A Tail of Camelot (14 page)

B
y the time Galahad reached the final steps to the aviary, he was out of breath. Located high in the chapel's bell tower, right below the bells themselves, the aviary housed a flock of larks that served as Camelot's fastest messengers.

As Galahad entered the turret, he marveled at the hanging birdcages suspended by wires from the ceiling beams. He stood for a moment, mesmerized by the rustling of wings and soft coos of sleeping larks. It wasn't yet sunrise, and Galahad knew they wouldn't wake for a little while longer. Still, it was better to wait here for
dawn than to toss and turn in his bed, haunted by dreams of fire and blood.

Stepping carefully around the bird droppings that littered the ground, Galahad unrolled a piece of parchment from his pocket. Holding it up to a flickering lantern, he double-checked his message to Sister Agatha for accuracy.

Sister Agatha was St. Anne's head librarian and a precise grammarian. She would not take kindly to a message that was less than perfect, especially from her worst pupil. More than once, Galahad had been subjected to one of her fiery lectures on properly using commas. Nevertheless, Sister Agatha's library was pristinely kept and contained the most thorough account of the kingdom's history. If anyone could tell Galahad more about the Saxons, it would be her.

Galahad had tried the castle's library first, but Camelot did not have Sister Agatha to keep its records neat and organized. It seemed like mice had chewed through many of the pages related to the Saxons from the books and scrolls, making them unreadable.

After puzzling over whether to add a comma after “sincerely,” Galahad found himself staring out the window instead. The snow-covered hills of the countryside gave way to the barren forest. Beyond that, the sliver of the Iron Mountains crouched on the horizon like a hibernating bear.

Galahad sighed, his breath clouding in front of him.
He wondered what it would have been like to run away. He wished he did not care about what happened to the castle and its people, but he knew what it felt like to be abandoned. In that way, he didn't want to be like his father.

Movement against the sky caught his eyes. Squinting, Galahad thought he could make out wings, but they were too small to belong to an owl. With a gasp, he realized it was a returning messenger lark struggling against the winter wind, which seemed determined to knock the bird out of the sky. It was highly unusual for a lark to fly in the night.

Galahad waved his arm out the window.

“Come on! You're almost here!”

The bird persevered. It alighted on the window ledge and promptly collapsed from exhaustion. Its chest heaving, the lark tried to kick off a tattered roll of parchment that was attached to its leg. Gently, Galahad removed the message. The paper was badly damaged by rain, and it was burned on one side.

Galahad carefully scooped up the tired bird and placed it in a cage replete with water and paper bedding before turning his attention back to the message.

Most of the ink had run together, but Galahad could make out three blurry words that turned him cold with dread: “danger,” “rumors,” and “prepare.”

T
hey were lost—completely and hopelessly lost.

The only thing Calib was certain of was that they were now most definitely in Darkling territory.

“Let's try to find the river,” he said, picking a fish scale off his fur. “When General Gaius doesn't find us, he'll probably look around the riverbanks.”

“But which way?” Cecily asked, tucking her shivering paws into the folds of her cloak. “If we choose incorrectly, we might run into the Darklings before Gaius returns
with Merlin's Crystal. And without the crystal, Leftie will probably kill us on sight—especially if he finds out Camelot broke the treaty and imprisoned a Darkling crow.”

She puffed out her cheeks in frustration. “And even it we don't run into him, we might end up someplace worse, like the Saxon camp!”

Calib sniffed the air, trying to catch a hint of water, but it was hard when the cold made his nose runny.

“We should head west,” he finally said. “Away from the mountains. We know Leftie's lair is hidden in its foothills, so the farther away we get from them, the better.”

Cecily nodded, and they began to distance themselves from the row of jagged peaks rising in the east like the teeth of a great sea monster.

They trudged in silence, not daring to breathe a word. From time to time, they doubled back on their tracks, just in case more weasels were still prowling about the woods.

As they traveled, worries crawled around Calib's head like hungry fire ants. Even though it felt like a lifetime ago, they had only left Camelot yesterday morning. Calib wondered whether Kensington's war party had reached the Darklings by now.

“You know, they're going to think we were kidnapped,” Cecily said, as if reading Calib's mind.

“Or that we're traitors,” Calib added. They fell back into silence. Calib could feel every muscle ache, like he'd gone twenty rounds against the Hurler.

Eventually, they heard the reassuring burbling of the river again. Cecily waded into an eddy to wash off some of the fish stench. Calib knelt down to splash icy water on his face. His stomach growled. He hoped General Gaius would come back for them soon. Without Merlin's Crystal, they had nothing to bargain with.

“Who do you think that weasel meant by the Manderlean?” Calib asked as Cecily used some twigs and her cloak to create a temporary tent over a pile of brown leaves. The name sounded familiar, but he couldn't place it—like a nightmare that he'd forgotten upon waking.

“It sounded as if the Manderlean was their leader,” Cecily said, burrowing into the leaf pile. “Whoever—or whatever—that is.”

Calib nodded. He would remember the name and ask Sir Alric when they got back to the castle. Sir Alric often pored through the library scrolls, seeking inspiration for new contraptions. He was easily Camelot's most knowledgeable mouse.

Calib used his own cloak for a tent and covered himself with some leaves too. Settling in to wait for the great horned owl, he let his eyelids grow heavy.

His dreams carried him back to Camelot. He was standing in the tapestry hall again, staring at his parents' tapestry. His father still offered Merlin's Crystal, glowing with bright blue flames.

When beliefs as old as stone will budge, then minds as sharp
as swords will be free,
Sir Trenton said in Howell's voice.

Calib woke with a start. His heart and head were pounding. He sat straight up, fur prickling. Something was moving toward them.

That thought had barely formed when his tent was suddenly whipped aside. A squirrel in a black hood stared at him with triumphant eyes.

“Got 'em, boys!” he shouted to the other masked squirrels behind him.

Before Calib could cry for help, the intruder grabbed a hold of his ear and dragged him out of the leaf pile. His other arm grabbed a sleeping Cecily.

A net was thrown over the both of them. Calib counted three masked and hooded black squirrels standing around them with bows and arrows drawn.

Darkling scouts.

Two more descended from the trees above on ropes of ivy.

“Wait! We're not enemies!” Calib cried.

“Funny,” one of the hooded squirrels growled. “You smell like our stolen food. And if my ears don't lie, you sound like a pair of Camelot mice!”

“We didn't take your food! You've made a mistake!” Calib struggled to get out of the netting, but the thick rope was heavy, and the knots were tied tight.

“Leftie's orders are to capture first, ask questions later.”

Quick as lightning, Cecily took out her sword and
slashed at the rope, breaking apart the net. She struggled to pull Calib out after her.

“That one is escaping!” said one of their attackers.

A rock flew at Cecily from the trees.

“Watch out!” Calib shouted. It hit the side of Cecily's head, twisting her around. She dropped her sword in surprise and fell heavily on the riverbank. She began sliding toward the water.

“Cecily!” Calib ran forward, but he was still tangled in the net. Every part of his body went numb as he struggled to get to his friend.

“Victory!” A bloodcurdling screech echoed from above them.

Out of nowhere, General Gaius swooped in, grabbing Cecily before she hit the water. A volley of arrows came at the general, but he swerved out of the way. Banking hard, he started to turn around, doubling back for Calib.

“Just get Cecily to safety!” Calib shouted.

General Gaius nodded once and took off into the trees. He narrowly avoided the second round of arrows that whizzed by his wings.

Rough arms closed in around Calib's body, and he felt something hit his head from behind. As his vision faded to darkness, the last thing he saw was Merlin's Crystal dangling from General Gaius's neck as the owl carried Cecily's limp body into the sky.

C
alib awoke in a dark cavern lit by oily torches. The air smelled of dry leaves and singed feathers. He sat up, every muscle protesting as he did. The back of his head pulsed from where a squirrel had hit him.

How long have I been out?
Calib wondered.
How long until the Camelot army arrives with their war cries?

As Calib's eyes adjusted to the dim surroundings, he noticed gleaming eyes staring back at him. Every manner of Darkling creature—from crows to foxes, hares to squirrels—stood watching him just outside the light's glow. The cave was packed and stuffy, and the sound of
shuffling paws and rustling feathers echoed off the walls.

A black crow stepped forward. His feathers were painted with green-and-red battle stripes.

“Leftie, he wakes!” the crow squawked, addressing someone behind Calib. With a trembling belly full of fear, Calib turned.

A fearsome lynx towered over him. The big cats were rare in this part of the world, and Leftie was by far the most fearsome of the few who still lived in Britain. His fur was a matted and mangy yellow. A patch covered the place where his right eye used to be. Thin red scars poked out from underneath the cloth. He was dressed in a kilt made of fur pelts, and on his paws, he wore rings decorated with short blades.

Leftie grinned widely, displaying every one of his finely sharpened fangs.

“My, my, look at what my squirrels have brought me,” Leftie hissed in Calib's face. “A lost little Camelot mousie.”

The animals in the cave cackled.

“How much do ye reckon Camelot will pay to get one of their little 'uns back?” Leftie said, appraising Calib with his one good eye. “Too bad the other 'un got away; could have doubled our price!”

Calib thought of Cecily. Hot, angry tears welled in his eyes. He prayed that General Gaius was able to get her to safety.

“We're here trying to save you, trying to
warn
you,
and you tried to kill us instead!” Calib burst out. “My friend could be . . . She might be . . .” Calib didn't dare to finish his sentence. He felt light-headed from anger and fear.

“My squirrels did exactly as they were ordered. In this forest, we cannot have our enemies prancing about in our backyard like fairies,” Leftie said. His eye narrowed, and the smile had left his face. “These are dangerous days, and we do what we must to survive.”

“And I suppose it doesn't matter that you hurt innocent creatures in the process?” Calib shouted.

“Spare me your righteousness!” Leftie unsheathed a scimitar and hooked Calib's neck with it, forcing the mouse to stand on tiptoes to keep the blade from digging into his skin. “It is
precisely
the innocent I'm trying to protect! But I suppose all Darklings are villains to you. I should cut your mousey throat for everyone in this good company to see.”

The metal pressed against his fur, and a few strands of fur hair floated down, severed by the sharp blade. Calib focused his terror on everything that was at stake: It wasn't just his life or Cecily's life hanging in the balance, but the lives of all at Camelot. If he pushed Leftie too far, it would do more harm than good. Calib needed the lynx to listen to him. He hadn't come this far to be killed by an overgrown house cat.

“What grows strong when the strong grow weak?” Calib croaked out.

Leftie paused. His one good eye blinked a few times.

“What did you just say?” He didn't release Calib, but the scimitar trembled slightly in his paws.

“I won Merlin's Crystal from the owls,” he whispered. “We were bringing it to you, but you decided to attack us instead.”

“It's a useless piece of rock!” Leftie spat. “Obviously, the crystal didn't give any ‘great strength' to the owls, as they were unable to defeat us in the the Fellwater Swamps and had to flee!”

Calib's fear, which he'd been trying to hold back, now flooded his entire body. If Leftie didn't want Merlin's Crystal anymore, he had no way to bargain for his life or for peace. He began to shake.

Seeing this, Leftie sneered. “What makes you think I wanted that pebble in the first place?”

Act like a Christopher!

Calib drew himself up to his full three inches. “Valentina Stormbeak told us you did on the night I helped her escape from Camelot!”

At this, concerned chatter broke out among the crows.

“You must think I'm some newborn kitten,” the lynx snarled. “Valentina has not been heard from in three days. She was flying south to bring her clan to the fold. She
was supposed to return yesterday. For all we know, she could be in your dungeon right now.”

Calib's stomach did a double flip. Had Valentina been recaptured?

Leftie released him roughly. “Council, what do you say? Do we spare the prisoner, or do we dispose of him?”

A handful of woodland creatures came forward into the light, forming a half circle around Calib. The mouse guessed from their markings and clothes that these were the leaders of the various Darkling tribes. There was a fierce female fox, a vixen with rusty red fur. Much of it was streaked with green-and-brown paint, as if to camouflage her colors better. A hare wore a long coat of copper chain mail, and his ears were decorated with a row of spiky hoops. A badger's head nearly touched the cavern ceiling. On his front, he wore a tortoise shell as a breastplate.

“I say we kill this one,” a black squirrel declared, “and send those Camelot scum a message.”

“You don't understand!” Calib piped up, desperate to turn the tide in his favor. “The Saxons and their weasels are here. They're invading again. And I have reason to believe they killed my grandfather, Commander Yvers! Please, you just have to
listen
.”

“Yvers murdered, eh?” Leftie's voice was emotionless, but his eyes flickered with surprise. “It was only a matter of time before the old fur ball got what was coming to him.”

“Yvers was the greatest commander who ever lived!” Calib lashed out again.

“Quiet, mouse,” Leftie said. “Or we will gag you with your tail. Master Jans Thropper, your thoughts?”

“It's not worth the risk to keep him alive,” the hare said, the hoops in his ears clinking together. The badger in the tortoiseshell armor gave a low growl in agreement.

“The mouse-knights would have us bear the brunt of the attacks while they wait behind their high and mighty walls,” the hare added.

“Who knows what secrets this one has already gleaned as a spy,” the badger said.

“Quite right, Master Lylas Whitestripe,” Leftie said, nodding to the badger.

“Perhaps we're being hasty,” the vixen said doubtfully. “I knew Commander Yvers to be a decent beast.”

“Aye, and his grandson is a fine one as well,” a voice spoke up from outside the circle. “So paws off that mouse!”