A Tail of Camelot (19 page)

A
s Galahad approached the Sword in the Stone, he was not surprised at all to see a small tawny mouse perched upon its hilt. He watched the mouse rise onto his hind legs and wave his paw, almost in a greeting.

A group of mice, an owl, and a badger wearing a tortoise shell on his front stood guard. The badger reared up and held out his fists like a boxer. The great horned owl spread its wings and screeched.

Galahad heard the crowd of loyal Camelot servants and squires murmur uneasily behind him. It had actually been
more surprising to Galahad that all the squires had offered him their protection and support.

“It's better than watching the parade of cowards at the castle,” Malcolm had said, and Galahad knew then that his days of torment were over. “I'll follow you, Galahad.”

Malcolm now stood behind him, a large poleax clutched in his hand while Bors drew his sword.

“I've never seen animals like this,” Bors whispered, wide-eyed.

“Maybe you haven't been looking,” Galahad said.

He dismounted his pony and carefully approached the tawny mouse, half-expecting him to scamper away. But the mouse stood completely still.

Galahad held out his hand tentatively, just like the first time they had met. The mouse seemed to consider this for a moment. Then he leaped onto the boy's hand and, with barely any pressure at all, scampered from the boy's wrist to his shoulder. Galahad could feel the soft tickle of the mouse's fur against his neck.

Galahad thought he understood what to do next.

He looked at the sword, admiring the masterfully forged blade that gleamed like fire. He wrapped his fingers around the hilt and pulled. A gasp went through the crowd.

Effortlessly, the sword that had budged for no one else glided out of the stone.

For a moment, Galahad felt weightless. A powerful
current coursed through him, and his senses seemed to extend to all the woods around him. He closed his eyes and felt the weight of his body on the moss beneath his feet. He felt the wind tickling the branches of the trees overhead and the warmth of the sunlight on their leaves. He could feel the stomp of boots as the first of the Saxon army began to tread the charred ground of St. Gertrude's ruins. All at once, Galahad was aware of the many voices the woods possessed. They came to him in a gentle chorus of pleas. He heard the babble of the river protesting the intruders who had sloshed through its shallows with their weapons and their beasts.

“Seek the Lady of the Lake,” a voice whispered in his ear. He thought it might be the voice of the wind. “She will show you the way.”

Galahad opened his eyes and held the sword high over his head, its sharp point raised toward the sky. The flat of the blade reflected the sunlight with a golden flash. He hardly noticed that before him, people were falling one by one to their knees. They bowed to him and to the power of the sword, which had been destined to reveal the true leader of Camelot.

“We have to go back to the castle,” Galahad said, and his voice sounded louder and deeper than it ever had before. “The Saxons have reached St. Gertrude's. Today, we fight!”

T
he whole group, both animal and Two-Legger, raced together back to the castle, with Calib seated on Galahad's shoulder.

The mouse calculated that if Galahad was right and the Saxon Two-Leggers had passed St. Gertrude, they had only a half an hour before the human army joined the weasels at the edge of the Darkling Woods.

They had to get back in time!

As Galahad thundered across the drawbridge, the sword remained sheathed.

“I have the Sword in the Stone!” the boy shouted, cupping his hand around his mouth and waving his other arm.

It took a second for the castle inhabitants to stop their travel preparations and realize what the boy had said. But as Galahad rode forward into the courtyard, the clamor died around him.

Calib slipped a little as Galahad stopped his pony in the center of the courtyard. The mouse looked from the boy's shoulder onto a sea of faces—some of them suspicious, some of them hopeful, most of them flat-out disbelieving.

There was a commotion behind him, and Calib turned to see Sir Kay and the rest of the knights come out from the stables, their horses saddled. Calib thought they must have been about to mount their chargers and ride away from Camelot.

“
You?
You're telling me that
you
pulled the Sword in the Stone?” said Sir Kay. “Even Arthur's feat, as great as his skill was, was a stretch of the imagination, but
you
?!”

Sir Edmund strode up to Galahad, glaring openly in his face. “Most likely this boy found a sword in a scrap heap and now thinks he can play us all for fools.”

“Only a true knight could pull the Sword from the Stone.” Sir Kay narrowed his eyes. “The honor is not meant for a poor kitchen boy.”

Calib scowled. What did they know about what a
kitchen boy—or mouse, for that matter—could do?

“Then maybe it's not a knight that we need,” said Galahad. The boy unsheathed the sword from his scabbard and held it aloft.

Calib shivered. A current passed through the crowd, as if an invisible, magical wind had lifted the hairs on everyone's necks. Sir Kay, Sir Edmund, and the rest of the knights with their bulging travel packs went silent, their eyes wide as goose eggs. It was more than a sword. Lit up by the sun, dazzling with ancient runes, it seemed like a promise.

For a second, Calib thought he heard Howell's voice, but it came to him so softly he could not make out its message. Then the wind whipped that away.

“Growing up, the stories were all the same.” Galahad spoke clearly, and Calib thought he did not at all look the part of the raggedy kitchen boy. He looked like a true knight. “The hero always comes to the rescue. But we cannot wait for others to save us. This day, we must be our own heroes. We are the last defenders of Camelot! Now, who will stand with me?”

Malcolm raised his sword first. “All of Camelot is sworn to follow the Sword in the Stone! If a kitchen boy can pull the Sword in the Stone, then we can defend the castle without King Arthur!”

Calib watched with satisfaction as one by one, the
Two-Leggers of Camelot drew their swords, crying out their loyalty to the castle and to Britain. They raised their weapons—some of them no more than brooms and pitchforks—in answer to Galahad's plea. They shouted and stamped and filled the courtyard with rumbling noise.

Galahad's plan was working!

Suddenly, a frantic cacophony erupted from the bell tower. This was not the orderly chiming familiar to all the inhabitants of Camelot. This was a clanging crash that sounded like every bell in the tower was being rung at once, as hard as possible.

It was an alarm.

Somewhere on the walls a Two-Legger was shouting.

“Invaders at the gates! Thirtyscore and counting!” There was a rusty creak as the drawbridge was slowly raised.

“Time to go, Valentina!” Calib whistled for the crow. She dove neatly and scooped Calib up from Galahad's shoulder. Calib regretted not saying good-bye, but Galahad was too busy giving orders to the Two-Leggers. Besides, if they managed to defend Camelot from the invaders, there would be plenty of time to talk later.

From his vantage point on Valentina's back, Calib could see flashing metal marching from the edge of the Darkling Woods and the telltale bend of the grass that told him that the weasels had returned.

Valentina flapped to the ramparts, where the animal army was waiting.

“You're back!” Commander Kensington shouted as Valentina landed. For a moment, the stern commander looked as happy as a small mousling with a fresh piece of cheese. “Thank Merlin! Did it work?”

“I think so,” Calib said, slipping off Valentina's feathers. “We managed to free the Sword in the Stone. The Two-Leggers are sworn to follow whoever holds it.”

“Let's just hope it's not too late,” Kensington said grimly. She looked at Calib as his fellow pages—Cecily, Devrin, Warren, and Barnaby—gathered around him.

“Stick together,” Kensington said. “Those are my only orders to you. Make Sir Owen proud. Make Commander Yvers proud. Make Camelot proud.”

Then the commander of Camelot put on her helmet and walked to the front of the walls. “On your guard!” she bellowed.

Crows, owls, and larks took to the air in an explosion of feathers. Badgers and otters hefted axes and spears as they headed toward the gates. Hares wielding staves and slings bounded away toward the corner towers. And all along the walls, mice and squirrels poured out of Camelot's secret passages to take up positions along the battlements as they waited for the enemy to attack.

Calib's heartbeat was as loud as a beating drum. A thousand things could go wrong in battle, and so much
was on the line. He began to nibble on his whiskers.

“Good luck, Calib,” Cecily said, sidling up next to him. She squeezed his paw. “And thank you. Without you, we wouldn't even have a fighting chance.”

Calib's ears burned. He looked at Cecily. He wanted to tell her something brave, to ask her to be careful in the fight ahead, but there was nothing he could think of that didn't sound foolish in his head.

Instead, he simply drew his sword and gave a nod to his friends—the pages of Camelot. Cecily raised her own sword, as did Devrin, and even Barnaby, who for once, held his sword steady.

“Watch out!” Macie yelled from somewhere along the wall. A massive wooden shaft sliced through the air above Calib's head, embedding itself into the side of the wall. It was easily as long as ten mice laid nose to tail.

The Saxons had begun their attack.

“Right,” Lylas barked as he appeared beside the pages. “You little mice, follow me!”

The badger took off at a run. Calib followed, trying to keep pace with Devrin as she darted ahead. Barnaby and Cecily followed close behind.

They passed a pair of Two-Legger soldiers running in the opposite direction. The soldiers spared a confused glance for the sight of five mice chasing after a badger wearing a tortoise shell, but only a glance. They had more urgent concerns.

“For Camelot! Knights of the Round Table, to me!”

Even through the chaotic din of the battle, Calib's ears pricked up at the sound of Galahad's voice. He saw the boy in the courtyard below, sitting astride his pony, waving the sword above his head. Knights and soldiers and townsfolk all gathered around him, pressing toward the castle gates. Mostly unnoticed, a small army of hares and otters and mice followed closely at their heels.

As Calib and the pages reached the western wall, more arrows followed, both enormous Two-Legger ones and smaller animal ones. Calib slung acorns down at the enemy, even as he narrowly missed the arrows that were sailing over the high castle walls. Each arrow that made it over the battlements hit the ground with a deafening thud so loud that Calib almost didn't hear Devrin's cry of alarm.

“Enemy scaling the western wall! They have ladders!”

Calib looked just as a tall weasel with greasy fur vaulted over and hissed savagely at the pages.

He had a vicious-looking knife between his teeth, and an ax strapped to his back, the hilt protruding above one shoulder. He grinned around the knife, flashing yellow fangs. He spread his arms wide in a dramatic bow.

“Greetings, mousling,” the weasel said, spitting the knife into his paw. “I shall try to make your death as quick as possible.”

T
here was no time even to feel fear.

Calib turned to face the weasel head-on. Drawing on all the strength he had, he held aloft his sword and pointed it at the weasel's chest. He shouted the bravest thing that came to his head:

“Turn back in the name of Calib, son of Sir Trenton Christopher, and the memory of my grandfather, Yvers the Great!”

The weasel hesitated for only half a second, and Calib thought, to his surprise, that the weasel was afraid. But
then the Saxon began to chuckle, a cruel little snicker that grew loud and full of hate.

“I adore a tasty Christopher mouse! I will tear your chest open just like I did your grandpappy's!”

Calib felt his body go rigid. Now, clearer than ever, he saw the long, lean shadow that leaped onto the stage, and the giant bladed paws.

A weasel. A weasel assassin.

Calib was standing in front of Yvers's true killer. The need for vengeance erupted inside his heart. Before Calib could help himself, he was screaming in rage.

“FOR CAMELOT!”

Calib threw himself at the weasel with all his strength. He brandished the sword over his head and brought it slamming down—but the weasel swerved to the side and nimbly parried the blow. As Calib passed him, the weasel delivered a swift kick to Calib's back.

Calib fell on his stomach, winded. Coughing and gasping, he flipped around to get up. But before he could stand, the weasel stepped on his chest. He positioned his blade-laced paw at Calib's throat.

“Say hello to your grandfather for me,” he sneered.

“Now, hold on just a moment.”

Never had Calib been more relieved to hear Warren's mocking voice. “You never introduced yourself,” Warren said, leaning against his sword casually, as if he had not a
care in the world. “You didn't give us a chance to welcome you to Camelot.”

The weasel rounded on him. “The name is Ragnar,” he spat out. “And I don't want your welcome. I do not go where I am welcome. I go where it pleases me to go, and do as it pleases me to do.”

Warren sighed dramatically and shook his head. “That might be good enough in . . . wherever you lot are from. But here in Camelot we believe in honor and chivalry. And I have to say, the way you're going about this attack isn't very chivalrous.”

The weasel laughed scornfully. “Chivalry? Honor? There is no honor in war, foolish mouse. There is only fighting and killing, winning and losing. A lesson you will not live long enough to learn.”

“Fighting and winning,” said Barnaby. Calib squeaked with surprise—Barnaby had manage to sneak up behind the weasel. He slashed at the beast's hindquarters, scoring a deep cut across his flank. “I think we get that part.”

Ragnar yowled in pain and turned to face Barnaby. Barnaby drew back. Calib saw that he was trembling, but he managed to parry the weasel's fresh attack—eyes open for once. Calib took the opportunity to dart in and land a blow on the beast's exposed shoulder, ducking under a furious swipe as the weasel tried to keep all three of his opponents in his line of sight. As he made another lunge at
Warren, Cecily and Barnaby leaped onto his neck, biting and pummeling him about the shoulders just below his battered helmet.

With a violent twist, Ragnar managed to stop Cecily from clinging to his back. And a sweep of his tail caught Barnaby in the midsection, tossing him against the parapet. Breathing heavily now, Ragnar seemed to have lost most of his swagger. Now, there was only cold rage in the sneer he turned on Calib and Warren.

“Lesson is over. Now, you die.”

Ragnar slid the knife into his belt, and in one smooth motion drew the ax from behind his back. The shaft was bright metal, but the blade itself was covered in some dark liquid. Poison.

With a vicious hiss, Ragnar charged, swinging the ax. Calib and Warren stumbled back, trying to keep out of range of the blade. There was no chance of landing counterblows now. Ragnar had twice the reach of their swords.

Calib took another step backward and felt cold stone on his tail. Ragnar had them cornered.

Calib held his sword in front of him, ready for one last desperate stand. Beside him, Warren did the same. The poisoned ax gleamed dully in the red afternoon sun.

Then a sudden movement behind Ragnar's left ear caught Calib's eye. Devrin was waving frantically to Calib
from across the parapet.

No, not waving. She had her sling out, spinning above her head. But good as Devrin was with her sling, Ragnar was wearing thick armor, and a helmet. From where she was standing, there was no part of him that she could hit. Unless . . . Calib's eyes widened as he understood what she intended for him to do.

He would have only one chance. He knew that. He took a deep breath and remembered what Devrin had always repeated: he just needed to relax. He needed to believe. He needed to lean into it.

“Say good-bye to this world, mousies,” Ragnar hissed as he raised the ax and prepared to sweep it down on them.

With a snap of her wrist, Devrin's sling went slack. Calib had only a brief glimpse of something hurtling toward the weasel, shooting past his head, close enough to graze his ear. Calib swung his sword with all of his might.

The impact of the stone against the flat of the sword sent shock waves through Calib's paws. As fast as Devrin had launched it at Calib, the ricochet was just as fast. The batted stone smashed into Ragnar's face, catching him right between the eyes. The force of the blow knocked him backward. The weasel dropped his ax and took several unsteady steps, his eyes unfocused. He stumbled to the edge of the wall and teetered there for a moment.
Then Ragnar fell, toppling off the rampart into a prickly bush far below.

Calib exhaled a long shuddering breath. Warren stared at the unconscious weasel in amazement. “Wow. I can't believe I ever made fun of your Hurler technique. That was incredible.”

“Thanks,” Calib said. He felt suddenly uncomfortable. They hated each other . . . didn't they? “And, um, thank you. You know, for having my back.”

“It was the least I could do,” Warren said with a shrug. But just as quickly, his casualness disintegrated and his shoulders slumped. “Listen, Calib. This is all my fault. If I had been brave earlier and told Kensington the truth . . . I honestly didn't know Sir Percival was lying. I just want to be a knight so badly.”

“Believe me,” Calib said with a heavy sigh. “I understand more than you know.”

There was a tremendous splintering sound from the main gate.

Calib watched as the knights of Camelot, led by Galahad, rushed to defend it, but already Saxon Two-Leggers were crossing the moat and streaming through the broken drawbridge doors and into the courtyard.

Looking at the rampart above the gate, Calib could make out a tall figure in a flowing gown that could only be Queen Guinevere, attended by the other ladies of the
court. At the queen's signal, the ladies lifted several large kettles and emptied their contents of boiling oil onto the heads of the invaders. Screams and shouts erupted as the scalded Saxons writhed in pain, but still more and more kept coming in.

The queen then plucked a crossbow off a fallen Saxon. The man had just made it over the wall before two owls dropped an icy rock on his head. Setting one of his arrows to the crossbow, Guinevere began to pick off targets from above the gate. Meanwhile, the larks provided cover for the ladies-in-waiting as they retreated farther into the castle.

All around him, Calib could see animals and humans working together against the enemy. The otters were skating across the frozen moat in pairs, tripping Saxon foot soldiers crossing the drawbridge with a piece of rope drawn taut between them. Beyond the moat, he could see Saxon horses stumbling on the holes dug by the garden moles.

Despite all these triumphs, more and more Saxons still gained ground. Calib knew that they would not be able to hold off so many assailants for very much longer.

Then came a strange tremor that shook the walls all the way to the ramparts. It was a rhythmic thumping that rose up from the ground, as if something very heavy and large was bounding closer at a fast gait.

“Do you feel that?” Calib asked Cecily.

Cecily's tail twitched, and she pressed her ear to the ground. Suddenly, she began to laugh.

“It looks like someone
did
decide to come after all!” And she pointed toward an enormous dark blur rushing for the castle.

With a gigantic roar, Berwin the Bear charged through the broken gate and into battle.