A Tail of Camelot (6 page)

G
alahad studied the maps unfurled in the library. Color-coded tokens representing coats of arms dotted the sketches of mountain ranges, seas, borders, and roads. Each one represented the location of Camelot's allies and enemies. His fellow pages shuffled around the tables for a better look.

“This evening, we're going to teach you a little something about military strategy,” Sir Kay said, addressing the gathered crowd from the center table. “It's up to me to make sure that you lot aren't completely clueless about where you are in the world.”

Galahad looked for his father's sigil but could not find it. His stomach lurched with homesickness when he saw St. Anne's Nunnery marked in a map covering the northern kingdoms. That life seemed so far away now.

“Behold, the world as we know it . . .”

Sir Kay gestured to the two largest maps, both showing Britain as a jagged teardrop of an island. There was a smaller island to the west marked by Celtic symbols. Everything east of the Narrow Seas was one wide, unbounded piece of land, divided up into a colorful rainbow of territories. The maps were identical except for the territories' borders.

“When our scouts adventure beyond Britain, they send back news of the changing kingdoms.” Sir Kay pointed from one map to the other. “From one year to the next, our enemies are always on the move. It is our job to understand the threats before they are at our doorstep.”

Galahad compared the two maps. It seemed to him that many of the kingdoms had been swallowed up by a great tide of red tokens.

“What group is this?” Galahad pointed to the tokens, which bore a symbol of a white dragon against a red backing.

“Those are the Saxons, cursed be their name,” Sir Kay said. “Why do you ask?”

“Well, it's just . . . They look like they're moving west is all,” Galahad said. “See, if you look at these maps, they've swallowed up all these kingdoms in the past year.
They're practically at the sea.”

Sir Kay chuckled and shook his head.

“That's good of you to notice, Galahad, I'll give you that. But the Saxons wouldn't dare attack Britain again,” he said. “We ran them right off this island, with their tails tucked between their legs. They would not dare touch foot on this land while Arthur is here.”

“But Arthur
isn't
here, not right now,” Galahad corrected. “When was the last time we sent scouts to the shore? These maps are dated two years ago. I don't—”

“Since when did washing dishes suddenly make you an expert on military strategy?” Malcolm, the page who had first denied Galahad a seat at breakfast, interrupted. Some of the other pages tittered at his jibe.

“Now, now,” Sir Kay interjected, “a knight of the Round Table is not only brave in battle, but also shows wisdom in the questions he asks. Galahad may be mistaken, but he's made a better observation today than you've had all year, Malcolm.”

Galahad cringed as Malcolm shot him a glare. Galahad was going to pay for this later; he just knew it. But as Sir Kay droned on about the wisdom of knights, Galahad realized that his original question remained unanswered. If Sir Kay were wrong about the Saxons . . . If they did push west . . . then Camelot would be completely defenseless.

S
lowly, Calib began to climb down from the Sword in the Stone, following the fissure to the ground and landing with a slight thud. When he stood at the base of the rock, the sword was so tall that he had to tilt his head to see it.

“Why are you back?” Calib murmured.

The wind ruffled his fur, and for a second, Calib thought he heard a voice whisper back to him, scratchy and faint, like the rustling of brushes. Goose bumps raised on the back of his ears.

He had a hundred questions, but each answer, he was sure, would tell him that Camelot needed to prepare for danger. Now Calib was sure of it: they needed arrows.

Calib began to run. Darting across the meadow that separated the road from the beach, he remembered to keep a careful eye out for shadows that would mean birds circling overhead, and he stopped only when he felt cold sand underneath his paws.

The beach looked dim and desolate this late in the afternoon. The sun trickled timidly through a blanket of fog. He was farther than he'd ever been from Camelot, wandering in forbidden territory. Strong gusts of early winter wind whipped his fur back. Calib pulled his cloak's hood closer about his ears.

He hurried toward a rocky section of the beach, a steep landscape that would eventually grow to form the cliffs that protected Camelot. He knew he had to move quickly—examining the sword had taken up precious time—but the slippery rocks did not provide sure footing.

Step by step, he tiptoed along the crags, taking care not to fall into the water. Nonetheless, he was soon drenched through with sea spray.

The clams were lodged between the stony crevices, in tide pools sometimes much too deep for a mouse. Calib squatted down and painstakingly dislodged what he could reach. He piled the shell pieces in his rucksack,
like precious white truffles. Each one would eventually be whittled into an arrowhead—sharp, piercing weapons to keep Camelot's enemies at bay.

After an hour, Calib had filled only half his bag. He had been so focused on maintaining his footing, he had not noticed the sky graying. The water inched higher and higher on the rocks until a wild wave crashed and soaked him completely.

“Rat whiskers!” Calib turned to go back, only to realize that high tide had come in behind him. Much of the way was now submerged. Calib stared in disbelief, cursing his own stupidity. He was stuck on these rocks until the tide went out. The other mice would certainly notice he was missing by suppertime—if Barnaby had not told on him first.

With the sun dwindling by the minute, and Calib drenched in saltwater, the wind grew unforgiving. Calib gritted his teeth to keep them from chattering. He had never been so cold! Not even when Devrin had pranked him last winter and put snowballs in the Hurler during an early morning practice.

Calib ducked into a crevice between two big rocks to avoid the wind. He was surprised to find himself illuminated by a pale blue light. Shuffling farther between the rocks, he saw that he was standing at the mouth of a large cave leading up into the cliffside. Light poured out
from inside, as if a small moon was buried underground. Calib wrapped his damp cloak across his shoulders tighter, but it offered no warmth.

Cold, wet, and miserable, Calib couldn't resist the promise of a dry place to spend the night. Praying that he would not encounter any unfriendly creatures, Calib ventured deeper into the cave.

Inside, milky-colored tide pools spotted the cave floor. The walls were encrusted with crystal stalagmites that glowed. Calib felt as if he had happened upon an entirely new, alien world. He had never seen anything like it.

“Wow,” he whispered. Then, out of the corner of his eye, Calib spotted a blur of white.

Something was moving behind him in the darkness.

Something big.

Panicked, he spun around, backing up until he was pressed against the cave wall. A scream rose in his throat and froze there, choking him.

Near the ceiling of the cave, a stone ledge overlooked the largest tide pool.

And on it was perched an enormous white wolf.

T
he wolf's stare pinned him to the spot. Its eyes were mismatched and unsettling, one icy blue, the other sea green. Calib felt as if his whole body had been replaced by soft cheese.

“Greetings, master mouse,” the wolf said at last, in a conversational tone. “It's been a long time since I've had a visitor.”

Calib could not make his voice work.

The wolf's smile displayed all his finely sharpened teeth. “And you are . . . ?”

“C-Calib. Please don't eat me,” Calib managed to squeak out. He was so afraid, he could feel his heart wrapping itself around his vocal cords.

“I'm Howell,” said the wolf, ignoring the second half of Calib's statement. “Welcome to my cave.”

“Wolves don't live in caves,” Calib blurted out, unthinking.

“I am no ordinary wolf.” Howell jumped off the ledge and landed close to Calib. The mouse leaped back in alarm. Calib shook like a newborn fawn. Howell took a long sniff. “And
you
are no ordinary mouse.”

“Oh, yes. Yes, I am. Definitely ordinary. Nothing special at all.”
Run.
That was all Calib could think. He had to run. He would risk drowning in the ocean if it meant getting away. Calib began to reach for a shell in his rucksack, with the intent of chucking it at the wolf. If he aimed directly for one of his eyes . . .

“I disagree.” The wolf exhaled. “You greatly resemble your father, you know.”

Calib's paw instinctively flew to the white patch of fur on his right ear. He nearly dropped the rucksack entirely.

“You—you knew my father?” Calib stammered, his fear eclipsed by curiosity.

“Only a Christopher mouse could have ventured so far on his own.” Howell smiled again. This time, his teeth did not seem so scary. “Sir Trenton did me a great
service once. One that cost him much in return. I have not forgotten that. How fares Camelot these days?”

Calib, still struck with wonder, found himself slowly relaxing. He shook his head. “Terrible things have happened . . . and the Sword in the Stone has reappeared!”

Howell frowned and tilted his great head. “Tell me more.”

Without knowing exactly why, Calib felt like he could trust the wolf. Now that he had found his voice again, he couldn't stop the words from bubbling out. Calib recounted everything that had happened in the Goldenwood Hall that one awful night, though he left out the part where he had prayed for the tournament to be canceled. Calib still couldn't bring himself to talk about his cowardice.

“Commander Yvers dead and Two-Bits accused?” Howell sounded troubled. “And who has brought the charge against Two-Bits?”

“Sir Percival Vole found Two-Bits's tooth in Commander Yvers's armor, and this page—this horrible, mean page named Warren—said he saw a black squirrel. Only . . .” Calib frowned, remembering the overheard conversation in the council room. “Only . . . I don't think he could have.”

“Assassination is not the Darkling way.” Howell swung his enormous snout side to side, pondering this for a long moment. “These accusations are preposterous. And how has everyone taken the news?”

“We're all preparing for another war against the Darklings,” Calib said gravely.

“War, you say?” Howell paced back and forth, more agitated than before.

“Yes.” Calib twisted the drawstrings of his cloak tightly in his paws. “Any day now, Leftie the lynx and his hordes could ambush us again, like they did when they killed my father,” Calib continued. “That's what everyone's saying, anyway.”

A loud growl from Howell made everything shimmer in the cave. The cave light also grew brighter, glowing a vibrant blue. Calib knew then that Howell had spoken truth: he was no ordinary wolf. But what was he? Calib was too afraid to ask.

“Listen to me closely, young master,” Howell said. “Your father's death had nothing to do with an ambush by the Darklings. You must know your father's legacy is much greater than what even your legends have told. The world may not see the likes of him for many an age.”

“That's the problem,” Calib said bitterly. “Everyone expects me to follow in my father's pawsteps. But they're simply too . . .” Calib trailed off. The realization hit him all at once.

“What is it?” Howell asked.

“Too big,” Calib whispered. “His pawsteps were
too big
.” He looked up at Howell. “I saw those bloody paw
prints on the floor the night of the Harvest Tournament. They were massive and . . . and clawed! There's no
way
those prints belonged to Two-Bits. It couldn't have been a squirrel at all. . . .” Calib's heart pounded. He needed to tell Sir Kensington immediately!

“Thanks for your shelter, Master Howell. And thanks for, erm, not eating me, and everything. But I
have
to find a way back to Camelot. I'm in big trouble already!”

“Then I'll take you back the fastest way possible.” Howell dipped his nose to the ground so that Calib could climb on top of his head.

“Are you sure this is a good idea?” Calib hated to be so blunt, especially when the wolf had shown him such kindness. But he didn't think his arrival in the night, unannounced and on a giant white wolf, would be well-received by the mice of Camelot.

Howell must have known what he was thinking. “I know a shortcut that will allow me to remain unseen,” Howell said.

“And I won't fall off?”

“Not while you are in my care, Master Calib.”

Only half convinced, Calib reluctantly climbed onto Howell's snout and made a seat for himself between the wolf's ears. He took a few deep breaths to calm himself.

Please, Merlin, let this not be as stupid as it looks,
he prayed silently. He wiped the sweat off his paws and strapped the
rucksack to his back.

“Now, hang on tight,” Howell instructed.

As soon as Calib gripped Howell's ears, the wolf shot out of the cave like an arrow, bounding at a breathtaking speed. Calib clutched Howell's ears for dear life, shutting his eyes tightly as the wolf leaped from rock to rock. He heard the crashing of the waves and felt sea spray gather in his fur. The air was soaked with the smell of salt and seaweed.

Eventually, Howell's movements smoothed into long, loping gallops. As soon as Calib realized he wasn't about to slip off, he dared to open his eyes. The waves crested right at Howell's paws, and he splashed through them. The night sky above was cloudless and speckled with stars.

Howell tilted his head back slightly and howled at the waning moon.

“Aroooooooo!”

Calib felt as if the moon was howling back. A sense of triumph flooded him. He felt more alive than ever. For once, he felt invincible. If only Warren could see him now. Or better yet, if only his father and grandfather could see him riding on Howell. Feeling braver than ever, Calib joined Howell in a triumphant holler into the night.

“A
wwwooooooooo!”