A Tail of Camelot (2 page)

M
acie Cornwall leaped from one tree branch to the next, keeping a wary eye on the winged shadow as it moved closer to the open fields that marked Camelot's borders. The owl's wingspan nearly blotted out the sun as the bird passed overhead. The young squirrel narrowed her eyes.

The Darkling Woods possessed secret ways of warning. To those who knew how to listen, they had many important things to tell. Macie knew this better than most. For as long as she had patrolled the forest, she had been able to decipher its language. Her da, who patrolled as head scout before her, had taught her well.

The low chirping from the crickets meant a long, frigid winter ahead. The thickness of moss on the rowan trees predicted the inches of the first snowfall. Too many speckled moths meant a slim harvest. The creatures that called these green wilds home existed in a delicate balance. If something disturbed the order, there were signs all around.

When she reached the highest bough on a giant elm, Macie found the vantage point she needed. Her ear tufts
twitched as she gauged the wind's direction. She retrieved an arrow from her quiver and notched it into her reed bow. Setting the bow against her arm bracer and pulling the string taut, Macie lined up a warning shot to whizz past the horned owl's left ear.

“Too close to home, birdbrain,” she whispered.

Before she could release the arrow, the owl was joined in the air by a fledgling brood. There were three in all; the owlets were just shedding the fluff of their nest days. Flying shakily, they followed their mother as she banked to the south, away from Camelot and toward the ruins of St. Gertrude. The top of the church's blackened steeple peeked above the trees.

Macie exhaled and lowered her bow, wiping the sweat from her paws. She was relieved to have avoided a confrontation. But a larger worry had wormed into her heart.

This was the third owl flock she had seen take flight at midday in the past month. And the Owls of Fellwater Swamps did not venture outside their territory without good reason, especially not during the day.

It was an omen of great change. Macie did not know what exactly it foretold; she only knew that she did not like it.

T
he red hawthorn berry flew at Calib Christopher faster than he could dodge it. Swallowing back a squeak, the mouse gripped the wooden toothpick tighter in his paws and swung down as hard as he could.

Thwack!

Calib struck the berry mere inches away from his snout. It broke in half, splattering his face with sticky pulp. Breathing heavily, Calib wiped the gunk off his whiskers. He scowled in the direction of the tall brown mouse stationed behind the slingshot.

“Top form, Calib!” Devrin Savortooth cheered. She picked up another berry and readied it in the sling. “Now, try leaning sideways from your strike so you don't get sprayed! Remember: don't overthink it!”

Calib shook his head. Five heart-pummeling rounds against the Hurler were more than enough for one morning, and Devrin was launching the targets faster than usual.

“Hold your whiskers!” he yelled back. He dropped his practice sword and raised his paws. “I need to wash off!”

He walked to the edge of the training ground, which was nestled in a weedy corner of the castle garden. Wetting his paws with dewdrops that had collected on a turnip leaf, he did his best to clean the sticky juice from his fur.

Calib breathed in the late autumn smells of crisp leaves and woodsmoke. The air hummed with excitement as the mice of Camelot made their final preparations for the Harvest Tournament. The bustling was a welcome break from a somber harvest season, full of rumors of possible Darkling attacks. But in the end, the wheat and barley had been collected without any trouble. It was time to celebrate.

This year would be Devrin's first time attempting the three Harvest Tournament challenges to prove her bravery, strength, and wisdom. If she passed, she could begin her career as a squire, go on adventures beyond Camelot's borders, and eventually become a knight.

As an adopted daughter of Camelot, Devrin was eager
to prove her worth. She was an orphan, having lost her parents when she was only two years old during the Great War between the creatures of the castle and the creatures of the nearby Darkling Woods. Now ending her third year as a page, Devrin was ready to do her part to defend Camelot.

Calib understood. He couldn't imagine anything more glorious than becoming a knight himself and following in his grandfather's and father's pawsteps to protect their home. Though the Great War had ended ten years ago with a peace treaty between Camelot and the Darkling Woods, there was still deep mistrust. Rumors of restless and raiding Darklings grew each year. It was more important than ever to stay vigilant. Even though Calib was only a second-year page, he also wanted to do his part to be prepared.

He just wished Devrin would channel her excitement into someone else's drills.

Calib eyed the other pages going through their morning exercises. To his left, a timid brown mouse named Barnaby Twill slashed blindly at the air with his wooden sword. Coaching him was a sprightly tan mouse with white fur trimming her ears and tail. She wore a chain-mail tunic over her smock. Calib felt a tangle of envy and admiration at the sight of Cecily von Mandrake. The best swordsmouse of all the pages, she patiently gave pointers
as she sparred with Barnaby.

“Don't close your eyes! You want to see where you're aiming your blocks!”

Glancing away from Barnaby's awkward parries, Cecily noticed Calib watching.

“Morning, Calib!” She smiled and gave a wave across the arena. “How's the Hurler this morning?”

“Hi, Ceci,” Calib croaked back.

He was debating whether she really wanted to know about the Hurler or whether she was just being polite, when something coiled tightly around his legs. Off balance, Calib toppled onto all fours in the dirt. He looked down and found his footpaws entangled by a bola
—
a length of rope with a pebble tied to each end. When thrown, it was meant to trip an unsuspecting target from behind. Calib twisted around and saw Warren Clipping sauntering toward him.

“Sorry about that!” Warren said, barely containing a smug smile. “You were staring for so long I mistook you for a target dummy.”

The gray-furred menace had always made Calib's life at Camelot extra difficult. Warren had been especially grating since he'd entered himself into the Harvest Tournament. For the past few months, he hadn't let anyone forget it. Today, he was already dressed in his newly stitched tournament robes.

“I wasn't staring,” Calib protested, dusting himself off. He glanced over to make sure Cecily hadn't overheard. Luckily, her attention had turned back to Barnaby. “I was just taking a break.”

“A break from the
berries
?” Warren scoffed. “I thought berries were only for first years. I stopped using them a full year ago.”

Calib's face turned hot under his whiskers. Warren's insults always managed to find their targets. Truth was, Calib dreaded the prospect of facing the harder seeds and nuts. Missing them meant being covered in bruises instead of berry juice.

“As a matter of fact, I was just about to move on to the acorns,” Calib said. “If you'll excuse me.”

He brushed past Warren and marched back to his place before the Hurler. Picking up his wooden sword, Calib gave a few practice swings as a show of confidence.

“Bring on the acorns!” he called to Devrin, hoping he sounded more fearless than he felt.

“Feeling bold, are we?” Devrin said good-naturedly as she grabbed an acorn to set in the Hurler. “All right, here comes the first one!”

Calib's stomach clenched as Devrin began pulling the acorn tight against the sling, stretching the fabric to its very limits.

“Uh, Devrin, are you sure you need to—”

The acorn shot across the field. For Calib, the world seemed to slow to a crawl. His muscles froze; his mind went blank. As the nut barreled straight for Calib's head, he had only one thought:
This is going to hurt.

The next thing Calib saw were white clouds swimming into focus above him. The left side of his snout blossomed with throbbing pain, and his eyes smarted with tears. The acorn had knocked him flat on his back.

“Rat whiskers! Are you all right, Cal?” Devrin yelled.

Calib blinked to stop the sky from spinning and then slowly sat up. Everyone in the training ground had stopped to stare. Cecily had one paw to her mouth. And Warren was nearly doubled over laughing.

Barnaby ran up to Calib's side and offered to help him up.

“Got bonked pretty good there,” he observed.

“I'm fine! I'm fine!” Calib shooed Barnaby's outstretched paw away like a bothersome fly. He stood up on his own. Woozy and disoriented, he touched his jaw tenderly. Luckily, nothing seemed broken.

“At this rate, Barnaby will be made a squire before you, and he can't even parry without closing his eyes!” Warren jeered. Calib's ears boiled with embarrassment.

Before he could respond, a hawthorn berry smashed into Warren's side. It left a smear of pulp along the length of his new clothes.

“Oops!” Devrin called out, smirking. “My paw must have slipped.”

Warren turned as red as the juice stains. He opened his mouth to say something when a brusque voice barked out across the arena.

“At attention, pages!”

Sir Owen Onewhisker entered the far side of the grounds, dressed in a hauberk—a shirt of chain-mail. The burly black mouse was Camelot's fiercest hand-to-hand swordsmouse. He had lost most of his whiskers in a duel with a ferret, but he kept his single remaining one oiled and groomed.

Calib and the rest of the mice rushed to form a line in front of him, saluting with their tails.

“I take it you all know the importance of tonight,” Sir Owen said in a gruff tone. As the mouse responsible for combat training, he was known to be hard but fair. “This evening, three of you ratscallions will be given a chance to prove your qualities and become Camelot squires.”

Mice wishing to compete in the Harvest Tournament had signed up months ago by slipping their names into a locked box outside Sir Owen's workroom. But aside from Devrin and Warren, Calib knew of no other mouse who had declared intentions to participate that year.

While anyone—from the field mice to the kitchen mice—could enter the tournament, most who participated
were trained for three years as a page first. Devrin and Warren were the only third-year pages that year.

Calib and the others looked around, wondering who the mystery third contestant might be. Was it Cecily? Calib felt a nibble of jealousy at the possibility.

“It is now your turn to protect Camelot for future generations. There are creatures out there who would like nothing more than to see this castle fall. Remember, the Darklings were merely driven back—not defeated—in the Great War. If they ever attack again, we must be ready.”

Camelot was always at odds with the loose network of woodland tribes—black squirrels, crows, clever hares, and their ilk. Wild in nature, they refused to rely on Two-Leggers for anything. Of course, when food ran scarce in the forest, their attention turned to their better-fed neighbors. Bad blood festered between the Darklings and Camelot for generations, forcing every kind of creature to choose sides. Only the Owls of the Fellwater Swamps remained neutral.

Many years ago, before Calib was born, the Darkling raids were a common menace. Camelot had been forced to retaliate, beginning a long and costly war—the Great War. It was Calib's father, Sir Trenton, who managed to beat the Darklings back in their final siege of the castle. And it was Calib's grandfather Commander Yvers who forced Leftie the lynx to sign a peace treaty. The Darklings
were banned from ever crossing Rickonback River. Leftie Wildfang and his allies retreated to his lair east of the forest, in the foothills of the Iron Mountains.

Sir Owen Onewhisker scanned the row of pages with a shrewd eye. “We live in peace and plenty because of the sacrifices made by mouse-warriors who came before you.”

Calib straightened his shoulders as he thought of his father.

“After your morning chores, each contestant will report to the armory to have your armor fitted and inspected,” Sir Owen said, unrolling a scroll of parchment. “And now, for our contestants.

“Warren Clipping!

“Devrin Savortooth!”

Warren and Devrin each stepped forward as Sir Owen called out their names.

“And our final contender this year is . . . Calib Christopher!”

I
t was as if the acorn had smacked Calib in the head a second time. His jaw dropped open. Devrin gave his shoulder a friendly punch.

“You little rat. You didn't tell me you were competing!” she laughed.

Calib's throat went dry as bone.
Who slipped my name into the box?
he wondered, frantic. Devrin and Warren had been training for the tournament for
months
.

The challenges were notoriously dangerous. Just two years ago, a page had burned off all his whiskers in the
bravery challenge. And the year before that, poor Lars, the stable mouse, had lost his tail entirely. Worst of all, those who failed the Harvest Tournament didn't get another chance to prove themselves as squires. They had to choose a different path—one that led to the kitchen with Madame von Mandrake, the fields with Farmer Chaff, or another trade entirely.

“There must be a mistake,” Calib whispered to Devrin. “I—I didn't sign up.”

Devrin frowned. “What do you mean?”

“I mean someone else must have entered my name. . . .” His eyes landed on Warren. The gray mouse smiled back at him, a thin leer that lit up his eyes with cruel amusement.

Warren.

As Sir Owen went over the rest of the day's preparations, Calib was consumed with thoughts of revenge. He could cover Warren's shield with kitchen grease so he couldn't pick it up. Or glue his sword into its sheath. Or put spitfire peppers into his helmet.

But none of these ideas could help him withdraw from the tournament without embarrassing the family name.

As a Christopher, Calib had a lot to live up to. His grandfather was the great Commander Yvers Christopher, leader of all Camelot's mice. Calib's father, Sir Trenton Christopher, had been a war hero.

“Are you paying attention, Calib?” Sir Owen's voice
cut through the mouse's thoughts.

Calib opened his mouth.
Just say it,
a tiny voice urged inside his head.
Back out while you still can.
Warren's smirk was so large that the corner of his mouth was halfway up his snout. A hot spark of anger ignited in Calib. He wouldn't let Warren make him look like a fool again!

“Yes sir,” Calib lied. Warren gaped at him. Clearly, he had expected Calib to back out.

“Good,” Sir Owen said. “Then you three are released from training early to attend your morning chores. After breakfast, you will show up at your designated times for your armor fittings. Don't be late.”

Calib was too stunned to speak. Before any of the other mice could question him and demand explanations he couldn't provide, he turned and hurried to the tapestry hall, where his chores waited. Calib barely noticed where he was going along the way. He was too preoccupied with thoughts of Warren, the prank, and the tournament he would have to face.

Calib followed a gutter path that cut across the castle gate. The secret passageways that ran throughout the castle were well known to him. They formed an intricate labyrinth from the stone foundations to the rafters, an invisible world where Camelot's mice flourished. Just as he was nearly across the gate, he felt a rumble underneath his paws, like faraway thunder. He looked up just in time
to see four horses trotting across the open drawbridge, heading straight for him.

With a squeak of alarm, Calib dashed for the nearest cover he could find, climbing into an empty feeding trough. It wasn't a perfect hiding spot, but at least now the horses wouldn't trample him.

Peeking over the lip of the trough, Calib watched the steeds pass, each carrying an armored Two-Legger on its back. They were warhorses, all muscle and power, draped in red-and-white silks that matched the Two-Leggers' shields: three diagonal red stripes set against a white background.

Calib recognized that crest immediately. It belonged to Sir Lancelot, the bravest and fiercest of King Arthur's knights, whose feats were renowned among every inhabitant of Camelot. Like most of the Two-Legger knights, Sir Lancelot was supposedly far away, seeking adventure. Even King Arthur himself had departed last month on a quest to the Holy Lands. Calib's nose twitched with excitement. Perhaps Arthur and Lancelot were returning.

With so many human knights gone, Camelot's stores were full of uneaten food. While this was certainly not a bad thing, the abundance of crops also made the castle a target for the creatures of the woods. The mice sentries were ever on alert for signs of trouble, especially as rumors of the Darklings' raids escalated.

Studying the riders, Calib thought that they looked like men-at-arms rather than true knights. Still, to have an arrival for once . . . That
was
news.

Bringing up the rear of the group was a boy riding on a smaller pony. The lad had large ears that poked out from his white-blond hair. He was dressed in a freshly pressed page's uniform, and his jaw was set in a tight frown. Calib wasn't very good at estimating human ages, but he thought the boy looked somewhere around ten or twelve.

“Cheer up!” said one of the men as he grabbed the boy's reins and tugged the pony toward the stables. Calib ducked to avoid being seen on the trough. “We're at your new home! Isn't it grand?”

The boy only scowled.

Calib waited until the Two-Leggers disappeared into the stables before he climbed down and scampered across the remaining distance to the tapestry hall. Squeezing under the heavy wooden doors of the Two-Legger chapel, he entered the nave. Calib felt a familiar awe wash over him. Colored light shone like daggers through the stained-glass windows, and the wooden pews seemed to give off a warm glow. The air smelled of aged wood and dust.

Working his way up onto the rafters, Calib emerged on a stone ledge that circled the base of the chapel's dome. The morning sun illuminated tapestries—no larger than a Two-Legger's palm—that hung just out of sight from the
Two-Leggers below. The hallowed history of Camelot's mice was preserved in every stitch. Suits of mouse-sized armor stood at attention between each tapestry, like ghostly guardians.

Calib quickly set to work, fetching a carpet beater made of twigs from the corner. He beat the tapestries in a steady rhythm, studying them as he went: the grand wedding feasts, stern knights, and glorious battles. Several scenes depicted the Great War between Camelot and the Darklings.

Calib paused as he reached the last tapestry. It showed a solemn-faced warrior, whiskers trimmed to perfection, dressed in a magnificent, wine-colored cloak and gold armor. His eyes flashed with confidence as he brandished a broadsword high in the air. His tawny fur and whisker pattern were a mirror image of Calib's, right down to the small round patch of white fur on his right ear.

“Sir Trenton Christopher, felled at the Battle at Rickonback River,” read the fine silk stitching beneath the portrait. Beside the warrior stood a lady dressed in a regal purple dress. She held a mouse-sized needle and thread elegantly in her paw.

A small tingle rolled down Calib's spine. His mother had truly been the most talented seamstress Camelot had ever known. This tapestry was the last one Lady Clara had sewn before she had passed away from sea fever many
years ago. It had been her hope that Calib would not forget what his parents looked like.

“Hi, Mom,” Calib whispered. Sometimes Calib would talk to the tapestry as if his parents could hear him through it. Even though he knew it was silly, pretending made him feel less alone.

Calib finished his dusting and moved on to polishing the suits of armor. By now, his cheek was throbbing. He peered at his reflection in a burnished steel breastplate. The bruise from the acorn was quickly purpling under his fur and turning into a nasty blotch. To add insult to injury, he'd also slept on his whiskers wrong and they were all askew.

He tried to smooth the ends down, but after a few unsuccessful attempts, Calib gave up. Frustrated, he looked up at Sir Trenton's kind face.

“How am I supposed to fight a real enemy if I can't even win a battle against my own whiskers?”

“A bit of oil will smooth any crinkle out.”

Startled, Calib turned and saw Commander Yvers approaching. The stout, barrel-chested mouse walked with a slight limp, an injury from the Great War. His golden fur was tinged at the ends with silvery gray hairs. He wore a simple brown robe, the kind he donned for when he did not want to be noticed.

“But something tells me that is not what is truly troubling you.”

“It's nothing, Grandfather. I was just polishing,” Calib said quickly.

Commander Yvers's kind brown eyes searched Calib's own. “You are a mouse of Camelot, Calib. You do not have to bear your burdens alone. ‘Together in paw and tail, lest divided we fall and fail,' remember?
”

Every mouse of Camelot knew that motto by heart. It was even inscribed on the doors of the Goldenwood Hall. Calib nodded. He was never good at hiding things from his grandfather.

“My name was entered into the Harvest Tournament as a prank, but now I'm too ashamed to withdraw and too afraid to go through with it,” Calib confessed. He felt shame creep all the way into the ends of his whiskers. “I don't know how I'll ever live up to the Christopher name.”

Commander Yvers smiled as he looked at the tapestry of his son on the wall. “You know,” he remarked, “when I was a page, they used to call me Yvers Faintheart—I was so shy! Once, I even set the commander's cloak on fire with a poorly placed candle but was too scared to tell him until his fur began to singe.”

Calib couldn't imagine his grandfather as a page, much less one who would make a mistake like that.
“Really?”

“Really. And your father was worse. He tried to hide in a burdock bush to avoid his Harvest Tournament. We were removing burrs from his fur for a week! He faced the
strength challenge looking like a hedgehog!”

Calib laughed, and his grandfather placed a paw on Calib's shoulder. Together, they looked at Sir Trenton's tapestry in silence.

“You know, the knights discuss the tournament candidates at length before we approve the list,” Commander Yvers said quietly. “If you made the cut this year, it's because we thought you were ready, regardless of whether or not it was a prank.”

Calib was stunned. “Then why am I so scared?” he asked.

“Being brave is not about lacking fear,” Commander Yvers said. “If you are never scared, you will never understand what it means to be brave.”

Calib pondered this in silence. He was still scared, but knowing that Commander Yvers and the rest of the knights believed in him made him feel like he might have a chance in the Harvest Tournament after all.

“Camelot needs protection now more than ever, Calib. There is said to be trouble stirring in the east. And we all must be ready to defend our home. Now, if you'll excuse me, I believe I'm late to a meeting with the bell-tower larks. Living so close to the sundial has made them extremely punctual.”

Calib hopped up to his footpaws and gave Commander Yvers a sharp salute with his tail. Suddenly, he felt fizzy
with a sense of purpose and possibility.

Every knight, Calib thought, had to start somewhere. All Calib needed was one chance to prove himself. One chance to show that he too was a Christopher mouse: brave, strong, and wise.