Jordan Black And The Scepter Of Time

Make

CHAPTER 1

The Rise of Plan B

Of the many traditional end-of-term events at the Wentworth-Mason Junior Military Academy and Preparatory School for Young Men, the most prestigious, and highly looked forward to, was the Annual Cadet Scramble. The Scramble (as it was more commonly referred to) combined the various elements of a cross-country race, obstacle course, and hand-to-hand combat into one grueling test of speed, strength, agility, and sheer perseverance.

The winner of the Scramble would be named Cadet Champion for the year. The list of previous winners read like a Who’s Who of the famous and powerful graduates of the academy. Winning the Scramble was enough to virtually assure a graduating cadet his shot at success in adult life. The winner’s image would also be forever encased behind the thick glass of the academy’s towering trophy display case, just inside the doors of the Braxton Hall, the oldest and grandest building on campus.

The Scramble was almost always exclusively composed of graduating senior cadets. In order for an underclassman to even enter the competition, he had to receive special permission from an academy instructor. Given the extremely physical nature of the Scramble, few instructors were ever eager to grant it.

Never before in the one hundred and twelve year history of the academy had an underclassman won the Scramble and claimed the glory that accompanied it. The youngest cadet to ever win was three months past his sixteenth birthday. Over the years, only thirty-one underclassmen had entered the competition; none had even come close to finishing it. It’s certain that no one at the academy ever imagined a second-year cadet a month shy of his fourteenth birthday could ever win the Scramble, especially one as universally disliked by the older cadets as Jordan Black.

You might as well paint a giant bull’s-eye on your back! Noah Penderton exclaimed as he tugged on the laces of Jordan’s left shoe. Confirming that each set of laces was tight and secure, he stood and faced his friend, hoping the concern in his eyes didn’t show too much.

As soon as you’re all out of sight, they’ll be coming after you. You sure you want to go through with this?

Listen, Noah…we’ve been over it every possible way. As long as I stay out in front of Aiden Quigley and his goon squad, I’ll be fine. Jordan replied.

And what if they get ahead of you before you hit the obstacle course? Noah asked.

Jordan flashed the same confident smile that Noah had seen countless times before, the one that the other boys often mistook for cockiness.

Then we’ll just have to go to Plan B. Jordan said as he turned and walked toward the starting line.

Noah knew well enough what that meant. Plan B was just Jordan’s way of saying I’ll figure it out as I go. Noah shook his head slowly and fell in line behind him.

That’s what I was afraid of.

As was the case every year, the parade grounds were decked out with ribbons and bunting to celebrate the end-of-the-year festivities. Under a cloudless blue sky, flags and banners rolled lazily in the light afternoon breeze. The weekend’s events would culminate tomorrow with the Cadet Review and graduation ceremony. But today was all about the Scramble. The friends and family members of the participating cadets, along with all the other spectators from the surrounding towns and villages, were steadily filing into the stands along the southern edge of the grounds. They were eager to watch the start and end to the competition, which both took place in front of the viewing stands.

The course that the Scramble would follow was roughly circular and covered a variety of different terrains over its six-and-a-half-mile length. The participants would start out on the flat, trimmed grass in front of the viewing stands, and then, at the boom of the canon, sprint two hundred yards east, into the woods. Once in the forest, the course began to turn northeast, through the dense trees, over fallen trees, and along the narrow, well-worn path that led right up to the southern bank of Geronimo Creek; nearly two miles from the start of the race. Once the cadets had found a way over or through the creek, they would have to collect one of the small orange flags nailed to the large oak tree just up the bank. Sixteen cadets always started the Scramble, but there were only twelve flags at the first checkpoint, so four would be eliminated if they were not fast enough.

Once past the creek, which was wide and muddy from the recent rains, the course took a sharp left jog to the northwest for the next mile toward the obstacle course. Here, the trees gave way to a wide, flat meadow with a pond. Now the contestants would have to negotiate through the academy obstacle course, under the watchful eyes of faculty members who were strategically stationed to ensure the contestants made it through the entire course and followed the rules of safety and sportsmanship. Speed and accuracy were vital to avoid being eliminated, since only six orange flags hung from a post at the far side of the meadow.

The last three miles of the Scramble were the most brutal. The path wound back into the trees and headed southwest into the stony hills that bordered the academy’s western boundary. The largest of these hills, Artillery Ridge, was a steep and exhausting scramble to the top, followed by a rugged descent through the trees and large rocks strewn across the downward slope. From here it was a mad dash back to the center of the parade grounds, nearly a mile to the east, where the last two orange flags hung.

The final two cadets, now both physically and mentally exhausted, would don protective helmets and face off against each other in the joust. The joust consisted of five circular platforms or rings. Each ring was approximately ten feet in circumference and mounted to a mobile base, and each elevated to a different height. The first ring was merely a foot off the ground. Each successive ring was one foot higher and separated by a three-foot gap. The combatants would each be armed with a staff four and a half feet long and tipped on both sides with a bulbous end wrapped in padding and encased in leather. Contestants used the staff for both offense (to inflict hits) and defense (to ward off the blows).

The two cadets would start on the lowest ring, face each other, and then use their staffs to score points by getting hits on their opponent between the knees and the shoulders. Hitting an opponent above the shoulders or below the knees was not allowed and would result in points being taken away. A solid strike in the target zone would result in a full point being awarded; a glancing blow earned a half point. When either cadet earned a full point (or two half points) on the lowest ring, they then both jumped up to the next highest ring and continued collecting points and moving higher up. The first cadet to earn three points by the fourth ring was proclaimed the winner. If neither gained the three points necessary to win by the end of the fourth ring, then they moved on to the last and highest ring.

On the fifth ring, there were no points awarded for legal hits nor deducted for illegal ones. In fact, on the highest ring, there were no rules at all. The only way to victory in the top ring was to knock your opponent out of the ring and down onto the padding on the ground five feet below.

As Jordan Black walked toward the staging area for the start of the race, he scanned the faces of the assembled cadets. He knew each of them and, with Noah’s help, had studied their training routines in the months leading up to the Scramble. He knew their strengths and weaknesses. He had learned their preferences on the obstacle course. He could accurately predict how far each could run flat-out before fatigue would force him to slow down or stop. He was counting on using this information to his advantage in becoming the first underclass cadet to ever win the Scramble. He had thought of little else for the last nine months.

He spotted Aiden Quigley standing near the start line. In the weeks leading up to the Scramble, Aiden was widely considered the favorite to win the competition. He was the captain of the academy rugby team and had set the academy senior cadet record on the obstacle course earlier in the year. He had come in second at last year’s ACS, losing by two points in the joust. He was somewhat of a hero to the older cadets, who admired his athletic ability and stamina. The young girls in the local town smiled and flirted with the tall, sandy-blond-haired Quigley when he and his friends would venture into town to see a movie or visit the local burger joint. Jordan and the younger boys couldn’t stand him.

While he was careful to never be seen bullying the underclass cadets when instructors or other observers were around, Quigley could be quite mean spirited and even cruel toward them when no one else was watching. And everywhere he went, his little group of henchmen—Todd Farney, Scott Ruckerson, and Melvin Finch—went with him; the Scramble was no different. Not only would Jordan have to worry about negotiating the arduous course and dealing with eleven other upperclass cadets, none of whom were too thrilled to see him competing with them, but he knew that Aiden Quigley and his private band of thugs would like nothing more than to pound him into the ground as soon as they were out sight of the spectators and academy officials watching in the review stand.

From almost his first day at Wentworth-Mason Academy, nearly two years before, he and Aiden had instantly disliked each other. Being smaller than nearly all of the other boys his age, Jordan had learned early on that you either stand up for yourself or you get picked on…a lot. Getting picked on was not something Jordan tolerated well. After the first few weeks of torment, Jordan dedicated himself to developing his physical skills and learning how to defend himself. He spent nearly all his free time working on his strength, speed, and agility so he could stand up to the bullies. He quickly showed them that he was more than capable of holding his own against the Aidens of the academy.

The younger underclass cadets looked up to Jordan for his refusal to be pushed around by those larger than him, and while he had few close friends (Noah was probably the closest thing to a best friend he had at the academy), he had earned the respect of many of his fellow underclass cadets. While most of the older boys did not condone Quigley’s treatment of Jordan and the younger cadets, neither did they relish the thought of a thirteen-year-old constantly getting the upper hand over one of their own. The majority of the senior cadets simply ignored Jordan altogether.

Now the contestants for the Scramble were gathering near the starting line, stretching and preparing for the start of the race. Each wore a pair of blue gym shorts, a dark grey academy T-shirt, and sneakers. Some huddled in small groups discussing strategy or receiving pep talks from their instructors. Jordan could hear the crackle of the academy PA system as the commandant began to welcome the assembled guests and tried to get everyone seated. Noah stopped just shy of the start line.

Good luck. I sure hope you know what you’re doing. Noah said.

Don’t worry. Just make sure you get a good seat for the joust. I want a firsthand account of what everybody says after I knock Aiden out. Jordan replied.

Noah waved and turned to leave, nearly running into someone as he did.

Oh, excuse me, Professor Munxley.

How’s our man doing, Mr. Penderton? the professor asked as he moved nimbly out of Noah’s way.

He’s fine, sir. I think we’ve prepared for him for every likely scenario.

Yes, the professor replied, well, it’s the unlikely scenarios that always trip one up, eh, Noah?

Yes, Professor. Noah smiled and turned back toward the stands.

If you would be so kind as to save me a good seat, I’ll be back in a jiffy.

Professor Munxley turned and continued on toward the starting area, smiling and nodding politely to the other participants as they acknowledged him. Professor Munxley taught Military History and Strategies at the academy. He was a former Wentworth-Mason graduate himself and was well liked by most of the cadets. He was not a tall man, but even in his mid-sixties, he walked with a quick spring in his step and looked younger than his years. There was no gray to be seen in his short, brown hair.

Jordan stood nearly in the middle of the starting line, stretching and limbering up for the start of the Scramble. As he approached, Professor Munxley couldn’t help but notice the physical differences between him and the older cadets. The fact was that Jordan stood nearly a foot shorter than the other boys lined up on either side of him. He was extremely fit and strong for his age, but it was obvious that the height advantage the other boys enjoyed was considerable. However, he also observed the confident and almost relaxed manner Jordan displayed. Just looking at him, you could see that he didn’t feel the Scramble was too big a challenge for him. Focused as he was on his warm-ups, he almost didn’t seem to even notice the other competitors around him.

The professor spotted Aiden Quigley and his comrades staring at Jordan from a few yards away. They were certainly not oblivious to his presence and undoubtedly would do whatever they needed to avoid being the first senior cadets to lose the Scramble to an underclassman.

Well, my boy, how are you feeling? Munxley asked.

I’m ready, sir. Jordan replied.

Good. Well, just remember to stick to the plan young Penderton designed, Jordan. It’s well thought out and plays directly to your strengths. You’ve got to reach the obstacle course ahead of the others so you can nullify the advantage in height the other boys have. If you can beat them through the course, I believe you will have the upper hand getting back.

Yes, sir. I’ll do my best.

My boy, you’ve got a good head on your shoulders. And your instincts have always served you well. But to be a good leader, you must be able to come up with a plan and see it through. Sticking to a well-laid-out-plan means less chance of things getting all fouled up later on. Having the mental discipline to see the plan through can be much harder than simply using your physical skills to bail you out of trouble, but a good leader must learn to develop these skills as well. Do you understand?

Yes, Professor, I understand. But, what if they decide not to follow the plan? Jordan asked as he jerked his head toward Aiden Quigley and his friends standing at the far end of the line.

Well then, you’ll just have to do whatever you need to do to get them, and yourself, back on it. Munxley smiled.

I know I’ve told you many times about how your Grandfather was the youngest person to ever win the Scramble. Hard to believe sometimes that it was fifty years ago when he and I were both cadets here at the academy. But I think he would agree with me that if anyone can beat his record, it’s you. I know he’s very proud of you.

Oh, and one last thing, my boy. the professor whispered quietly. Watch out for Mr. Quigley and his goons. I’ve got the feeling that he has his own plans for you.

Professor Munxley winked, then quickly turned and walked back toward the review stand.

Good luck to you all, gentlemen. He waved as he went by.

Now the Scramble was nearly ready to start. The participants were being introduced over the PA system. A huge cheer went up from the stands at Aiden Quigley’s name; Jordan received some polite applause and a few hoots from the underclass cadets present. The introductions continued as Jordan went back over Noah’s strategy his mind.

Since the Scramble was such a long and grueling competition, nearly all of the previous participants had started off the race at a brisk jog, not wanting to expend too much energy until they got closer to Geronimo Creek, where the first eliminations were made. But Noah’s plan was for Jordan to get a fast start and sprint at top speed across the parade grounds to get to the edge of the woods before the other boys. Once in the dense trees and undergrowth of the woods, he would continue at a fast pace and use his smaller size to duck through the tangled brush and under partially fallen trees that the larger boys would most likely have to go over or around. At Geronimo Creek he would use a tree branch from one of the giant oaks that grew on the edge of the creek as a bridge to get over, rather than through the creek, thus avoiding the muddy creek bottom, which would slow the others down. Then it was a mad dash for the obstacle course.

The obstacle course presented Jordan’s greatest challenge. Many of the activities at the course consisted of climbing, swinging, and jumping, and the taller cadets would be able to erase any advantage Jordan had by being smaller and quicker. By reaching and completing the obstacle course ahead of the others, he stood a good chance being able to use his quickness to get up and over Artillery Ridge and back to the parade grounds first. That left only the joust standing between him and victory.

The introductions were soon completed, and now the cadets all came to the starting line as the crowd came to their feet.

Cadets, take your mark! came the commandant’s voice over the PA. All the runners came forward to the edge of the white starting line painted on the ground. They were spaced out by about and arm’s length from one another.

Jordan bent forward slightly and looked down the line at Aiden Quigley, who just at that moment had turned and flashed him a mischievous grin. Suddenly a thought came into Jordan’s mind: Why were Aiden and his cronies all the way at the end of the line? It didn’t make sense. Jordan had strategically chosen the center of the starting line because what usually happened was that just after the start of the Scramble, as the participants began to reach a comfortable stride, they tended to drift together back toward the middle, to line up with the path through the woods. He certainly did not want to get boxed into a large group with no clear avenue to break free. Or worse yet, be forced to the back of the pack by slower traffic. That would ruin his shot at getting to the woods ahead of everyone else and put his whole strategy in turmoil. But by immediately sprinting out ahead of the others, he would have a straight and clear shot to the path through the woods. Aiden was clearly making a tactical error…unless…

Get set! the PA crackled, jolting Jordan back to attention. He crouched a little lower and bent forward slightly.

BOOM! The cannon fired, and Jordan rocketed out of his stance to the roar of the crowd. His legs pumped hard, and he began to pull away from the two cadets on either side of him. But something wasn’t right. He had expected to lose sight of the others in his peripheral vision as he sprinted into the lead, but a quick sideways glance changed everything. A few cadets at the far left of the line not only had stayed with him, they were actually slightly ahead of him. And even worse, they were quickly moving toward his position in the middle of the line. Over the next few seconds, everything seemed to happen in slow motion.

Quigley and his cohorts, guessing that Jordan might try to gain the lead quickly, had planned to turn his own strategy against him. At the start of the race, they too had decided to sprint flat-out into the lead and then crash back upon the middle of the line, trapping everyone else behind them and giving them a straight shot at the woods. But as they swung together like a door, back toward the middle of the line, things began to go horribly wrong. Scott Ruckerson was soon shoulder to shoulder with Jordan, and just as they reached the hundred-yard mark, they collided violently and tumbled to the ground. Quigley and the others quickly shot by as Jordan fought to regain his footing. But before he could completely right himself, three other cadets collided behind him, taking him down again with them.

Though the force of the collision had sent him sprawling, Jordan did his best to roll as he met the ground. As he swung around on his back, he thrust his feet out ahead of him and was able to slide to a stop. Glancing quickly behind him, he could see three of the other cadets scrambling to get back to their feet. A group of seven or eight cadets had managed to miss the pileup by jumping over it or moving quickly to either side, and they now sprinted past him. He also glimpsed Scott Ruckerson, still on the ground, grasping his left ankle and wincing in pain. Jordan swung back around in time to see Aiden and the others disappearing into the woods ahead of him. He sprang back up and took off again at full speed, but he was now solidly embedded near the rear of the pack. Scott Ruckerson was down and out, but Jordan still had fourteen other cadets to contend with, and he was in real danger of not even making it to Geronimo Creek in time to avoid being one of the first eliminated. The collision had cost him dearly, and his long-thought-out strategy was now in ruins. If he was going to get back in the race, it was time to come up with Plan B…and quickly!

Jordan sprinted to the tree line and plunged into the woods, behind all but one other cadet. His right knee throbbed slightly. A cursory glance as he ran revealed scrapes and a little blood from his fall. Fortunately, he didn’t think the injury was likely to slow him down. He shifted his focus on how to best get back to the front of the pack. Aiden had at least a fifteen-to-twenty-second lead over him by now. He had to come up with a plan to hold off the lone cadet behind him while also catching up to, and passing, at least a few in the large group just ahead of him before they hit the creek. Then he could begin the process of slowly reeling Aiden Quigley back into his sights.

Jordan quickly devised a new strategy to get back into the race. Passing the others on the narrow path would be tricky and take too much time, so he would leave the path briefly in some areas where it wandered a bit, to one side or the other, and try to gain ground by taking the more direct route through the trees. He had run the path to Geronimo Creek many times, and he knew its twists and turns well. In fact, just an eighth of a mile ahead, the path dipped down into a small ravine and then took a quick right turn before jogging back to the left and up the other side of the ravine. This was the point to make his first deviation off the path, and he hoped to gain some ground on the others.

By now, the larger group of cadets in front of him had splintered into three smaller groups, each separated by a dozen or so yards. He sped up and in a few moments found himself directly behind a group of three cadets running in single file. As they approached the dip in the path, he slowed slightly, and then, just as the others moved down into the ravine, he sprang quickly to the left, off of the path. He sprinted as fast as he could straight to the bottom of the ravine, hurtled over a fallen tree, and raced back up the far side.

Jordan burst back onto the path just ahead of three startled cadets, who hadn’t realized they were about to be passed. He could see another small group of cadets fifteen to twenty yards ahead of him. He kept up his fast pace and began to close the gap on them. He was breathing heavily now, and his muscles felt tight as he worked his way into a speedy but comfortable rhythm. Sweat began to bead on his forehead and drip down onto his T-shirt as he ran.

At this point, less than a mile from Geronimo Creek, the trail began a series of small zigzags through the dense growth. While none of these was large enough for him to be able to pass the entire group, he thought he may be able to pick off the runners one at a time. He soon caught up to the closest runner in the group ahead of him and stayed close on his heels. At the first zig, he again sped quickly off the path and ducked under the low tree branches in front of him before zagging back onto the path. It worked. He had gained a spot. He now looked to move past the others in the same fashion.

By the time the path was done zigzagging through the woods and had begun a slight rise toward the banks of the creek, Jordan had gained several spots and was now solidly in the middle of the pack. While he was no longer in danger of missing the first elimination, he kept up his blistering pace. He knew that Aiden’s group was still out there ahead of him somewhere, and he couldn’t afford to let them get any farther ahead. He hoped that getting across the creek would slow a few of them down and allow him to trim the lead. The distance from the creek to the meadow, where the obstacle course was located, was little more than a mile over fairly flat ground. Gaining on the leaders over this section of the course would be difficult. He had to try to at least catch up as close as he could before hitting the creek.

As he made his way up the low, steady rise, he passed a strand of young fir trees and knew he was just a quarter of a mile from the bank of the creek. By his quick calculations, he was sure that there were no more five or six cadets left in front of him. Although he could see no one, he could hear the steady footfalls of at least one runner just up ahead of him. He decided an all-out effort was needed to reach the creek and gain on his opponents. Despite early signs of fatigue and the sweat now rolling off of him, he ran as fast as he could to catch up to the others.

The rise flattened out just a hundred yards from the banks of the creek. Up ahead he could hear the sounds of splashing and raised voices. In fact, it sounded like Aiden Quigley shouting something out. Jordan knew he was gaining on the others and had an opportunity to make up some time getting across the creek. Just before reaching the water, he came up behind another runner, George Brooks. George was one of the few upperclassmen who never gave Jordan, or the other young cadets for that matter, a hard time. George was trying to run but was limping noticeably.

You OK, George? Jordan shouted from a few yards back.

Cramp! he yelled back as they approached the creek.

As Jordan flew up to the side of the creek bank, a few paces behind George, he quickly caught a glimpse of Aiden and Melvin Finch scampering up the far bank of Geronimo Creek and grabbing at the orange flags attached to a tree up the bank. Another cadet (it looked like Marcus Pierre, but Jordan couldn’t be sure) seemed to be trying to extricate himself from the muddy creek bank. Odd…he felt sure that Todd Farney had been in the group with Aiden when they caused the collision at the start of the race. He had not passed him in the woods. Could he be ahead of everyone?

At that moment George reached the top of the creek beside the giant oak tree, where he suddenly stumbled on a tree branch and flew face first into the muddy creek bed. As Jordan reached the top just a moment behind him, the branch suddenly moved, and he jumped to avoid it. He looked down as he flew up and over Todd Farney, crouched behind the massive tree trunk with a fallen branch in his hands. He had narrowly avoided the trap they had set for him, but his forward momentum carried him past the low oak branch he had planned to use to get across the creek, and out across the water itself. Instinctively he flattened out and thrust his hands above his head. He hit the water midway across the stream, where the creek was its deepest; his momentum pulled him forward, almost to the opposite shore. As he came up and out of the water, he heard Todd Farney yell something at him and jump down toward the creek. But as soon as he got to the edge of the water, George Brooks, who was still lying in the mud where he had fallen, had enough sense to swing his arm and knock Todd’s feet out from underneath him. Todd hit the mud hard, knocking the wind out of him.

Kick Aiden’s butt for me! George yelled as Jordan made it up the opposite bank. He swiped an orange flag and took off again running.

Jordan knew he was not far off the lead now. Marcus Pierre had gotten up the creek bank and back on the trail just as Jordan hit the water, and Aiden and Melvin Finch couldn’t be too far in front of him. If he could find a way to shave a few seconds off their lead, he stood a good chance of hitting the obstacle course even with the others.

As Jordan ran for all he was worth through the thinning trees, he was grateful for the coolness of the creek water. The sweat no longer rolled down his face and into his eyes, but his sneakers squished as he ran, and his shorts and T-shirt clung to his wet skin. Wherever he could, he ducked off the path to take the more direct approach to the meadow. He thought that if he could straighten his path and save even a few steps here and there, he would be able to make up some time.

He was right. Now he came up behind Marcus Pierre about a half mile before the trees broke at the edge of the meadow. Marcus was one of the academy’s best distance runners. He had a long, steady stride that made him a force to be reckoned with on longer trails. The obstacle course, however, was not Marcus’s friend, and Jordan knew that his best times through it were not on par with his own, and even farther behind Aiden’s best. While the obstacle course would undoubtedly leave Marcus at the rear of the contest, his stamina and endurance getting up and over Artillery Ridge still made him dangerous.

He passed Marcus as the trail widened out and kept going as fast as he could. He quickly outpaced him over the next quarter of a mile and then came around the last shallow bend to the west before reaching the meadow. And there they were! Aiden and Melvin were only a little over a hundred yards ahead, running side by side at a steady pace, with about three hundred yards to the edge of the trees.

With his clothes and sneakers now starting to dry a little, the sweat began to develop again on Jordan’s