A Tail of Camelot (17 page)

T
he 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.

S
axon 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 back 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.

General Gaius landed next to Calib and Kensington. His ear tufts were impeccably groomed. “We'll cover you,” the general said to the commander. “You must get every creature back within the castle walls.”

She did not need to be told twice.

“Retreat to the castle!” Commander Kensington called to the last of the warriors around her.

The owls, crows, and larks scooped up those who were injured. General Gaius picked up Calib by the shoulders and began to fly for the castle. The general dodged a number of arrows as he launched into the morning sky.

“General!” Calib cried. “What convinced you to come?”

“When my scouts told me of the attack, I had half a mind to leave you groundlings to sort it out,” General Gaius said shortly. “But then Seer Thaddeus kindly reminded me that I had failed to properly help you avoid this war. To make up for it, the owls will see this battle through with you.”

Calib looked below at the fleeing creatures. They had now reached the town. But the Saxon horde was in hot
pursuit. Only so many creatures would make it behind the castle wall before they were overtaken.

As the animals ran through the cobblestone streets of Camelot, the Two-Leggers beginning their morning chores jumped back in alarm. Calib watched as some of the farmers and milkmaids shooed at the barrage of snarling weasels with brooms and shovels. This gave the Camelot and Darkling creatures precious seconds to outrace the Saxons.

Gaius and Calib landed in the castle courtyard. Around them, other birds swooped down, carrying the wounded. Foot soldiers from the Darklings and Camelot sides streamed through the doorways. Mice sentries ran about in a panic, shouting confused orders, no longer sure who the enemy was.

Finally, the last of the owls flew in, followed closely by Kensington and Leftie, who had been protecting the stragglers. The lynx, so fearless on the battlefield, needed three owls to lift him to his feet. His fur was dark and sticky with blood.

Devrin ran immediately to meet Commander Kensington. “Commander! The Darklings . . . Do we turn them away?” she asked anxiously.

Though blood streamed down his face, Leftie gripped his scimitars tighter, ready to respond to whatever answer Commander Kensington gave. Calib held his breath and
prayed for the right one.

Camelot's leader looked at a black squirrel who was sprinting toward the closing gate with an injured mouse on her back. And Macie, still in the distance, riding a Darkling crow and shooting arrows at the Saxons.

“No,” Kensington said. “Let them all in.”

T
he Goldenwood Hall echoed with the cries and whimpers of injured fighters.

They lay head to tail in the stands. Nurses and medics rushed about with stretchers, doing their best to tend to the wounded. Two shrews were treating Sir Alric for an arrow gash to the knee. A crow had a broken wing that was being set in a sling by his fellow crows. Those who were uninjured stood restlessly in their own groups on the arena floor. The Darkling and Camelot fighters eyed one another with suspicion.

The bell-tower larks had taken most of the arrow fire during the retreat. Very gently, Calib finished daubing the graze wound on a shuddering lark with a cooling cream made from crushed juniper berries.

“I'll need more gauze,” he called out, eyeing the rows of injured still waiting for care.

“We're all running low,” Devrin said. She was carefully setting a dislocated tail with the aid of Madame von Mandrake. “The Two-Legger infirmary will have more supplies.”

“I can help Calib bring more supplies back,” said a familiar voice.

Calib whirled around.

Cecily stood there, smiling sheepishly, a lopsided bandage over her right ear. Her eyes were as clear and bright as ever.

“Cecily!” he exclaimed. Relief washed over him like a wave. Calib wrapped her in a tight hug. “Thank Merlin, you're alive!”

“Ow, too hard!” Cecily gasped.

“Sorry.” Calib let go, suddenly self-conscious.

Cecily shrugged but was grinning nonetheless. “It was nothing some healing herbs couldn't fix.”

“But Ginny said . . .”

“And when have you known Ginny
not
to exaggerate?” Cecily said. “Now, come on, we need to hurry with the
gauze.” She turned quickly, and Calib ran to keep up. Breathlessly, Calib briefed Cecily on all that had occurred since they separated, including the revelation that Sir Percival had planted the tooth all along.

“But what about you? What happened?” Calib asked.

“All I know is, I woke up in bed, and
Maman
was above me, screaming her head off,” Cecily said. “It seems that everyone thought General Gaius had attacked me, so they chased him away before he had a chance to explain anything.”

They entered the Two-Legger infirmary by running along the curtain frames that divided patients' beds from one another. As Calib and Cecily passed one of the occupied beds, a small commotion was happening below. The word “Saxon” drifted out to them, and Calib paused. He motioned for Cecily to stop as they peered over the bed.

Queen Guinevere, Sir Kay, and a number of older knights had gathered at the bedside of an unfamiliar man. The man was heavily bandaged, but he looked alert. He sat upright in an infirmary bed.

“Start from the beginning,” Queen Guinevere said.

“We first noticed it in the animals,” the man said, his voice stony. “For weeks, the woods had become overrun with weasels. Swarms of them. We couldn't make any sense of it. They attacked our crops and herds. The
messenger birds were murdered in their cages.”

The man looked up, tears brimming in his eyes.

“And then one morning, the men came. They emerged from the swamp fog, silent like the wraiths from the days of old. They were armored and without mercy.”

The messenger trembled. “By the time I got away, the village was burning. I rode as fast as I could, but I fear it is too late. I told myself that I was running for help, but . . . in truth, I ran like a coward.”

“Lives may be saved yet because of your actions,” Guinevere said. “Camelot has not seen war for many years. When these men attacked, did you get a good look at any of them? Did any of them say anything?”

The man squinted, trying to remember.

“They charged us with a banner—a white dragon against a red backing.”

Guinevere drew a sharp breath. The rest of the members of the Round Table exploded.

“Saxons attacking from inland! That can't be!” said Sir Kay. “We defeated the Saxons years ago!”

“We should negotiate terms of surrender now,” said one anxious adviser, nervously chewing his nails, “while there's still a chance they will let us live.”

Queen Guinevere stood up, her eyes blazing. “Every able man with a mount must warn the other castles and ask for support.”

“Now, see here,” Sir Kay began, growing red in the face. “Just because you married the king doesn't make you our ruler.”

“King Arthur united all of Britain so that we could stand together in a time of need.” Galahad, the page Calib remembered so well, spoke up, and the other knights gawked at him. Calib couldn't help being impressed. The Two-Legger was at least two heads shorter than everyone else in the room. “The king is not here, but we must honor that belief.”

“We're sworn to follow whoever wields the Sword in the Stone. Where's
your
sword, little boy?” asked another knight.

Calib held his breath to hear what Galahad would say. But he only flushed red and mumbled something.

“And to think, Camelot once represented the bravest and finest knights in the land,” the queen said, her anger unmasked. “How far we've all fallen.”

She looked around at the many knights who could not return her gaze.

On the curtain frame, Cecily shook her head.

“The Two-Leggers would rather stuff their ears full of cotton than listen to common sense,” she whispered to Calib.

“We have to tell Commander Kensington,” Calib whispered back. “The Two-Legger Saxons will arrive
soon! And half our number are injured, and the other half won't even look at one another, much less fight alongside one another!”

Cecily looked at Calib, and he couldn't quite tell what she was thinking.

“Not just Commander Kensington, but Leftie too,” she said. “You're the only one who can convince both sides to listen, Calib. You have to convince them to face the Saxons as one army, or we'll be lost.”