A Tail of Camelot (20 page)

B
erwin the Beastly swept through the unsuspecting Two-Legger Saxons like a scythe. His rusty armor protected his back from the onslaught of arrows. They bounced off Berwin like raindrops.

Growling ferociously, he trampled and slashed at the frightened Saxons around him with wild abandon. His eyes were wide with rage, his jaws snapping.

“Go, Berwin!” Calib and Cecily shouted as the bear, using only a single paw, began pushing an entire squadron of invaders back through the broken doors and into the moat.

Valentina landed on the wall, blocking Calib's view of Berwin. On her feet she wore a pair of spurs with lethally sharpened prongs. “We need more warriors at the eastern ramparts!” she cawed. “The Saxons are climbing in from every direction!”

Cecily and Calib found Commander Kensington, fighting off five Saxon creatures at once. Every motion she made was fluid and balanced, each attack gliding smoothly into a defensive stance, which in turn flowed back into a counterattack. In a matter of moments, she had dispatched two stoats, two weasels, and a pine marten.

Spying Calib and Cecily, Kensington beckoned them to her side. “You two, cover me.” She pointed toward the western wall. “I'm making my way to
him
.”

Perched atop the stone battlements, surrounded by Saxon archers, a familiar round face was watching the action unfold below him. He smiled when he saw the mice, revealing a mouth full of rotten teeth.

“Is that . . . ?” Cecily started to ask.

“Sir Percival Vole!” Calib almost choked. It was one thing to suspect a knight of treason, but it was quite another to see him standing in league with the enemies who were trying to kill them. Anger vibrated through every bone in Calib's body, right down to his tail. His grandfather had trusted Percival, and the vole repaid that trust with deceit and lies.

Calib needed no more motivation. He and Cecily and Kensington hacked and blocked their way across the wall, always with one eye on Sir Percival. They had almost reached him when the vole turned to the archers beside him and pointed in their direction.

“Cover!” yelled Commander Kensington, and the three of them dove behind a broken breastplate that might have once fit an otter.

But before the archers could fire, a scraggly yellow lynx leaped up into view. Leftie barreled into the archers, knocking them aside like rag dolls. Then with a single swipe of his clawed paw, he sent Sir Percival flying off the wall to land at Kensington's feet.

Calib, Cecily, and Kensington stood over the fat vole, swords pointed at his chest. Percival looked dazed. He was bleeding from a long gash across his left cheek, and he appeared to have lost several of his rotted teeth. But as he regained his senses, his look of confusion was replaced by one of fear.

“Ah, K-Kensington!” he stammered. “Thank goodness you've rescued me from these vile Saxons! They were about to—”

“Spare us, Percival.” Kensington's voice was flat and humorless. “We know what you've done. There's no time to give you the slow punishment your crimes deserve, so a quick death will have to do.”

She raised her sword as Percival cowered in terror. But before she could strike, a booming voice sounded across the wall, a voice so sharp and powerful that creatures on both sides paused in mid-combat to listen.

“Stay your paw, Commander. That one is under my protection.” A red-hooded figure sat astride a hawk. A gold Grecian mask hid the face of the creature beneath. Snakeskin gloves covered its lean paws.

“And who, might I ask, do I have the
dis
pleasure of speaking to?” Commander Kensington asked.

“I am known as the Manderlean,” the masked creature said.

Calib's focus sharpened. So this was the Manderlean. The air seemed to shimmer around the creature. “I am here to offer terms for your surrender. You cannot hope to defeat us with your paltry numbers.”

Leftie spat at the ground.

“Then you should know we would rather die than surrender to the likes of you.”

“Wish granted,” the Manderlean hissed, spurring the winged steed forward. The hawk reared up and tried to take out Leftie's remaining eye with its cruelly hooked beak. Commander Kensington parried with her sword, sustaining a gash to her own face instead.

It was as if the world in front of Calib slowed down, and he saw Sir Percival seize his opportunity to escape.
Scooting from underneath everyone's drawn swords, the vole ran to the hawk and leaped behind the Manderlean.

Calib bolted after Percival, latching onto the hawk's tail. The bird dipped down from the weight.

The Manderlean spun around and looked straight into Calib's eyes with two black holes. The masked creature gave a short bark of cruel laughter and kicked Calib in the snout. Losing his grip, Calib fell back onto the rampart with a bone-jarring thud.

Another wave of vermin surged over the wall in their wake.

Everything was a mess of fur and blood and metal. Calib stood up, trying to quell his panic. Even with a hundred swords pulled from a hundred stones, even with a bear who had found his courage, they could not hope to turn back the tide of invaders. Camelot was doomed.

Calib felt a final resolve harden his spine. He drew in his breath for a battle cry. If this was to be their fate, let it be one for the legends.

A
chorus of horns suddenly sang out from the east, and a cry of dismay caught in Calib's throat. Could there be even
more
Saxons joining the fray?

But he saw at once that this was not the case. The Saxons hesitated. They looked at one another, obviously confused.

So who had sounded the horns?

A great winged shadow passed over Calib's head and circled back to alight in front of him.

“Hop on, Calib Christopher,” General Gaius said.
“You deserve to see this.”

Calib scrambled onto the general's back, holding tight to the feathers at his neck, and the two took off. As they passed over the gates and above the fields beyond, Calib saw a long row of Two-Legger knights on horseback riding over the crest of the hill. The setting sun illuminated their banners and armored steeds. They formed the shape of a V and raised their weapons—their spears, axes, and swords aimed directly at the Saxon forces.

“Can you make out their banners?” Calib squinted at the two knights who stood at the tip of the formation. Their sigils were too far away for him to see.

“The leader bears three crowns against a blue backing, his lieutenant bears a white banner with three red stripes,” General Gaius reported.

“It's King Arthur and Sir Lancelot!” Calib said excitedly. “The knights have come home!”

The horns sounded a second time. This time they were joined by a powerful rallying cry from the knights defending the castle.

King Arthur and his fearsome knights rushed down the hill toward the stunned Saxons. Their horses pounded the ground with their hooves, kicking up mounds of dirt. Their spears glinted red in the sun.

General Gaius turned a graceful circle in the air, and Calib saw that inside the castle, the badgers already had
most of the Saxon weasels running while a large, stocky page led a surprise attack on the northern tower. A new energy surged through the defenders with the arrival of the human knights, and the battle turned quickly.

Fighting on two fronts, the Saxon army lost what ground they had gained. Many of them found themselves trapped between the advancing armies.

King Arthur had brought at least a hundred more knights with him, the finest and strongest in the land. Each knight was worth ten of the Saxons. There was Sir Yvain, who once tamed a lion, and Sir Bedivere, who had once defeated a giant.

Slowly at first, and then quick as the retreating tide, the Saxon forces began to fall back. Calib let out a ragged cheer as General Gaius continued to sweep over the battlefield, giving Calib full view of Camelot's victory. A grin broke out across Calib's face, one that was so big that he wondered if his whiskers had fallen off to make room for it.

“Oh no!”

The cry had come from General Gaius, and Calib grabbed wildly at tawny feathers as the owl banked hard. He looked down at the battlefield to see what had made the owl shriek.

His heart stopped.

Arrows had lodged in Berwin's armor like porcupine
quills. The bear's mouth was foaming. He bled from many gashes across his arms and legs, but his eyes were focused as he galloped straight on.

Calib swiveled his head to see what had so gripped the bear and saw that a last group of Saxons were preparing a trebuchet against the castle. One that would release a boulder big enough to take out the corner tower where Queen Guinevere was reattaching Camelot's flag to a rampart.

Just as the Two-Leggers prepared to slice the rope and let the boulder fly, Berwin lunged.

The entire structure crashed to the ground, crushing the Saxons underneath. The bear stood on his hind legs and gave a victorious roar.

But from Gaius's back, Calib could see what Berwin could not. One of the Saxons was not yet dead.

“Watch out!” the mouse yelled, but he was too high up to be heard.

As Berwin towered over the Saxon, the Two-Legger pulled himself up into a crouch and drove his sword up under the bear's breastplate, burying it to the hilt.

Calib's scream was lost somewhere between his heart and his throat as Berwin looked down, his face changing from surprise to great pain.

“Go! Go!” Calib yelled, urging Gaius toward the bear.

Berwin dropped down on all fours and tried to limp
to the shelter of the Darkling trees. The wounded Saxon crawled away, but Berwin ignored him. With every step he took, a terrible grimace flashed across the bear's face.

As Gaius dove down to the bear, Berwin collapsed, massive paws sprawling in the snowy dirt.

Calib vaulted off General Gaius. “Get a healer!” he yelled to the owl before he even hit the ground. Gaius nodded and flew to the castle while Calib raced to the bear's side.

“Berwin,” the mouse said, skidding to a stop before the great beast. “Please don't try to move. General Gaius has gone for help.”

“No need,” the bear growled through clenched teeth. Dark, sticky blood trickled from his wounds into his fur. “No healer can fix this.”

“Just stay still,” Calib said stubbornly. “I'll find something to help.” Calib turned to run back to the castle, but the bear held the mouse in place by his tail. He twisted and pulled, but Berwin's grip was too strong.

“Why are you doing this?” Calib demanded. Hot, desperate tears began pouring down his cheeks. “Why won't you let me save you?”

“Shed no tears for me, little mouse,” Berwin said, managing a small smile. “Before you came into my den, I had nothing to live for. I am the last bear in Britain, Calib. I have known this for many years.”

His voice grew quieter and gentler. His eyes became soft and sad. “I must return to my kinfolk, in a land where the living cannot tread.”

“No,” Calib said, stifling the sobs that welled up in his throat. “You can't die. We've won the war.” He clutched Berwin's giant muzzle and rested his own snout on top. “Please. I promised to find you another bear.”

“You have given me something better, Calib Christopher—a chance . . . to die . . . with honor.”

Snow began to collect on the bear's fur. Berwin let out a long exhale, surrounding Calib in the warm steam of his breath. The light left the bear's eyes like a dying ember of coal. Berwin, the last bear of Britain, saw no more.

T
hat evening, Camelot held a victory feast of such grandeur, bards would sing of it for years to come.

In the human hall, flaky, juicy meat pies and smoked legs of mutton were stacked high on the Round Table. Red mead and golden lagers flowed freely from wooden barrels. Trenchers of roasted potatoes and turnips drizzled with gravy and glazes lined the outer tables. There was even a table full of sweets, from treacle tarts to honeyed oatcakes.

The music and chatter blended together in a pleasant
harmony throughout the throne room. An ambitious musician played a rapid-fire fiddle tune as knights and ladies danced and twirled in celebration of King Arthur and his knights' return. Sitting on his throne, King Arthur beamed at the castle's inhabitants. He tilted his head often in the direction of Queen Guinevere as she leaned into him. Her braids were wrapped around her head like a coronet, and Galahad thought she had never looked more beautiful, or more happy.

In fact, Galahad had never seen the castle so full of merriment. He marveled at how much had changed from the Camelot he thought he knew. No longer suited up like a drab kitchen boy, Galahad was dressed in the nicest robes that his mother had sent with him from the nunnery—a thick velvet tunic with Sir Lancelot's crest embroidered on the back.

At his side, the Sword in the Stone hung in a plain leather scabbard he had taken from the armory. The weight of it felt good, like it was already a part of him. But it was also heavy, and even a little frightening. Even with the blade concealed, the sword drew stares from everyone around. He did not know what his future would bring, but he knew that drawing the sword had changed it in ways that could not be undone.

As he left the table to get seconds, knights and servants all clapped him on the back, congratulating him.

All the attention felt strange to him. Or maybe it was just the fine clothing. Galahad found himself missing the ridiculous server's outfit he had had to wear. At least in that, he didn't feel like he was pretending to be something he was not.

Galahad was debating whether he should retreat to his quarters and change when he felt a tap on his shoulder. He turned to see a tall, blond man with a matching coat of arms on his chest. His face was handsomely bearded. A bittersweet expression, somewhere between pride and sadness, played at the corner of his lips.

“Your reputation precedes you, young Galahad,” he said in a deep voice, his gray eyes beaming. “And you wear the colors well.”

Galahad was speechless. He had replayed this scene in head so many times through his life. Sometimes, he imagined he'd say words of anger and accusation. But now, nothing seemed adequate for a father he had never met.

All he could say was, “Hello.”

Sir Lancelot placed both his hands on Galahad's shoulders and wrapped him in a hug. Galahad felt his throat tighten and willed himself not to cry.

“I'm sorry, my son.” Lancelot's voice was thick with emotion. “I will explain everything in time. Just know that I had not meant to be gone as much as I was.”

Looking past his father, Galahad spied a small mouse
watching him from the ledge above. The two exchanged knowing glances. Then the mouse scurried along the edge of the dome, dropped down to a window ledge behind the throne, and squeezed through a missing pane in a stained-glass window.

“Excuse me,” Galahad said, wiggling out of his father's grip and bowing. “I have someone, to um, thank first.”

Ducking out of the throne room, Galahad wound his way through several side passages until he emerged into Queen Guinevere's garden. His breath made clouds in the frosty night air. The mouse was there, waiting on the stone wall overlooking the cliffs. Galahad recognized the circle of white fur on his right ear, in contrast to the tawny brown of his face and paws. The mouse was dressed in dark-red robes with a tiny gold goblet stitched across the chest, and he wore a needle-like sword at his side. He looked up at Galahad with curious black eyes, and twitched his whiskers in what seemed like a friendly gesture.

Galahad kneeled before him and bowed his head. “I owe you everything,” he said solemnly, straightening up, “but I don't even know your name.”

In the white snow that had collected, the mouse scrawled something with his tail.

“Calib?” he asked, reading the tiny letters in wonder.

The mouse nodded appreciatively.

Galahad unsheathed his sword.

This time, Galahad knew what to expect. As the sword reflected the pale-blue moon and wide ocean, he felt himself being swept away by the current of voices. He felt the dreams of slumbering animals in hibernation.

“You must name the sword,” a new voice came to his ears. It sounded familiar, like an old man's. Galahad closed his eyes and concentrated on the voice until a blurry outline of a wolf appeared in his mind. One eye was blue; one eye was green. “All heroes name their swords.”

“This sword's name is Ex
calib
ur,” Galahad said aloud, holding out the sword so that Calib might scurry onto it. “For the noble mouse who helped the castle in its darkest hour.”

“Galahad!” Bors stuck his head outside a nearby window. “What are you doing out here? They're about to make another toast in your honor!”

“Tell them I'll be there in a moment,” Galahad replied. Boy and mouse smiled at each other. The Two-Legger boy stuck out his left finger, and Calib shook it.

“Where would you like me to take you?”

Galahad gripped the hilt of the sword and focused on Calib, clearing out all the voices until the one voice he wanted came through.

“The chapel, please.”