A Tail of Camelot (11 page)

S
ince the message had appeared mysteriously in the spilled sugar on the Round Table, Galahad had been puzzling over its author.

Great powar in small worriers.

Strange things had been happening—the fire in the scrying glass, the return of the sword, and now these words appearing from nowhere. He thought they must all be connected, but he couldn't figure out
how
. Like a song that wouldn't go out of his head, he repeated the message under his breath. Who could have placed it there?

A part of Galahad thought he might be going crazy. The room had been empty when he began mopping. Galahad had made sure of that so he would not have to wipe up anyone's shoe prints again.

And his only theory sounded ridiculous even in his head. He did not dare say it out loud.

He was muddling through the task of preparing Sir Edmund's lunch of mashed prunes and honey when a clamor of excited voices came from the hallway. As the voices moved closer to the kitchen, Galahad paused in his work and looked up. Bors, one of the younger pages, ran into the kitchen.

“Aren't you coming? Everyone is going to try their luck pulling out the Sword in the Stone!” he said to Galahad.

“No, thanks,” Galahad said. “I have no interest in seeing a bunch of old peacocks showing off.”

“Well, the good news is, even Sir Edmund is going, so you don't have to make his lunch.” Bors scrunched his nose at the unappetizing mush. “Might as well come watch that cranky goat make a fool of himself!”

Grudgingly, Galahad allowed himself to be pulled along into the crowd funneling out toward the mysterious Sword in the Stone. As they wound their way through town, more and more people joined the parade, until Galahad was squeezed on all sides by excited locals.

According to legend, the Sword in the Stone had last
appeared before King Arthur was born, shortly after the Saxons had taken over Britain. It had sat there for many years, resisting anyone who tried to pull it out—young or old, strong or weak. Its inscription teased: “Whoso pulleth out this sword of this stone and anvil is rightwise King born of all England.”

By the time young Arthur was working as a squire for his foster brother, Sir Kay, the sword had been all but forgotten—a passing oddity. It wasn't until Arthur yanked it out as a substitute sword for Sir Kay to use in his tournament that anyone remembered what it meant.

Life for Arthur had never been the same after that. He grew up to become the greatest king England had ever known, uniting all of Britain under one rule and defeating King Lot and the Saxons.

Most of Camelot had crowded around the meadow by the time Galahad and Bors arrived at this marvel. The crush of people prevented them from getting close enough to clearly see the sword. Galahad could identify only a few of the knights from their coats of arms.

“Do you see anything?” Bors asked, jumping in place to peek over everyone's heads. “Who's next?”

Raising himself on his tiptoes and squinting, Galahad described for Bors each attempt at pulling the sword. Sir Kay tried to yank it until his face became beet red. Another knight threw his back out. Grumpy Sir Edmund
took only a few tugs before he started making his squire do it on his behalf.

Galahad shook his head. When he was growing up, his mother had told him wondrous tales of knights and their incredible feats. Lady Elaine had sent him to Camelot so that he might follow in his father's footsteps. But to see these selfish old men seeking glory for themselves. . . It felt like a terrible betrayal. This was not how a knight should behave.

Remembering the fire in the scrying glass, Galahad knew Camelot needed a hero more than ever—but it certainly wasn't going to be any of these so-called knights.

W
earing the feather strapped across his back with twine, Calib dashed toward the drawbridge. He had to get out of the castle before anyone saw him. Using the ramparts to bypass any Two-Leggers, he felt his muscles burn, as if he'd run ten laps around the training grounds.

He had to get to Cecily, fast. She was in mortal danger.

Below him, a steady stream of Two-Leggers headed out of the castle, from lowly servants to all the knights. From the snatches of conversation that Calib overheard, it sounded like most of them were going to see the miraculous
Sword in the Stone. Luckily for Calib, they would have to pass near St. Getrude's ruins to do so.

Leaping onto the stable roof, he spied a squire ambling forward on a horse. He reined up just below Calib, where the boy waited for an oxcart to move out of the way. Sliding down carefully on the frosty thatching, Calib poised himself over the saddlebag full of oats. With a running leap, the mouse glided nimbly into it. Calib quickly buried himself and the feather deeper into the grain.

The ride through the village was uncomfortable. The oats scratched against his fur, and the jostling of the saddle made him feel sick to his stomach. But he didn't care. He was too focused on saving Cecily. He needed to stop her from reaching the owls' nests alone and without a feather.

And then, somehow, he would need to get Merlin's Crystal from the owls and convince them to take him to Leftie's lair before the mouse army marched. Calib knew what he had to do—but he had no idea
how
he would do it.

Just before Sir Kay and the rest of the travelers reached the beginning of the Darkling Woods, Calib clambered out of the sack and grabbed hold of a passing branch. He swung free of the cart and landed with a plop in a soft mound of snow, the ruins of St. Gertrude rising from between the bare trees like towering tombstones.

Years before, the site had been a thriving monastery. Then one day, ships flying red flags with white dragons appeared on the horizon, bringing the first Saxon
invaders. The Saxons landed ashore and took a torch to the cathedral and then to the rest of Britain. All that remained of the once-grand establishment were charred walls and blackened eaves.

Calib surveyed the ruins but found no evidence of owls. His heart sank. He knew from Macie that many owls had been migrating of late. Had they just been passing through? Suddenly, his footpaw sank into something with a sickening crunch. He looked down. He had placed a paw directly through the skull of an unidentifiable rodent.

Horrified, Calib fell backward and shook his foot as hard as he could. The skull flew off and disappeared into a snowbank. Calib's heart thumped. He pushed away his nausea and the most horrible of thoughts.

He had to stop Camelot from marching upon the wrong enemy. If he couldn't track down the owls, he would have to get the owls to track him.

“Hello! Are there any owls here? Hoo! Hoo! I need to speak with you!” He hopped up and down, waving the feather above him, hoping to draw attention to himself.

A blur of white flashed in the corner of Calib's eye. A tree branch creaked. The mouse whipped around. Nothing.

He didn't see the giant shadow from above until it was already on top of him. A claw hooked onto the feather, and another yanked him aloft by a leg.

“Hey! Let go of me!” Calib shouted.

“It would be my pleasure. But your immediate death
would displease the general,” said his captor. “He likes to play with his prey first.”

Calib twisted around and looked up into two yellow eyes, each as big as the mouse's head. A snowy owl glared down at him. Its white-and-black feathers blended perfectly with the stark surroundings. Calib's plan had worked far better than he had hoped.

Too well, judging by the pinched feel of the owl's talons around Calib's leg.

Calib quickly looked away, only to realize he had been carried many feet above the ground in a matter of seconds.

He gulped and squeezed his eyes shut. “Look! I have an owl feather! You
have
to listen to what I have to say.” He struggled to shout against the rushing wind.

“We'll let General Gaius decide what to do with you,” the owl replied coldly.

The owl suddenly loosened his grip and let Calib fall.

Before Calib had a chance to scream, he tumbled into a nest sitting high on a ruined wall. The pile of twigs had been hidden between two snow embankments that kept it invisible from the ground.

Calib was grateful that his landing was somewhat cushioned by a soft burlap sack.

“Oww! My tail!”

Calib jumped back, surprised to hear the burlap sack speak to him.

“Cecily?” he asked, recognizing the muffled voice.

“Calib, is that you?” the sack responded.

Calib quickly untied the knot cinching the bag together, revealing Cecily's head. Her fur was matted and dirty, but she seemed otherwise uninjured.

“You're alive!” exclaimed Calib. Relief wrapped around him like a blanket.

“Of
course
I'm alive,” Cecily said irritably. She struggled out of the bag. “Be careful,” she whispered sharply. “They'll hear you.”

“Who?” Calib asked.

“Hoo?” came the soft reply from behind.

Calib slowly turned around.

Three baby owls were watching Calib and Cecily with saucer-round eyes. Even though they had yet to shed the down feathers of their nest days, they still gripped the edge of the nest with wickedly curved claws. The middle owlet hopped forward.

“Hoo?” It gave Calib a quick peck on the head.

“Stop that!” Calib shooed the owlet away with a swoop of the feather. “I am a diplomat!”

“Are you now?” a new voice drawled. An imperious great horned owl landed at the edge of the nest. The wind from his wings nearly knocked Calib over.

Its yellow eyes, surrounded by black feathers, glowed like miniature suns above a sharp, curved beak. Calib could hardly look at it without trembling, imagining how
easily the beak would pierce his flesh. Seeing the red sash across the owl's chest, Calib knew immediately who this owl must be: General Gaius Thornfeather.

The owl snapped his beak sharply, and the owlets hastily retreated.

“But General Gaius,” one of them whined. “I never get to play with the food!”

“Away, cadets.” General Gaius snapped his beak again. The severe look on the horned owl meant business, and the three owlets quickly took wing and glided in the direction of another turret.

Then the general turned his attention to Calib and Cecily, twisting his head around so quickly that the mice jumped back.

“I have led my parliament for more years than the feathers on my wings, and I have seen a lot of things,” Gaius began, his ear tufts arching tyrannically. “But never have I seen such stupid behavior from fur-beasts!”

His vivid eyes took them in from paws to ears. Calib hoped Cecily couldn't hear his teeth chattering.

“Sneaking about our nests and raising a racket for all the woodlands to hear!”

He swiveled to glare at Calib. “I shall slay you where you stand!”

The owl let out an earsplitting screech. He spread his wings in an attack pose and then swept them down
forcefully, toppling Calib and Cecily onto the nest floor. Calib rolled to the side as Gaius snapped at his tail. He had only a split second to act before the owl would attack again.

Without thinking, the mouse brought the nib of the quill crashing down on the owl's beak as General Gaius went for another vicious peck.

“Not so fast!” Calib shouted at the top of his lungs, holding up the feather shaft like a sword. It shook in his paws. General Gaius reared back from the blow, stunned. As for Calib, he felt as surprised as the general looked.

“Please,” Calib pleaded. He put down the quill and offered it to the owl, bowing his head. “My grandfather, Commander Yvers Christopher, has been murdered. Terrible things are at work in Camelot. We need your help.”

There was a long silence. Calib was almost too afraid to look up; too afraid that the sight of the vicious owl swooping down on him would be his last.

“Yvers is murdered?” the owl asked at last.

Calib nodded. After another pause, General Gaius lowered his wings.

“I always said the Christophers were a flighty, foolhardy bunch,” General Gaius said. “But let no beast say the owls do not honor the Feather Offering. Follow me.”