by Julie Leung
“It was you,” the mouse said breathlessly. “You put the Sword in the Stone, didn’t you?”
“Goodness, no.” Howell shook his head. “The Darkling Woods possess secret ways of warning, my dear mouse. The Sword in the Stone is an older and wilder kind of magic than any I command. All I can do is interpret what signs are left of it in this world.”
Calib remembered the tales of the old days, when magical beings like fairies, elves, and giants lived among other animals in peace.
“I need your help, Calib,” Howell said somberly.
Calib blinked at him, certain he’d misheard.
“‘Help’?” Calib repeated. “You’re the greatest wizard who ever lived. I’m just a mouse. How can I possibly help you?”
Howell sighed.
“My powers have diminished as the magic of this world has waned. I’ve preserved what magic I can by living as a wolf. I am of no more use to men, and I have only one last spell in me. I will free you from this place. You must do the rest.”
“But why spend your last spell freeing me?” Calib asked. “I’ve already failed! I’m useless! Because of me, the Darklings are marching on Camelot even now!”
“You are your father’s son,” Howell said sternly. “It is a resemblance not in your whisker length or fur coloring. The power is inside of you; you just have to learn to listen. Give me your paw, Calib Christopher.”
Calib obliged, slipping his paws through the bars. The wolf laid his enormous paw gently on Calib’s trembling one.
“Resera,” he said. His voice seemed to come from far away. Howell began to fade before Calib’s eyes. The outline of his wolf shape blurred.
“Both the Darkling and the Saxon armies are attacking this very morning,” Howell continued. Now he was no more than a hovering ball of fading light. “Only when all of Camelot’s creatures have been united will you be able to defeat the Manderlean.”
For a long moment, all Calib could see was darkness. And in that darkness, Merlin’s voice echoed, frail and distant.
“I have no more power in this world. My magic is spent. You must help them now.”
A flash of brilliant blue light blinded Calib. Slowly, the edges of his vision filled in like the gray of twilight. A blast of cold winter wind made his whiskers twitch. He suddenly felt the cool damp of earth and grass beneath his paws.
His cage was gone, along with the dank dungeon beyond it. Calib stood on top of a hill, about a league from the castle, with a clear view of an open meadow beneath a sky still flecked with fading stars. On the horizon, a rosy-pink light promised that dawn was not far behind.
“Where are we, Merlin?” he asked in amazement. But there was no reply.
Calib looked around, expecting to see the human wizard, or perhaps Howell the wolf, but there was no one else. He was alone, and in the distance, he could hear a trumpet sound the charge.
A battle was beginning.
CHAPTER
35
The first rays of sun fell across the open ground, illuminating the Camelot troops marching across it. Little red banners dotted the landscape, signaling the position of various regiments. Beyond the meadow, between the bare branches of a nearby grove, Calib could see a great confusion of movement.
Black birds beat the air with their wings. Smaller, blurred figures leaped among the lower branches. Calib could make out a large, tawny shape lunging between the tree trunks with feline grace. It could only be Leftie the lynx, sunlight glinting off his armor.
Calib dashed down the side of the hill as fast as his paws would carry him. He threw himself into the tall grass, making a beeline for the grove. He didn’t know how he could stop the battle, but he knew he had to try.
Merlin trusted him. But how—how was he supposed to help?
The ground was slippery with frost. Short tufts of grass crackled icily beneath his paws. It was hard going across the uneven ground, clambering over furrows and worming his way through brambles. He was soon out of breath. But he hardly noticed.
His mind was racing. Help, help, help. How could he help?
Approaching an embankment, Calib found his way blocked by a Two-Legger stone wall. It wasn’t very high, but it was well built, with mortar between the stones. He ran along the base, searching frantically for a way through it, but there were no openings large enough to admit a mouse. The only way was over.
He dragged himself up from stone to stone, pawhold to pawhold. His muscles were already tired from his sprint, and the rock was slick with ice, unyielding beneath his paws. Once, he lost his grip and almost went tumbling down to the ground, but he managed to cling precariously to a patch of lichen until he regained his footing. At last, gasping and panting, he pulled himself onto the top of the wall.
A flash of movement at the southeast edge of the forest caught Calib’s eye. At first he thought he had imagined it, but as he stared across the meadow, he saw something—or somethings—emerging from the southeast.
His heart stopped.
A mass of moving creatures spilled from the forest, spreading out along the tree line as more and more of them poured out into the meadow.
Saxon weasels.
Calib could see them from the wall. But they were visible for only half a dozen feet beyond the border of the forest before disappearing into the tall meadow grass. After that, the only sign of the creatures was the violent swaying of the grass that marked their snaky path to the castle . . . and toward the unsuspecting, warring mice and Darklings fighting in the grove ahead.
Calib would never be able to warn the Camelot army in time— He was too slow! There was simply no way for him to reach the grove before the animals were ambushed. He was paralyzed. Why had Merlin placed so much trust in him? He was only a mouse, after all—and not even a very capable one.
A raucous cawing suddenly filled the air around him.
Calib instinctively ducked as a flock of crows whizzed overhead, flying low to the ground, their shadows skating over the frozen grass.
“Wait!” Calib yelled up at them. “Come back! The Saxons are attacking!”
But either the birds hadn’t heard him, or else they were too focused on the ongoing melee between Camelot and the Darklings to care about one little mouse.
Calib jumped and hollered, waving his arms and shouting at them to come back. But by now, they were too far away to hear him.
“I’ll give you this much, Calib Christopher,” said a familiar voice. “You’re a mouse who knows how to find trouble.”
“Valentina!” Calib’s hopes lifted as the crow circled and then alighted on the wall.
“Looks like you’re late for the battle too,” she said.
“Can you take me there?” Calib said eagerly.
The crow hesitated. “And if I did, which side would you be fighting on?”
Calib groaned in frustration. “We’re all on the same side. That’s what I’ve been telling you. Look!”
He pointed toward the meadow. The flood of weasels from the Darkling Woods had finally ceased, but the long grass was a seething torrent of motion. In places the grass had been trampled flat, and Calib could see a steady stream of long, sinuous bodies clad in armor.
Valentina froze. “By beak and talon,” she whispered in shock. “How many are there?”
“Too many! We have to warn everyone, before both our forces are overrun!”
Valentina nodded. “Right. Grab on and hold tight.” She held out one leg to Calib, and he climbed carefully onto her foot and balanced himself between her narrow toes.
With a quick hop, Valentina launched herself off the wall and into the air. The world spun crazily beneath Calib. He gave a yelp of fright. This was nothing like riding in the basket that General Gaius had carried. Then, he and Cecily had been sheltered from the wind and the dizzying view. Now there was nothing but sleek black feathers above him and the unforgiving ground below.
In almost no time they were past the Saxon vanguard. And shortly after that, they were in the
grove, dodging between the branches of scrubby trees. Calib’s heart leaped and plunged with every dip of Valentina’s wings. Calib could see Darkling and Camelot creatures fighting all around. Here, a band of Darkling archers had a troop of shrews pinned down behind a boulder. There, three of the moat otters had a badger surrounded, though a group of hares were coming to her aid. In the canopy around them, crows and larks swooped and dived, feathers flying as they locked talons in combat.
“Stop fighting! The Saxons are attacking!” Calib shouted as Valentina flew low over the battle.
“Regroup!” Valentina cawed. “Weasels on the southeast flank!”
But no one paid them any attention.
A flurry of fur and steel caught Calib’s eye—Leftie, crouched on a fallen log, exchanging vicious blows with Commander Kensington and Sir Owen.
Valentina flew straight for the log and pulled up sharply in front of Leftie and the knights, flapping her wings wildly to get their attention. Calib let go of her leg and rolled to a hard landing in the dirt. He looked up to see all three combatants staring down at him, mouths agape.
“Calib Christopher?” Kensington’s voice was equal parts anger and disbelief.
“Commander! Leftie!” he burst out. “You need to stop the battle— We’re about to be ambushed!”
Leftie bared his teeth at Calib. “Is this another Camelot deception?”
“I swear it!” Calib shouted. “We’re all in terrible danger!”
“Stop your nonsense, Calib,” Kensington said. “Who do you pretend is going to ambush us?”
Calib looked up at Valentina for support.
“Them,” Valentina said in a hoarse whisper, and Calib turned to see a writhing tide of weasels emerge from the grass, advancing toward them like a dark wave from a stormy sea—endless and unstoppable.
CHAPTER
36
The predawn air was still, like the eerie calm before a storm, as Galahad stepped onto Camelot’s ramparts. He felt the bitter chill seep into his woolen clothes.
In the nunnery, they called weather like this the Silent Sleep. With no wind to speak of, unseasoned travelers sometimes were tricked into believing it was warmer than it actually was. By the time they fell asleep in the snow, it was too late.
Galahad arrived at the spot where Malcolm and Bors had been standing the previous watch. The two boys were leaning over the wall, their attention focused across the meadow.
“What’s going on?” Galahad asked.
“Hope the kitchen nun got enough beauty sleep,” Malcolm said sarcastically. But Galahad thought the insult was halfhearted. “Come and have a look at this.”
Galahad squinted into the distance, scanning the edge of the forest and the swaths of farmland and meadows that preceded it.
“What am I supposed to be looking at?”
“Between the aspens and the tall grass . . . Do you see them?” Bors said.
First, Galahad saw the flocks of birds—crows and larks attacking one another in the sky. And on the ground he saw the chaotic blur of fur. If he listened closely, he could almost hear their screeches, caws, and yowls in the distance.
“I’ve never seen anything like it,” said Malcolm, and Galahad thought, beneath Malcom’s bluster, he detected a quiver of fear in his voice.
“They used to say the woods would give signs when danger was near,” Bors mused. “At least, that’s how the stories tell it. If that’s not a sign, I don’t know what is.”
“But what are they fighting about, I wonder?” said Galahad. He scanned the landscape for more clues. “Should we tell the queen?”
“Doubt there’s much she could do with that information,” Malcolm said. “Half the knights think she’s unfit to rule, anyway. I don’t see how a bunch of animals squabbling will help her argument.”
But Galahad was no longer looking at the animals fighting tooth and nail. The sun had slowly dawned behind them, rising up from the ocean like an egg yolk. The new light traveled down the road leading toward Camelot, illuminating a man slumped forward on a brown horse.
The haggard animal foamed at the mouth and limped from an arrow buried in its haunch. Dried blood covered the man’s face like a red mask. He slipped from his horse and collapsed in a heap right outside the old cobbler’s hut.
“Wake the queen!” Galahad shouted.
CHAPTER
37
Saxon weasels streamed into the grove with their weapons drawn. Their sudden appearance brought the existing battle to a standstill. Both the Darklings and Camelot knights stood frozen, unsure whose side the Saxons were on.
It wasn’t until Saxon archers loosed their first volley of arrows into the crowd that both sides realized the new arrivals meant to attack them all.
Commander Kensington was the first to react.
“Camelot, fall back! To the castle!” the mouse shouted as she thrust her sword into the heart of an incoming stoat. If Commander Kensington felt panic or fear, no one would have known it. “Larks, cover us!”
From above, General Flit whistled an urgent call to his soldiers.
Sir Owen picked up his horn and blew an off-kilter tune—the signal to retreat. Sir Alric tied a white banner to his helmet and started running for the castle. Other Camelot forces followed, sprinting as fast as they could across the meadow and toward the town.
The battalion of fighter larks dove into the grass, picking off the Saxon archers. Calib caught sight of Macie Cornwall scampering up the trunk of a tree, loosing arrow after arrow at the Saxons as she climbed.
Two weasels set upon Leftie. The lynx bled freely from a torn ear on his right side. He growled and hissed as he tried to keep both of the beasts within his line of vision. He twirled a scimitar in each paw, dueling both of his attackers at once.
Just as Leftie dispatched one weasel with a fierce elbow to the throat, the second one came sneaking from his right side—his blind spot.
“Leftie, to your right!” Calib shouted.
The big cat turned just in time to dodge an ax blow. As the weasel tried to recover, Leftie slammed the pommel of his scimitar onto the back of his skull. The creature crumpled into a heap. Leftie looked up at Calib, doubt showing in his yellow eye.
Blocked on one side by the Camelot forces and on the other by the advancing horde, the Darklings were hemmed into the grove. Leftie had a decision to make: continue to try to fight Camelot or turn to face the new foes.
“Crows, help the Camelot larks!” Leftie roared. The crows who had been furiously pecking at Sir Alric’s mesh archer shields turned and began to dive-bomb along with the Camelot larks, desperately buying time for the grounded Camelot and Darkling animals to retreat.
Calib scanned the sky for Valentina but saw only strangers. To his horror, many of the birds were being felled before they could even reach the grass. He turned and ran after the other animals.
Suddenly, a weasel with a scar on his muzzle appeared in Calib’s path. The creature had a row of sharp blades attached to each front paw, and his helmet was crowned with a ramming spear. The scarred weasel bared all his fangs at Calib as he charged toward him.
Without a sword, Calib was defenseless. He scoured the ground for anything he could use as a weapon. There were a few abandoned weapons in the distance, but nothing within reach—nothing but the stringy withered roots of the aspen trees at his footpaws.
He braced his legs and faced the charging weasel, willing his heart to keep steady. At the last moment, when the weasel’s spear tip was within piercing range, Calib shimmied to the side. He hooked his footpaw under a root and yanked. The stoat tripped over the lifted root and went sprawling onto his stomach.
Calib made to turn and run, but something jerked him back painfully. The weasel had grabbed his tail on the way down. Getting back on his paws, the weasel raised a blade to slash him.
Calib closed his eyes, certain that he would be killed that very instant. But then the weasel made a strange gargling sound. His black eyes rolled to the bac
k of his head. He fell forward onto Calib. A spear was buried deep into the weasel’s back.
Calib tried to wiggle out from underneath the dead weasel, but the creature was too heavy. A pair of paws appeared and rolled the corpse off Calib.
Sir Owen’s grief-stricken face hovered over the dazed mouse.
“I was a fool, Calib. I thought . . . well . . . ,” Sir Owen said, his voice trembling. He gestured to the fighting going on all around them. “This is a fine mess, isn’t it?”
Bleakly, they surveyed the scene. The enemy was relentless; even now, more and more weasels poured out from hiding. The Darkling and Camelot forces stood no chance.
They would all be slaughtered here. They would never make it back to the castle.
Calib saw Commander Kensington continue to fight as she tried to clear the way for the others to cross the field. Dead enemies lay around her. But he could see that she was becoming winded.
Sir Owen patted Calib on the back. “Sir Trenton would be proud of you,” he said, his voice catching. The knight’s eyes looked sad but resolute. “I’ll be sure to tell him that when I see him.”
Confused, Calib started to ask what he meant.
But Sir Owen was already charging toward the fray.
“For Camelot!” he shouted, his voice echoing up toward the trees.
“Wait!” Calib called out. “You’re going the wrong way!”
Sir Owen Onewhisker either didn’t hear or didn’t heed.
Calib started to dash after the knight. A new shadow passed over him, and his stomach dropped. More whizzed by, darkening the whole field. It was only when he noticed the shadows’ extraordinarily large wingspan that he realized who they were.
“The owls,” he whispered in awe.
He recognized General Gaius leading the way. The rest of his parliament followed in a V formation. Their armor and helmets glittered against the newly risen sun.
The owls swooped down and began releasing large rocks from their clutches. They were loose stones from St. Gertrude. With great accuracy, they dropped them on the Saxons. Commander Kensington looked up in astonishment as giant rocks crushed her closest foes.
