A Tail of Camelot (4 page)

N
o.
The word was like a drumbeat in Calib's chest.
No, no, no, no, no.

Fearful voices shouted in the half dark. “We're being attacked!” they cried. The Goldenwood Hall was chaos as animals rushed the exits, squashing fur and paws, whiskers and ears, trying to find a way out. But Calib could think only of his grandfather. He shoved against the tide of fur, sailing on the single drumbeat,
no
. Time moved in quick bursts.

Sir Kensington was holding Commander Yvers now, cradling his head.

“We need a healer!” she barked. “Percival! Get over here!”

Finally, Calib was there, at his grandfather's side. He grabbed Commander Yvers's outstretched paws as Sir Kensington laid him on his back. Massive, clawed paw prints led a bloody trail away from his grandfather. Calib couldn't stand to look at them. Dimly, he registered that Sir Owen and three other knights had taken off in pursuit of the assassin.

“My grandson,” Commander Yvers gasped, each breath wheezing out like a punctured forge bellows. His blood pooled on the golden embroidery of his cloak. “There's so much left to say . . . to teach . . .”

“Please hold on, there's still time,” Calib implored. He could see Sir Percival running toward them, gripping a medical bag between his teeth.

“There is never enough time. You are the last Christopher, Calib. You must carry on our legacy. Promise me . . . you will see to . . . protect . . .” Commander Yvers was no longer looking at Calib. His gaze lost focus, and his body stiffened. With a shuddering sigh, Commander Yvers closed his eyes and lay still.

Calib clutched his grandfather's limp paws. “Grandfather,” he said, his throat swollen and raw. “Grandfather, stay with us.”

“Come, Calib,” Sir Kensington said, laying a paw on his shoulder, her voice thick with sorrow. “There's
nothing to be done.”

Calib spun away from her, reeling. It was his fault. All his fault. He had wished for an intervention, anything to stop the tournament. And he hadn't been quick enough to save his grandfather. He hadn't been strong enough.

Calib pushed through the crowd bursting from the Goldenwood Hall, and then he started to run. Down hallways and stairwells and twisting corridors, ignoring everything but the throb of shame inside him and the thick, awful pressure behind his eyes. He ran until he thought his lungs might explode from the effort.

Blinded by tears, hardly paying attention to where he was going, Calib charged out of the mousehole he thought would lead outside the castle. Instead, he found himself on the open marble floor of King Arthur's throne room. In his misery, he'd made a wrong turn, but he knew there was a shortcut at the other end. He was halfway across the room when he heard someone cough.

He froze.

Sitting at the Round Table in front of him was the Two-Legger boy from earlier that morning, the one with big ears.

And he was staring directly at Calib.

Calib was so stunned—he'd been seen
by a Two-Legger
—that for a second, his legs stopped working and he couldn't retreat.

“You seem to be in a rush,” the boy said in a friendly tone.

Calib wondered if this was all part of a terrible nightmare. There was no other explanation . . . unless the Two-Legger was actually
speaking
to Calib.

“I had a pet mouse just like you back at home,” the boy continued. He put down the quill he had been writing with and squatted to the ground. To Calib's shock, the boy extended a hand, as if to invite Calib onto his palm.

Alarms blared in Calib's head. Being seen by a Two-Legger equaled certain death. He darted around the other side of the table and behind the throne. From there, he began scaling up the back, using the ornate filigreed carvings as pawholds.

“Wait!” said the boy. “I'm not going to hurt you.”

But Calib wasn't listening. He jumped onto the nearby sill of a tall stained-glass window. Spying a small missing pane in the glass, Calib squeezed through the opening. Suddenly, he was falling through the night air outside.

He landed hard on a wilting lilac bush. Winded, Calib looked around him. He was in the queen's private courtyard—a beautiful overgrown garden on the cliffside. King Arthur had built this sanctuary for Guinevere, to keep her happy while he went off on battle campaigns. From what little Calib knew of the queen, it hadn't worked.

Calib navigated the garden, still panting, still bewildered
by what had just occurred. Had the boy really spoken to him? Two-Leggers, he knew, cared nothing for mice, unless it was to snap their heads in traps. They couldn't even communicate with other species, like most animals could.

And his grandfather . . . Was it possible? Was Commander Yvers really . . . ?

The tournament, the shadows, the feel of his grandfather's paw in his . . .

Calib skirted around a pond choked with green algae, past gargoyles with moss growing thick as beards on their limbs. He climbed the stone wall that lined the edge of the cliff. The castle was perched upon a small island that divided a mighty river into two streams. Those streams emptied into the Sapphire Sea by way of two waterfalls. From this vantage point, Calib could see both the northern and southern falls plummeting into the sea.

And then it hit him, like an acorn to the chest.

Dead. His grandfather was dead.

No amount of wishing or magic would undo this terrible truth. He wanted to cry, but the tears felt clogged somewhere in the back of his throat.

The moon and stars hung high over the sea, turning the water into a sparkling canvas as far as the eye could see. Calib remembered tales his mother used to tell, of ships that could sail great distances, beyond what even the
Two-Legger maps had charted. Perhaps he could run away and join one. Run away—as he had done just now—only farther, never to return.

“There you are!” Devrin's sharp voice rang out from the courtyard below him, cutting through the numbing fog in Calib's heart. “All pages need to report to the council room immediately!”

“Coming!” Calib swiped at his eyes with a paw. He couldn't let Devrin see him like this. That would make things even worse. He quickly rappelled down from the wall, using a length of ivy as a rope.

“Have they found the attacker? Do we know who it was?” he asked breathlessly when he reached the bottom.

“No, the devil got away,” Devrin said with a snarl. She balled her paws into fists, and her ears flattened against her head. “But not for long.”

They scurried toward the southernmost tower, using the gutters that ran alongside the castle walls. When they arrived at its base, they entered the tower through a large crack between two stones. The building housed the castle's weapons, which were dusty from neglect. The two mice ducked behind the handle of a large mace and entered a much smaller chamber set into the thick castle foundation.

Inside was a round table, much like the one in King Arthur's throne room, except that this one was constructed from a bronze serving platter stacked on an empty thread
spool. Overturned cups surrounded the table, serving as seating for the assembled knights. A rusted chandelier made of broken Two-Legger jewelry dangled from the ceiling.

The room looked dingy in comparison to the Goldenwood Hall, but this was the true heart of Camelot. From here, the mouse-knights ruled their dominion with steady paws.

One by one, the room filled to capacity. Twenty mice were seated at the Round Table, and a handful of pages ran about, refilling their thimbles with tea. The last one to arrive was Macie, a sharp-eyed red squirrel dressed in a green camouflage tunic. She was the leader of Camelot's scouts. Calib was surprised to see Macie. She was usually deep in the woods on some mission.

When everyone was accounted for, Sir Kensington motioned for Devrin to close the door behind her. Each mouse was keenly aware that the tallest chair in the room, Commander Yvers's, sat unoccupied.

“All rise for this meeting of the Round Table,” Kensington said.

The knights rose to attention and raised their sword hilts to their foreheads, facing the direction of the empty chair.

“M
y fellow knights,” Sir Kensington said, “I know we are all stunned by the loss of Commander Yvers. In the wake of this heinous deed, we must rally around our greatest strength: one another.”

Sir Kensington scanned the room, looking every knight in the eye. “Justice shall be served, and we will carry on. Sir Owen, how goes the hunt for the killer?”

“Macie sent her scouts into the woods. We lost track of the devil once he got past the moat. Ergo Toggs and his otters swear they saw nothing suspicious on the
water this evening.”

“And Sir Percival, what's your news?”

“I have not done a full examination yet.” Sir Percival Vole's voice cracked as he spoke. Sir Alric handed him a handkerchief, and the healer blew loudly into it. “But I had a chance to take a closer look at his wounds. . . .”

From his tunic, Sir Percival removed a small bundle wrapped in bloodstained linen. A collective shudder rippled through the knights. Calib bit his tongue to keep from crying out.

“I found this buried in Commander Yvers's armor.” Sir Percival held out a chipped rodent tooth. “It seems the creature tried to bite Commander Yvers's neck first, and broke his tooth on the armor. I'm afraid I must conclude that this tooth belongs to a black squirrel.”

Macie's expression hardened, and Sir Owen growled with anger. “I knew it. Two-Bits must be responsible for this treachery!”

Owen pounded a fist on the Round Table. “He is the only Darkling creature who could know the castle's layout well enough to carry out such an attack! By Merlin, he probably even knows where the storerooms are! He could lead the Darklings right to our food!”

Calib's breath went out of him in a woosh. Two-Bits was the envoy sent by the Darklings every year to renew the peace treaty signed by Commander Yvers. He wasn't
due to arrive for another week. The Darklings had chosen Two-Bits because he was a cousin twice removed of the red squirrels in Camelot's orchard. The squirrels had vouched for him. Though relations with the Darklings were always strained, to accuse him of assassinating Commander Yvers was grave, indeed.

“But there are whole tribes of squirrels out there,” Sir Alric said. “The tooth doesn't necessarily belong to a Darkling.”

“The assassin could not have gotten into the arena without knowing the ins and outs of the castle,” Sir Percival continued. “It was Two-Bits!”

“Now, Sir Percival,” Sir Kensington said irritably. “Do not fan the flames of fear. There is still much we do not know. This tooth could belong to any squirrel.”

“If only it were just the tooth,” Sir Percival said, shaking his head sadly. “Warren, I believe you had something to say to the company gathered here?”

For the first time since Calib had known him, Warren looked afraid.

“Tell them what you saw, page,” Sir Percival urged.

“When the lights blew out at the Harvest Tournament, I saw a dark shadow come onto the stage,” Warren said, twisting his paws together. “It had a bushy tail that brushed past me. He blended in perfectly with the dark, just like a black squirrel would.”

Mutters broke out around the table, and Calib clenched his paws into fists. The black squirrels of the forest were Leftie the lynx's most dangerous warriors. They hid well in the forest's shadows and were nimble climbers, capable of scaling both the tallest of pines and high castle walls. It would make sense if the assassin were a black squirrel.

“You are absolutely sure?” asked Sir Kensington. “You know what a serious accusation you make and what consequences there will be.”

Warren nodded, keeping his eyes on the ground.

“I told you, Kensington,” Sir Owen said, shaking his fist in the air. “The Darkling vermin have attacked. This means war!”

“Just because they live in the woods doesn't make them vermin,” Macie interjected. “Their ways are just different from ours.”

Macie's tail was puffing up, growing bigger with her agitation. Calib had always liked and admired Macie. But if the Darklings didn't kill his grandfather, then who did?

“The Owls of Fellwater Swamps have been in flight for more than a month now,” Macie continued. “They're flying during daylight, and in groups toward St. Gertrude's ruins! I've told you: this is something we cannot ignore. Something bigger is at stake!”

“What could be bigger than an open declaration of war?” Sir Owen waved his thimble around dangerously to punctuate his point. Tea sloshed over the side, splashing
onto the table. Sir Owen's anger often got the better of him. Many remembered him being mild-mannered in his younger days. But after he saw his best friend, Sir Trenton Christopher, die at the Battle at Rickonback River, he'd become quick to want to strike first.

“I bet the last whisker on my snout that the Darklings assassinated Commander Yvers to nullify the treaty. I say we mount a full-out assault on those scum! An eye for an eye, a leader for a leader!”

The conversation fractured into individual arguments as the knights began yelling at one another all at once. Calib tried to focus on what they were saying, but one thought kept pushing everything else out: he would never see Grandfather again.

Finally, Sir Kensington slammed Sir Owen's fighting staff on the table like a gavel.

“ENOUGH!” she roared. “Commander Yvers would be ashamed of us, yammering like a bunch of squawking hens.”

A shameful silence filled the air.

“Pages, please wait outside while we vote.”

Calib, Warren, Cecily, Devrin, Barnaby, and the rest of the younger mice filed out of the room glumly. Calib's stomach felt like it was full of squirming eels. Already, the world had become a confusing and angry place.

“Now what?” Cecily said impatiently. The voices from the small council room reached a fevered pitch again. “I want to know what's going to happen.”

“Don't worry your little whiskers off,” Devrin said with a sly smile. “I've got my own ways of keeping tabs on the council.”

“What do you mean?” Warren asked, but Devrin merely gestured with a paw for them to follow.

Calib was torn. Half of him wanted to know what was happening in the council room. Another part wanted to bury himself in cotton fluff and pretend tonight had never happened.

But his paws, as if acting on their own, followed Devrin. One by one, the pages climbed on top of a wooden chest. There in the stone wall, hidden by a dusty cobweb, was a small, round tunnel just big enough for a small mouse to crawl into.

“The Two-Leggers drilled holes into the rock to anchor hooks for their weapons,” Devrin explained. “This one didn't take. It goes in right above the council room.”

“How long have you been spying on council meetings?” Cecily asked.

“Curiosity killed the cat but didn't say anything about the mouse,” Devrin said with a shrug. She dropped to her belly and disappeared down the tunnel, followed by Cecily and Barnaby. Calib quickly followed suit, shimmying into the tight space and trying to keep his nose away from Barnaby's thin, whiplike tail.

The pages emerged into a small chamber. Calib patted
dust from his fur as Devrin moved a stone to reveal a pebble-sized hole in the ceiling directly above the Round Table. The pages piled in close together, taking turns peering through the peephole. Calib stifled a squeak of pain as Cecily accidentally stepped on his footpaw.

“Sorry,” she whispered, turning slightly and sending the hilt of her practice rapier into Calib's side.

“Oof—s'no worry,” Calib said, shuffling more to the left. “It's fine.”

“Shh!” Warren hushed, glaring at them and gesturing to the opening, where Calib could just make out Sir Kensington's strained voice.

“All those in favor of taking an aggressive measure on the matter of Commander Yvers's death, raise your paw.”

Calib jostled his way to a better view, just in time to see Sir Owen raise his paw defiantly. About half of the other knights also did the same, including Sir Percival.

“Those in favor of taking covert measures, raise your paw,” Sir Kensington said.

Sir Alric, the engineer, raised his paw, along with the other half of the knights. The crowd began to stir.

“What's going on?” Cecily whispered, “I can't see anything.”

“It's evenly split,” Calib began to say before Warren pushed him aside for his turn.

“As acting commander, I will break the tie,” Sir
Kensington said. “After considering both your sides, I also vote against an attack.”

“But, Kensington, you can't possibly—” Sir Owen began to protest.

“The Round Table has spoken,” Sir Kensington interrupted.

She unfurled a long scroll onto the table. Underneath the lengthy lines of script, penned by Commander Yvers himself, were two paw prints.

One belonged to Commander Yvers. Another, a much larger one, belonged to Leftie the lynx, the leader of the Darkling forces. Rumor had it that the lynx kept the tails of every foe he'd killed and used them as whips. Some believed his one good eye was actually magicked so it could see through to creatures' hearts.

Calib inhaled. He had never seen the famous treaty before, although he'd heard about it nearly every day of his life.

“The treaty still holds,” Sir Kensington said. “Until we catch the assassin, we have no way of knowing if the Darklings are responsible. We will strengthen our defenses, and when ready, we will send out spies to uncover what the Darklings may be up to. Can we all be agreed?”

A smattering of ayes sounded around the table.

“We must prepare for the worst,” Sir Kensington continued. “And pray that war doesn't come to us.”