A Tail of Camelot

by Julie Leung

  “We have to clear Two-Bits,” Calib repeated loudly, trying to focus even as his mind still reeled. “We have to send a message back to Camelot. There’s enough food for everyone, and safety behind its walls. We just have to clear your name.”

  If he could get Leftie and Two-Bits to talk to Commander Kensington and convince her, then the Camelot mice would see they had been wrong all along about the Darklings. They would see they had no choice but to join forces against the returning Saxons.

  Leftie hesitated. Calib held his breath.

  In the silence, a far-off horn sounded a short staccato melody.

  Leftie and his lieutenants immediately bolted up from their seats. Lylas growled—a low rumbling that vibrated through the room. The fox let out an earsplitting yowl that made Calib stumble back. Two of the Darkling crows sprang forward and grabbed Calib’s arms with their beaks, wrenching them behind his back.

  “We should have known this was all a trick!” The fox bared her teeth at Calib. The fur on her neck bristled.

  “Quickly! Get everyone to safety!” Leftie barked. “Retrieve your weapons!”

  “What?” Calib was confused— What had happened? Why was everyone panicking?

  The lynx turned on Calib, and his eye was full of contempt. “T’was the alarm for Camelot invaders,” he hissed, whipping out his sharp, bladed rings. “Your patrols are here.”

  CHAPTER

  32

  An arrow whizzed across the cavern. It missed Leftie’s head by inches before bouncing off the cave wall behind the lynx.

  “It’s a setup!” shouted Thropper, whipping out his fighting staff.

  Just then, Commander Kensington, flanked by Sir Owen and Sir Percival, appeared in the cave’s mouth.

  “Charrrrge!” Commander Kensington yelled, pointing her sword. A line of Camelot soldiers filed into the cave behind her, swords drawn.

  “Time to flush some Darkling pests out of their nests!” cried Sir Owen. He unsheathed his double daggers.

  Caught by surprise, the Darklings swarmed forward. Fighters dashed to meet the Camelot soldiers while the young and old animals clamored over one another, trying to escape farther into the caves and tunnels.

  Leftie turned back to Calib. “To think we listened to you for even a second!” Leftie bared his fangs. “I should have known that Camelot would resort to dirty tricks.” He drew out his scimitar and stepped toward Calib. The mouse backed up against the cave wall. Calib knew now that it was too late. There were no more words that could stop what would come next. He closed his eyes and thought of his mother, father, and grandfather. Would they be waiting for him in the Fields Beyond, to welcome him with open arms?

  Would they be disappointed in him?

  “Leftie Wildfang!” Kensington roared. Suddenly, she was there, brandishing her broadsword at the feline. “The Darklings are charged with the murder of our commander! Surrender and call off your fighters!”

  “Over my fur pelt!” snarled Leftie, twisting around. He lunged at Commander Kensington with a snap of his teeth.

  The lynx was alarmingly fast for a creature his size—but Kensington was faster.

  She darted between Leftie’s legs, her broadsword a blur of steel as she slashed left and right, trying to penetrate his thick fur. Leftie yowled as one blow found flesh, and he swiped a massive paw in the direction of the mouse-sized whirlwind. Kensington ducked as Leftie’s claws grazed her armor, and then she redoubled her attack. The sound of clashing metal echoed through the cave.

  “Stop! You’re fighting the wrong enemy!” Calib shouted over the chaos. Yelps and growls filled the air, drowning out his pleas. The fox swung out her stick, slamming three Camelot mice to the cave wall. The crows were struggling to cast off nets that had been thrown over them. Lylas the badger was taking on at least six different mice, snarling and foaming at the mouth.

  Calib looked on helplessly, shouting his voice raw though he knew it would do no good. All his hard work had been dashed to pieces in a matter of seconds.

  “Into the tunnels, Darklings!” Leftie shouted, breaking away from Commander Kensington. At the lynx’s command, the Darklings retreated deeper into the cave. Sensing an upper paw, Commander Kensington urged the Camelot troops forward. Bounding to a higher ledge, Leftie threw his weight against the stone wall.

  A great rumbling reverberated through the cavern.

  Looking up, Calib saw that the rock Leftie had moved had caused a chain reaction, loosening a pile of stones on a ledge right above their heads. All at once, the rocks began crashing down around them.

  “The cave is collapsing!” Commander Kensington shouted to her soldiers. “Flee!”

  Calib had little choice but to follow the Camelot fighters. The mice ran for the cave’s mouth while pebbles rained down around them.

  As they burst into sunlight, a great thundering sounded from behind. An avalanche of stone and rubble filled the space that had been the Darkling cave, discharging a great cloud of dust into the air.

  As Calib stood gasping and brushing debris from his fur, he felt something grab his ear from behind and yank up. He found himself looking into the beady, calculating eyes of Sir Percival.

  “Looks like we found our Darkling traitor after all,” he said, barely hiding an oily smirk.

  Sir Owen was staring at Calib, shock written all over his face. His one whisker twitched agitatedly. “Calib Christopher! How could you, laddie? Conspiring with the enemy! Turning your back on your own kind?”

  Before Calib could respond, Sir Percival threw Calib backward, into the hands of waiting soldiers. “We’ll interrogate him properly when we are back at Camelot. For now, take this traitor to the dungeons.”

  CHAPTER

  33

  Sir Kay squinted at the tattered note Galahad had retrieved from the lark. Galahad, Malcolm, and Bors stood at attention, waiting to serve high tea to the queen and the castle’s steward. There should have been more knights to wait upon, but only Sir Kay had heeded the queen’s call to the council.

  “I don’t see what you are going on about,” Sir Kay said, shrugging and passing the note back to the queen. “This is clearly a routine update. Why are you wasting our time with these senseless meetings?”

  “Truly, you cannot be so blind as that,” Queen Guinevere said, her green eyes flashing. “What other interpretation of ‘danger,’ ‘rumors,’ and ‘prepare’ could there be? It bears the names of the knights who patrol the Iron Mountains. They would be the first to send warning. What further proof do you need that something is happening?”

  Sir Kay put on his thick spectacles to study the message closer.

  “I’m fairly certain this blur before ‘danger’ is a ‘no.’ As in ‘no danger.’ And this”—he pointed to another ink smear—“is ‘just.’ As in, ‘just rumors.’”

  Galahad clenched the edges of his serving platter as he stepped forward with mugs of hot cider. He resisted the urge to dump the drinks over Sir Kay’s head. Beside him, he could see Bors roll his eyes as he pushed the pastry cart forward.

  “All right, I will not speak of warnings again,” Guinevere said. There was a certain steeliness to her words, but she kept her voice even and diplomatic. “However, I see no harm in putting extra sentries on the wall as a precaution.”

  Sir Kay nearly sputtered into his mug. “My dear queen, we knights have fought and bled for Camelot so that we could enjoy some peace and quiet. I shall not disturb any knight’s well-earned rest with womanly panic!”

  “Then our conversation here is done,” Guinevere said, standing up. “You may leave. Now.”

  Galahad could see Sir Kay was taken aback by the queen’s sharp dismissal. But after a second, he only shrugged, stuffing a berry scone and a flaky pastry into his cloak’s pocket. He bowed stiffly toward the queen and then left.

  Galahad and Bors looked at each other, unsure of what to do. The queen held her head in her hands and rubbed her temples.

  “Your Majesty?” Galahad asked tent
atively. “Are we also dismissed?”

  “They would never dare to speak to Arthur in such a way,” she said, not hearing Galahad. Her shoulders were slumped, and it seemed to him as though Queen Guinevere was holding all the stones of the castle on her back. And in a way . . . she was.

  “Your Majesty,” Galahad said again, “There must be something we can do. Even if we aren’t knights.”

  “Yes,” said someone from behind him. Galahad turned in surprise. It was Malcolm who had spoken—Malcolm who didn’t offer to do anything unless it benefited him. Galahad peered closely at him, looking for a smirk or gleam that hinted at incoming trouble. But to Galahad’s surprise, there was no trace of laughter on the older page’s face.

  “What if we, the pages, stand watch on the wall instead, Your Majesty?” Malcolm continued.

  “That might do,” the queen said, studying them thoughtfully.

  “My older brother is lord of a small holding near the Iron Mountains. He sent the message,” said Malcolm, worry creasing his large brow. “And I know he would not waste a lark if there was no news to report.”

  “I can take the first watch tonight,” Bors volunteered.

  Guinevere looked at the three young pages standing before her with a ghost of a smile.

  “They underestimate you as much as they underestimate our enemies,” Guinevere said. “My new defenders of Camelot. Much will be asked of you in the dark times ahead. But if you keep your eyes open and work together as brothers, we may stand a chance.”

  Malcolm, Galahad, and Bors nodded. No one mentioned that this was the first time all three of them had ever agreed on anything.

  CHAPTER

  34

  The door to Valentina’s former cage clicked shut behind Calib. The hinges had been fixed, and a stronger padlock had been added to the door to make escape impossible.

  “Keep a constant eye on the prisoner, Warren,” Sir Percival instructed the page with his usual, black-toothed smile. Both Sir Percival and Warren had escorted him promptly to the dungeon when they arrived back in Camelot. “Perhaps after he’s had some time to reflect on his actions, he would like to make a confession. And remember, Warren, this could be you if you don’t follow my instructions.”

  Warren saluted Sir Percival, but Calib noticed his paw was trembling. He must have known, of course, that Calib wasn’t the true traitor.

  “Stop lying, Sir Percival!” Calib said, rubbing his wrists to get blood back into them. “I know you’re helping the Saxons!”

  Sir Percival gave him a look of mock pity, barely concealing the malice behind his eyes. “Such a shame that the Christopher legacy should end in such an ignoble way,” he said, walking back out of the cellars. “I don’t imagine you’ll be on any tapestries.”

  Warren stationed himself facing the cage, looking anywhere but directly at Calib. Fury crackled through Calib like a tinder spark set to dry kindling.

  “Why?” Calib demanded of the gray mouse. “Why are you helping Sir Percival? You know you didn’t see a black squirrel kill Grandfather! Why are you lying?”

  “I’m not lying!” Warren said hotly, but Calib saw his eyes dart toward the door. “So what if I didn’t see the squirrel myself? Sir Percival saw Two-Bits. What does it matter if I told Commander Kensington that fact or if Sir Percival did? Either way, that Darkling was there! Two-Bits killed Commander Yvers!”

  Suddenly, it all made sense to Calib. Warren had agreed to tell Commander Kensington that he had seen the squirrel because he had hoped it would put him in good standing with the commander. Maybe he had even thought that the famous knight would ask him to be her personal squire after he passed the Harvest Tournament. It was a prestigious position, and one that would surely help Warren achieve knighthood himself.

  To his dismay, Calib found that he could understand what the gray mouse had been thinking. He knew all too well the burning desire to become a knight of Camelot.

  Warren’s ribs heaved, as if he had been running laps around the training arena. Looking at the way his fur was now glossy with sweat, Calib thought that there might still be a chance to convince Warren to tell the truth.

  “Warren, listen—you must tell Commander Kensington that you didn’t actually see Two-Bits!” Calib said, his words urgent. “If you tell the truth, they might give me a chance to explain! Be brave,” he pushed. “It’s what a knight would do.”

  Warren met his eyes, and for a second, Calib thought Warren was going to say yes. But then the gray mouse dropped his gaze.

  “I can’t,” he whispered. “What if Commander Kensington won’t let me become a squire? And besides, if you’re right, Sir Percival would— He would—”

  It seemed as though his fear of Sir Percival had clamped Warren’s mouth shut. He turned his back on Calib and stared at the door.

  Calib’s fury fizzled out into despair, twisting up like a lump of coal in his chest.

  “If you won’t tell the truth,” he pleaded, “then just tell me: is Cecily all right?”

  Warren remained unresponsive, refusing to acknowledge Calib for the rest of the evening.

  The night dragged on. Being underground, Calib could not tell how much time had passed. With no one coming to visit, and no one willing to deliver news or food, Calib lay back on the dirty sock he was supposed to use for a bed mat. It still reeked of human feet, and he was nauseated.

  He stayed awake long into the night. Warren’s snoring would have been too loud to ignore even if Calib’s anxious thoughts had allowed him to sleep. As it was, he could not stop thinking about what had happened. Over and over again, he was rooted to the ground, watching Cecily get hit and crumple. Over and over again, he saw the large shadow attack his grandfather. His failures felt like stones in his stomach. Calib brushed away the tears that dampened his fur.

  “Calib?” a soft voice whispered his name.

  A silhouette appeared, just out of the flickering light. Calib rose to his feet. “Who’s there?”

  “Shh!” The silhouette stepped forward. It was Ginny, Cecily’s best friend, looking anxious as ever, with a small stack of tea sandwiches made from bread crusts and cucumber peels. “I wanted to come as soon as I’d heard you were back, but I had to wait until everyone would be sleeping. These are for you,” she said, slipping the food between the bars.

  “Thank you,” Calib whispered, and even though it had been hours since he had last eaten, he wasn’t the least bit hungry.

  “How is Cecily? Is she . . . ,” Calib paused as he prayed the answer wasn’t his worst nightmare come true, “all right?”

  Ginny’s face fell. “Not really,” she said, her voice catching with emotion. “She’s had a terrible fever all evening. Sir Alric is watching over her while Sir Percival has gone off to gather herbs for medicine.”

  At the mention of Sir Percival, Calib’s anger filled him like a flood.

  “Don’t trust him, Ginny,” Calib warned. “Sir Percival is the one who’s been lying to us all along about the Darklings.”

  “Shush!” Ginny reached through the bars and clapped a paw over Calib’s mouth as Warren stirred. They waited a few breathless moments, and then Warren began to snore again. Calib backed away from Ginny’s paw.

  “What’s going to happen to me?” Calib asked.

  “I don’t know,” she said honestly. “The knights are meeting in the morning to discuss it, along with planning the next offensive attack on the Darklings.” Then her ears perked up. “But I did have one funny bit of news. It seems that one of the Two-Leggers has been trying to talk to us.”

  “What do you mean?” Calib’s pulse quickened.

  “Barnaby found a message, written in bread crumbs, placed in front of the tunnel that leads into the throne room.”

  Calib latched on to this bit of news like a lifeline. “What did the message say?”

  “That’s the funny thing,” Ginny said. “It just said ‘thank you.’ Have you ever heard of such a thing? I wonder if the first-year pages are just tr
ying to play a trick on us.”

  But before Calib could inquire further, Warren stirred again.

  “I better go.” Ginny gave Calib’s paw one last squeeze and then scurried away.

  Stinging thoughts darted around in Calib’s head. If only there was a way to get Galahad back into the cellar again . . .

  If only he’d reached the Darklings more quickly . . .

  If only . . .

  Just as Calib was about to drift off, a horn sounded in the distance.

  Warren bolted upright. Moments later the sound of thudding pawsteps approached the entrance to the room.

  “Warren, to the walls!” barked Sir Alric, who appeared in full armor at the doorway. “The Darklings have been spotted outside the borders! All pages need to fill in for the sentries!”

  “Wait! What about me?” Calib called, but Warren was already scrambling up the stairs after Sir Alric. There was a moment of silence, and then Calib thought he heard muffled pawsteps. Had they come back for him?

  Calib held his breath, waiting, but no one entered the room. And yet . . . suddenly, a strange certainty filled Calib: someone was watching him. He turned toward the corner, away from the door, and saw a pair of eyes peer out at him from the other side of the cage.

  A dark, wet nose appeared between the bars, followed by a pair of unmistakable mismatched eyes.

  “Howell?” Calib whispered.

  The wolf seemed to glow faintly, even though there was no moonlight to reflect in the dank cellar dungeon. More remarkable still, Howell looked translucent.

  “You are quite popular this evening, Calib Christopher,” the wolf said. “It’s been difficult to speak with you privately.”

  “How do you do that?” Calib asked, breathless with amazement. “Who are you?”

  “I go by many names,” Howell answered, a sharp-toothed grin spreading across his face. “Howell, Myrddin, Emrys . . . Merlin.”

  Calib’s jaw dropped. Howell was the famous Two-Legger wizard? Was it possible? All this time, Calib had been speaking to the greatest wizard the world had ever known. He suddenly felt shy. And yet . . . something occurred to him.