by Steve Cole
King Arthur rolled his eyes. “I say!” he called to a man-at-arms beside the drawbridge. “The Heifer of the Lake should arrive at any moment. Lower that thing so she can get inside . . .”
“I am ALREADY inside!” came a loud, commanding voice from behind him.
A collective gasp went up from the gathered crowds. Hundreds of heads turned, cows mooed as if in amazement and a wave of excited chatter swept through the courtyard.
Arthur now found himself right at the back of the crowd and unable to see a thing. “Clear a path!” he boomed.
The startled audience of knights, commoners and cattle began shifting about to create a gangway through the middle of the courtyard. Then Arthur gasped, and his knights nearly swooned, as the cow-like creature they had seen the night before was revealed – a vision in white silk and steel. Her long blonde hair reached down to the large pile of swords she carried in her arms, and yellow eyes glowed behind her veil.
“Great heifer!” Arthur dropped to his knees, and his assembled knights bowed down low. “Do you bring us good tidings of brave Merlin?”
“Merlin has not yet caught up with Moodrid,” the Heifer of the Lake explained, striding towards them in six-inch steel heels. “He is still chasing the evil bullock.”
“Still? Half a day later?” King Arthur raised his eyebrows. “My, the old boy’s got some stamina!”
“Enough talk of Merlin,” the heifer announced, towering over Arthur. “It is more urgent than ever that your knights begin their quest for the Hayly Grail at once.”
Arthur raised his Excowlibur sword aloft. “We are ready and willing!”
“And terribly excited,” added Sir Percival.
“We shall journey to the four corners of the earth in search of the finest hay, fair lake-cow!” called another knight.
“I shall cross rivers of fire and chasms of doom to fetch it,” said yet another.
“I shall cross them faster,” a more competitive knight declared. “Plus, I will probably slay a dragon too.”
“I will definitely slay a dragon,” said Sir Percival.
“All right, I get the idea,” rumbled the Heifer of the Lake. “Just remember, to ensure good fortune on your quest, you must take my special swords everywhere you go and wear the lucky scabbard—”
“DON’T LISTEN TO HER!”
King Arthur started at the familiar voice behind him, as the crowds gasped and squealed in amazement.
“You!” squawked the Heifer of the Lake.
Arthur turned to find Merlin standing in the courtyard entrance – back in his old, familiar form of a bearded, mussed-up old man! “Merlin!” he cried with delight. Beside the wizard stood the mysterious milk-white knight, Sir Angus – but of his two cows there was no sign.
“How did you get here?” the heifer growled.
“We have used your own moo-gic against you, vile cow of evil,” Merlin shouted back. “And now . . . let the final battle commence!”
Chapter Eleven
SIGNAL OF DOOM
Professor McMoo watched Arthur as he rushed over, grabbed Merlin in a hug, sniffed him, almost choked and quickly put him down again.
“You are no longer a bull, Merlin,” the king observed in wonder. “What does this mean?”
“It means we have all been tricked by that lying rat of a cow!” cried Merlin, as further gasps echoed around the courtyard. “She was the evil Moodrid all along, Arthur! Her quest is a mockery. She plans to use the knights of the Round Stable to destroy the world!”
A heavy silence settled over the courtyard as the news sank in.
“Destroying the world isn’t very chivalrous,” squeaked Sir Percival. “I’d sooner not!”
“Order your knights to capture that heifer, Your Majesty,” McMoo urged Arthur. “Before she can act against us.”
“Capture a damsel?” King Arthur looked shocked. “Isn’t that against the rules?” “You are all welcome to try,” growled the ter-moo-nette. She started pulling Excowliburs from their scabbards and tossing them to the other knights assembled in the crowd. “I’ll even give you extra weapons to make it easy . . .”
“Come on, Pat and Bo, get a shift on,” breathed McMoo. Then he called to the knights: “Throw down those swords, all of you! She’s up to something!”
“Me, Professor?” She smiled and produced a remote control from beneath her smock. “Why, whatever can you mean?” She pressed a button. Suddenly, the eyes in the cow-crafted sword hilts started to glow with evil energy.
“It’s no good trying to hypnotize everyone,” McMoo warned, advancing on the ter-moo-nette. “You’ve brought too many of your special scabbards with you. They’ll block the hypnotic signal, remember?”
“Not if I turn that signal up to eleven!” hissed the ter-moo-nette, turning a dial on the remote. A sinister hum filled the air. Crackles of power spat from the Excowlibur blades, and the eyes in the hilts grew ever brighter. The knights gasped in horror, and the damsels in the crowd – not wishing to show up the knights – duly started to scream and faint. Sir Percival yelped as his scabbard exploded. Arthur’s shattered into pieces, hurling him to the ground. McMoo stared round in alarm as the sword sheaths started blowing apart all over the place.
As the scabbards were destroyed, so the full power of the ter-moo-nette’s hypnotic signal coursed through the courtyard and beyond, into the cobbled streets of Cow-me-lot. Nobles and knights, servants and soldiers, all were clutching their ears and starting to moo. One by one, they dropped to all fours, while real cattle ran for cover in confusion.
“Hold on to your mind, sire!” Merlin beseeched King Arthur. “You must hold on!”
But Arthur was already falling to his knees. He shuffled up to a nearby dairy cow and started chewing her grass.
McMoo lunged for the ter-moo-nette’s remote control, but she stopped him with a blast of rancid yoghurt from her automated udder. “Stop this!” he spluttered. “You can’t turn these knights into human cows – you need them to help you conquer the world, remember?”
“And so they shall.” The ter-moo-nette gave Merlin a yoghurt squirt too, and with a cry he slipped to the cobblestones. “I will hypnotize the people of Cow-me-lot again and convince them that none of this ever happened. I will repair the scabbards, and recapture Pat and Bo Vine, wherever they have gone.”
“Quite a to-do list,” said McMoo.
“Then I shall appear to King Arthur and his knights once again. And this time, all will go smoothly.” She loomed over McMoo and Merlin. “My plans will succeed, Professor. But now, for putting me to so much trouble, you and the wizard must be ter-moo-nated!”
Choking on yoghurt and too slippery to stand, with hundreds of moos echoing in his ears, the professor watched helplessly as Moodrid picked up a fallen Excowlibur sword in her free hoof and raised it higher . . . higher . . .
CLANG!
The next moment, a hurled shield smashed the weapon and the remote control from the ter-moo-nette’s metal grip. The gadgets fell into a pool of bubbling yoghurt, and started to smoke and spark.
“Yes!” cheered the professor.
“NOOOO!” Moodrid warbled. She ducked down and started scrabbling for the slippery sword – and McMoo grinned to see Bo doing a victory dance behind her.
“Pretty cool throw, eh, Professor?” Bo yelled.
“I certainly got a kick out of it . . .” McMoo lashed out with one armoured hoof and booted the ter-moo-nette over into her own vile dairy slime. “And what do you know, so did she!”
The remote control was starting to melt. “Power levels too high,” gasped the ter-moo-nette, searching for the device. “Yoghurt levels too toxic. Must deactivate before . . .”
“Too late!” cried McMoo as the remote began to jump about like a smoking steel firecracker. “It’s going to blow!”
“So it seems, Professor.” The ter-moo-nette’s eyes glowed nastily. “And the resulting explosion will destroy you!”
Chapter Twelve
&
nbsp; A KIND OF MOO-GIC
“Destroy the prof? Not if I can help it!” Bo wrenched the metal breastplate from the nearest knight, jumped onto it and used it as a surfboard to skim across the pool of yoghurty slime at incredible speed. “Grab hold, Professor!”
Clutching onto Merlin’s cloak, McMoo reached out with his other hoof for Bo. She snatched him and the wizard to safety – just as Moodrid’s remote burst apart, belching purple flames and thick green smoke.
Back on dry cobbles, McMoo staggered to his feet with a very groggy Merlin.
“Those were two excellent rescues, young cow,” the wizard muttered.
“Yes, thanks, Bo.” McMoo pretended to frown. “But did you have to leave them both to the very last minute?”
“Don’t blame me!” Bo grinned. “That job you gave us took longer than you thought it would. In fact, I had to leave Pat to finish up while I hopped into the transporter. I had a feeling you might need me.”
“You will both need an ambulance!” came an angry whine behind them. As the green smoke blew away on the breeze, the scorched, sticky and soot-blackened ter-moo-nette came into sight. She had lost her wig and her white dress was filthy. “Look what you’ve done to my swords!”
Merlin marvelled as sparking Excowliburs all around the courtyard began to drip and dwindle like silver ice-lollies left out in the sun. “They’re melting!”
“Their circuits are overloading,” McMoo realized. “Moodrid must have boosted the hypnotic signal too much – and without the remote she can’t turn it down again.”
“Not fair!” warbled Moodrid. “With the swords destroyed, the hypnotic effect will soon fade. My plans are ruined!”
“Good,” snapped Merlin.
“That’s better than I dared hope for,” McMoo agreed.
“And it gets even better!” Pat shouted, standing in the gateway to the courtyard.
“Little bruv!” Bo waved. “You made it. Did you finish the job?”
Pat glanced behind him and smiled. “Oh, yes. We can get her now . . .”
“You think that the four of you can beat an armour-plated, computer-brained, nuclear-uddered ter-moo-nette?” The half-metal monster sneered. “I am Moodrid, Organizer of Ordeals! I revel in destruction . . . and I shall crush you like croutons beneath my steel stilettos!”
“If there really were only four of us, perhaps you could try.” Pat took a step clear of the gateway. “But look who’s just joined us in Cow-me-lot thanks to your handy transporter . . .”
The ter-moo-nette froze in sudden alarm as dozens and dozens of dirty, hairy butchers came charging into the courtyard, led by Henry and Bessivere Barmer!
“There’s the metal cow!” bellowed Bessivere. “Get her, boys, and see how many dents you can give her!”
“Stay back!” squawked the ter-moo-nette. She raised her gun, but didn’t know where to aim it first. Suddenly, a well-aimed cleaver jarred the weapon from her grip.
“Hurr! Hurr!” Henry chortled. “Got hurr!”
Merlin gave him a thumbs-up. “Good shot!”
“Eeeeek!” The ter-moo-nette was sent staggering backwards as dozens of clomping great butchers started grabbing for her switches and swiping at her armour. “Unhand me, humans! Release meeeeeee . . .”
Pat came rushing over to join McMoo, Bo and Merlin. “Your plan worked, Professor!”
“Of course it did!” said McMoo. “You saw me reverse the circuits in that sword that Merlin found so that it sent out an anti-hypnotic signal. All you had to do was wave the sword around in front of those butchers to break their spell and produce an instant angry mob! What could have gone wrong with that?”
“It took ages!” Pat complained. “Bessivere and her mates have hardly got three brain cells to rub together! It’s just a good job their time as human cows has put them off eating real cows like Bo and me.”
“Yeah – lucky for them!” Bo declared. “Even luckier, Bessivere jumped at the chance of getting revenge on the metal cow who made her miss her big gala dinner – just as you guessed she would, Professor.”
“It was a remarkable plan.” Merlin clapped McMoo on the back. “Truly, Professor, you are almost as wise as I am.”
McMoo smiled. “You know, there aren’t many people I’d let get away with a comment like that, Merlin – but you’re one of them!”
“Never mind the congratulations,” said Bo. “Let’s see if Bessivere’s rabble needs a hand with old iron-knickers over there!”
But it was clear that no help was required. The cheering, jeering butchers had lifted the battered ter-moo-nette into the air and were pulling her in all directions. “You’ve ruined my bodywork!” the metal madam shrieked over the hubbub. “And you’ve broken one of my heels.”
“Throw her in the moat!” Bessivere yelled.
“No, don’t! My waterproof coating has rubbed off!” The ter-moo-nette hastily pulled a silver platter from under her tattered smock.
Merlin sneered. “A shield won’t save you, Moodrid!”
“It’s not a shield.” Pat sighed. “It’s an F.B.I. portable time machine. She’s going to get away!”
“Mission abort!” the ter-moo-nette droned, fading in a haze of fetching pink smoke. “Abort! Retreat! Mission aborrrrrrrt . . .”
Bo started forward, but the professor held her back. “No, let her go,” he said. “I think there’s been enough fighting here today.”
“I guess,” Bo grumbled. “But I have a feeling we’ll be meeting that ter-moo-nette again . . .”
The butchers stared about in confusion as their victim vanished. Bessivere stamped over. “Oi! Where did that rotten tin cow go?”
“I’m not sure,” McMoo admitted. “But she won’t be back in a hurry – thanks to the lesson you taught her.”
“Well, I’ve learned a lesson too,” Bessivere declared. “Grass is yummy, even if it’s no good for you! I’m going to organize a jolly butchers’ outing around the world, trying to find the tastiest type there is . . .”
Pat raised his eyebrows. “A quest for the Grassy Grail?”
“Right. Get that drawbridge down, Henry,” bawled Bessivere, shoving her husband on ahead. “Then let’s hit the road.”
“I hope that’s all she’ll be hitting for a while,” said McMoo, watching them go.
Bo grinned. “Good riddance!”
“Ohhhhh . . .” King Arthur was struggling to his feet, surrounded by dazed damsels and puzzled-looking knights. “What happened?” He looked down grimly at the stinky yellow puddle at his feet. “It must have been one heck of a party!”
“Someone’s taken my breastplate!” Sir Percival was blushing scarlet, covering his naked chest with both hands. “Help!”
“Here, have this helmet I found,” Bo offered – and placed it back to front over the vain knight’s head, to much applause from those waking up nearby.
“Camelot can return to normal at last,” Merlin said happily. “Though I think we’ll keep the cows around – in honour of the three brave cattle who saved us all.”
“Three?” McMoo frowned. “You mean . . . you know I’m not a human knight?”
“That enchanted ring you wear through your nose is most fetching, my friend.” Merlin smiled warmly. “Professor, my eyes have been opened to the truth once more – and thanks to you, they shall stay that way.”
Bo gave the old man a fond lick. “See ya, Beardie!”
“It was an honour to meet you,” said Pat.
“Good luck cleaning Merlin!” McMoo beamed at the old man. “I’d love to stay a while, but we’d better be off – I can hear a cup of tea brewing in the twenty-sixth century . . .”
“I shall take care of everything with my great magic,” Merlin assured them, a twinkle in his eye. “And a little moo-gic thrown in for good measure!”
Exhausted but happy, McMoo, Pat and Bo slipped away through the ter-moo-nette’s transporter and disconnected it behind them. Then they trudged back to the Time Shed.
“I hope w
e’ve heard the last of moo-gic in the Dark Age,” declared the professor. “But I’m glad the tales of Merlin, Arthur and all his knights will continue to thrill audiences right through history.”
Pat nodded. “Even if it turns out the storytellers got one or two of the details wrong!”
With the Time Shed’s engines now working smoothly at full power, it didn’t take long for McMoo and his friends to return to C.I.A. Headquarters in the twenty-sixth century. The battered old craft arrived in a blur of light and creaking timber. But Yak, Dandi and the rest of the staff hardly noticed. They were too busy laughing at something on the P.O.O. scanner.
“Hey, what’s going on, Yakeroo?” Bo demanded.
“Yes!” McMoo looked peeved. “We’ve saved the world, kept history on the right track – and there’s not even a fresh cuppa waiting now we’re back!”
“Sorry, team,” Yak told them with a snigger. “You did a great job. And you’ll be pleased to know that you’ve got a holiday coming up on your farm.”
“Well, a holiday from Bessie Barmer, anyway.” Dandi hit the rewind button beneath, and the images wound backwards. “While you were away, Bessie finally removed that pickaxe stuck in the concrete . . .”
She pressed play – and there on the screen was the twenty-first-century Bessie wrestling with a stout wooden pick handle. “Come on,” the huge woman growled. “If King Arthur could pull the sword from the stone, I can do this. I am the once and future queen of farms . . .” Biceps the size of badgers sprang up on her arms as she strained with all her strength . . . “Yes . . . YES . . . YES!”
Incredibly, she lifted both the pickaxe and the block of concrete high into the air.
