going on around here.” He nodded at the gear Will carried in his arms; the sweatshirt with the logo of the Paladin was on top. “You know what a paladin is?”

  “Some kind of knight,” said Will. “In the Middle Ages.”

  “A holy warrior,” said Nepsted pointedly. “Dedicated to fighting evil.”

  “Speaking of evil,” said Will, pointing to the crest on the sweatshirt. “On all the versions of the crest I’ve seen, like this one, the Paladin has beaten down some generic bad guy. But on the crest on the shield of the statue out front, the Paladin’s opponent has horns and a forked tail. Mo
re like a demon.”

  Nepsted blinked twice. “A new kid’s never noticed that before.”

  Will stepped closer and pointed to the front of the sweatshirt again. “So why’d they take the demon off the logo?”

  Before Nepsted could answer, the black phone inside the cage rang so loud the steel counter rattled. Jolly picked up.

  “Equipment room, Nepsted. Hang on.” Nepsted hung up and looked at Will. “Come see me again. When you’re ready.” Nepsted turned his chair around and squeaked off down the aisle into the flickering shadows.

  Ready? Ready for what?

  Will followed the numbers until he found his locker at the end of a row in a remote corner. He eagerly changed into his new sweats and shoes. Remembering that he was not a trusting person, at least when he was in locker rooms, he shoved his wallet and dark glasses into his pockets.

  From the corner of his eye, he caught a glimpse of someone moving between rows of lockers nearby: a big guy with broad shoulders, in a leather flight jacket and military boots.

  “Dave?” said Will.

  “Follow,” he heard Dave’s voice say in his head.

  Will hurried after him around the lockers to the same door he’d seen Lyle pass through earlier. It was standing slightly ajar. He peered inside into a long, dark hallway.

  “Dave?” Will whispered. “Dave, you there?”

  Will stepped tentatively forward, his new spikes crunching on concrete, trailing his hand along the wall as he waited for his eyes to adjust. The air felt twenty degrees hotter than it had in the locker room—steamy, almost tropical. He soon reached a flight of stairs and edged down them, passing under a slight hissing that sounded like steam from a leaky pipe.

  “This way,” he heard Dave say.

  At the base of the stairs, the corridor turned left ninety degrees. The door behind him slammed shut with a loud metallic bang. Will froze. When he heard no one behind him, he continued, feeling his way through the dark down a long endless corridor. Eventually a line of light came into view ahead at floor level. He realized it was spilling out from under a door. Will heard voices on the other side.