Cows In Action 8

by Steve Cole

“It works like that!” McMoo yelled. “Must be programmed to respond to F.B.I. technology. Get back—”

  But it was too late. In the wink of an eye, both Bo and the professor disappeared . . .

  “Come on, guys,” muttered Pat nervously inside the Round Stable. “King Arthur’s going to be back at any moment . . .”

  “Here I am, Sir Angus!” cried Arthur, bursting in. “I ran into my old friend Sir Percival and brought him to say hello . . .”

  A plump, red-haired knight pushed past the king. “Look at me! I’m Sir Percival!”

  “And we are Sir Percival’s catering staff!” cheered four more men, struggling into the room with huge trays laden with fine-smelling food and wine. They plonked the lot down on the Round Table.

  “Hooray!” shouted Sir Percival, grabbing a piece of pie and looking about. “But . . . where’s this new boy, Arthur?”

  King Arthur frowned and glanced at Pat. “He can’t be far away. He left one of his cows.”

  But then, Merlin the bull barged in, his wizard’s hat wedged wonkily on one horn, a frantic look in his eyes. “Sire!” he cried. “I have—”

  “Have you seen Sir Angus anywhere?” Arthur interrupted.

  “Eh?” Merlin seemed taken aback. “No, I thought he was here.”

  Arthur considered. “Perhaps he has gone exploring.”

  Perhaps, thought Pat, frowning.

  “Never mind Sir Angus, sire – I’ve just had another vision!” Merlin straightened his tall hat. “The heifer of my dreams – she came to me once more in my bedchamber!”

  Sir Percival stared. “Did she?”

  “And she gave me a message,” Merlin went on, eyes bright. “You must go to Dozmary Pool, Arthur. And when you do, you will learn of a marvellous quest. A quest that will occupy the knights of the Round Stable for many years . . . A quest that will bring happiness to all cows, and save the world!”

  “A quest!” Sir Percival beamed. “It’s been weeks since I went on a good quest!”

  “A quest that is good for cows and will save the world?” Arthur jumped in the air and downed a large cup of ale. “Hooray!”

  “HOORAY!” The catering staff joined in with the excitement, dancing a little jig – until one of them accidentally dropped a vol-au-vent on the floor and his friends told him off for spoiling the mood.

  Arthur and Sir Percival strode heroically from the stable, and Merlin followed them outside. Pat gulped. Had the moo-gical warlock done something to Bo and the professor? Were the bull’s visions just a load of bull? The young C.I.A. agent knew there was only one way to find out.

  Silently, stealthily, Pat set off after them . . .

  Chapter Six

  DISCOVERED!

  Pat peeped out from behind a cart in the courtyard near Cow-me-lot’s entrance, watching as Arthur and Sir Percival jumped onto their fine horses. Arthur’s white steed had been fitted with a special carriage daubed with moons and stars, which Merlin climbed into with some difficulty. Arthur accepts everything his wizard tells him, Pat realized. He might be the man in charge – but Merlin is the power behind the throne . . .

  The drawbridge creaked open, and the regal riders galloped away into the night. Pat charged after them as fast as he could. Luckily, towing Merlin in the carriage meant that Arthur’s horse couldn’t go too fast, and Sir Percival kept pace with him. So Pat followed them from what he hoped was a safe distance, tramping over moonlit fields, scrambling through streams and picking a path through scraps of forest. He only hoped that Bessivere Barmer wasn’t still roaming about with her horrible husband.

  Finally, from the brow of a moonlit hill, a dark, eerie stretch of water ringed with reeds and bulrushes came into sight. Behind it stood a thick wood.

  “Here we are!” cried Sir Percival, slowing his stallion. “Dozmary Pool.”

  King Arthur glanced back at Merlin. “Do we need to gather at any particular part of the lake?”

  Merlin peered out from his carriage. “We must go down to the water’s edge . . .”

  Pat watched the three of them descend the hill. Then he made his own way down in a different direction. If he could sneak round to the far side of the lake, he could spy on them from the cover of the rushes.

  Keeping low, Pat started to circle the still, black waters. Then his hoof caught on something soft. He crouched to see.

  It was a robe. The sort a monk would wear. “What would a monk be doing swimming out here at night-time?” Pat wondered aloud. Then he noticed a black sack, half hidden by rushes at the lake’s edge. There was a label on the side. PLEASE DO NOT STEAL. PROPERTY OF TER-MOO-NETTE 1-1-ALPHA. Pat felt a shiver go through him. “What’s a ter-moo-nette?”

  Something long, dark and pointed was poking out from inside the sack. Pat reached in and pulled out a well-crafted sword from a finely made scabbard. Carved into the silver hilt was a cow’s face with glowing green eyes. As Pat touched the scabbard, his hoof tingled as if with some strange energy. He saw there were many more swords and scabbards in the sack.

  “LOOK!” boomed Arthur, and for a horrible moment Pat was sure he’d been spotted. But, as he raised his head, he saw the king was pointing to the middle of the lake. Sir Percival clutched hold of Merlin, who nodded to himself as the water began to bubble . . .

  And suddenly, to Pat’s amazement and alarm, a slender arm clad in shimmering white fabric reached up from the black depths of the lake, holding a sword aloft. Gulping hard, Pat looked down at the sword he had pulled from the sack. It seemed identical to the one now pointing up from the water.

  “She rises!” bellowed Merlin, almost losing his hat as he reared up in excitement.

  “It is a lady!” squealed Sir Percival.

  Merlin shook his long-horned head with a grim smile. “Not quite . . .”

  Sure enough, as smoky clouds blew clear of the moon, Pat could see quite clearly that the arm reaching out of the lake was not that of a lady. It wasn’t even human. It ended in a fearsome mechanical hoof. And, as the blonde-haired figure rose up from the water, her lacy veil could not hide her glowing yellow eyes any more than her smock could disguise her hefty, stainless-steel udder . . .

  “Behold, the Heifer of the Lake!” the bull-wizard proclaimed.

  “So that’s a ter-moo-nette,” Pat realized, his chest tightening with fright. “A female ter-moo-nator!”

  Bo felt as though she was falling in slow motion – and then suddenly she found herself in a moonlit forest, still clutching the strange sword they had found in Merlin’s room. The professor was standing right beside her. “Hey!” she grumbled. “That stupid F.B.I. transporter sent us out of the castle!”

  “And well away from any witnesses, meaning that beefy baddie can come and go without anyone knowing . . .” McMoo peered about. “There must be another transporter around here that the ter-moo-nator uses to get into the castle . . . Aha!” He pointed to an identical box half-buried beside a tree. Bo leaned closer, waving her sword, but McMoo snatched it away. “Careful! I told you before, the transporters must be activated by F.B.I. technology – otherwise any passing humans could whisk themselves into Cow-me-lot by mistake.”

  “That thing’s not technology,” Bo argued. “It’s just a sword.”

  “Is it?” McMoo studied the long, silver weapon. “I have a feeling there’s more to this blade than meets the eye.” He looked at Bo. “So! The question is, why did our ter-moo-nating friend set up a secret transporter link right outside Merlin’s private rooms?”

  Bo gasped. “I know! Because Merlin and the ter-moo-nator are one and the same! He dresses up as Merlin to trick Arthur, sneaks back to get changed in Merlin’s bedroom, then zips off out here.”

  “Then why not hide the transporter inside Merlin’s room instead of leaving it on the landing?” McMoo pointed out. “And why bother to get changed at all?”

  “Shhh,” Bo whispered. “I think I just heard something.”

  McMoo cocked his head to listen.

  “Hurr, hurr,
hurr . . .” came a familiar chuckle, and a burly, bald-headed man gripping a cleaver shambled out from the trees ahead of them.

  “Oh, no,” groaned McMoo. “Not hopeless Henry on the hunt again . . .”

  “Don’t you talk about my husband like that, tin-features!” Bessivere Barmer burst out from the bushes behind them – holding a large axe!

  “Go away,” McMoo said firmly, raising the strange sword. “We don’t want any trouble.”

  “Then you shouldn’t have come trespassing on private property,” Bessivere snarled. “This is our front garden!”

  Bo groaned. “That must be another reason why the ter-moo-nator set up the portal here – so any investigating C.I.A. agents like us would get bashed by a butcher!”

  “Eek!” Bessivere jumped in the air, and Henry looked even more dumbfounded than usual. “That cow talks!”

  “Oh, Bo,” McMoo sighed.

  “Sorry, Prof,” said Bo. “I forgot ringblenders translate cow-speak into human, even if we’re not dressed up to look like people.”

  “It’s that Merlin isn’t it!” Bessivere wailed. “He’s put a spell on her!” Then she recovered and raised her axe. “But so long as she still tastes the same, who cares?”

  McMoo raised the sword, but Bo shook her head. “It’s all right, Professor.” She put her hooves on her hips. “I can handle these two with one arm tied behind my back and my tail tied to my udder.”

  “Oh, really?” Bessivere smiled nastily. “Then we might just need a little extra help . . .” She let rip with an enormous whistle. In seconds, the dark forest was alive with heavy crashing noises! Bo gulped as a swarm of at least forty hairy, sweaty men in white, bloodstained coats charged into the clearing, waving rocks and knives and spatulas.

  “Unfortunately for you, little magic cow,” growled Bessivere, “I’m hosting the Federation of British Master Butchers’ annual gala dinner tonight!”

  “Ah,” said McMoo. “And of course, there’s no beef to be had, is there?”

  “Exactly!” fussed a short, greasy feller. “A butchers’ banquet with no beef – it’s a scandal!”

  “And we’ve eaten everything else in the forest,” another man complained. “We’re down to roast rat and bluetit soup!”

  “Barmer said she had friends coming,” Bo remembered. “That’s why she was out hunting earlier this evening.”

  The butchers gasped to hear her speak. And then they started to drool.

  “A talking cow!” one man boggled. “Imagine what that’s going to taste like!”

  “Yellow udder,” noted another, sucking his spatula. “She must be corn fed.”

  “Luvverly!” A fat, hairy butcher stepped forward, clicking his knuckles. “Let’s take care of the knight first . . .”

  “They mean business, Bo,” McMoo murmured. “And they’re blocking our way back to the transporter.”

  Bo nodded as the men started to close in. “There’s too many to fight, even for me,” she whispered. “I think it’s time to make like a nose, Professor – and RUN!”

  Chapter Seven

  A CURIOUS QUEST

  At Dozmary Pool – unaware of the danger facing Bo and the professor – Pat watched astounded as the ter-moo-nette began to wade out of the dark waters. She held a sword aloft in one hand, and wore another in a scabbard at her metal hip. Both were identical to the one Pat had found in the sack.

  King Arthur and Sir Percival stared in amazement as the gleaming vision clanked closer. Merlin’s lips twitched in a broad smile. “A fair cow in shining armour,” the bull breathed. “A symbol that cows shall be our armour against the evil Moodrid.”

  At last, the ter-moo-nette reached the shore. “Greetings,” she said in a high, grating voice. “I thought there might be more of you.”

  “Forgive me, great heifer,” said Merlin, bowing his head so far his hat fell off. “In my eagerness to gaze upon you, I forgot to tell the king to bring as many knights as he could.”

  “But frankly,” said Sir Percival, “now you’ve met me, the others will only come as a disappointment!”

  “Hush, Percy,” hissed King Arthur. Then he turned to the ter-moo-nette. “Merlin told us you wished to speak of a great quest?”

  “That is correct,” said the part-metal moo-cow. “You must journey far and wide on a quest for the finest, sweetest tasting hay on the planet . . . a quest for the HAYLY Grail!”

  “Hurrah!” cried Sir Percival. “But . . . how will we know if we’ve found it?”

  “Feed it to a cow,” said the ter-moo-nette. “If the cow does a somersault, then you have truly found the grail.”

  “What rubbish,” Pat murmured. “She’s tricking them all! But why?”

  The ter-moo-nette offered the sword she carried to Arthur. “Each knight who searches for the Hayly Grail must carry one of these special swords at all times, so the world shall know of their business. And the swords are named . . . Excowlibur!”

  The king carefully took the silver blade. “Thank you, oh great heifer.”

  “Oooh!” said Sir Percival. “There’s a cow’s head carved into the hilt. That is divine!”

  “Be sure to keep the sword’s scabbard by your side.” The heifer reached under her white smock and pulled out one for Arthur. “It will bring you . . . much luck on your travels.”

  I bet it won’t! Pat thought, his heart starting to pound.

  The ter-moo-nette handed a second sword and scabbard to Sir Percival. “Now, you must hurry and tell all the knights of Cow-me-lot of this quest. Let the word spread far and wide. All must gather in the courtyard at midday tomorrow, so that I may hand out Excowliburs to one and all . . .”

  “I’ve got to do something,” Pat fretted. “Oh, where are Bo and the professor? If only they were here!”

  “One last thing, fair heifer.” Merlin stepped closer to the unearthly cow. “In my dream, you said that if Arthur and his knights accept the quest and travel far in search of the hay, cows will never turn against us. Is that true?”

  “Of course,” the ter-moo-nette purred. “This quest will see the start of a great new age . . .”

  Pat couldn’t bear to stay silent any longer. “Yes – an age of evil cattle!” he yelled, jumping up. “Don’t listen to her! She’s tricking you all.”

  “Who dares spy on us?” King Arthur thundered.

  The ter-moo-nette swung round, her yellow eyes like probing spotlights. They fixed Pat in their glare.

  “It’s another talking cow!” cried Sir Percival.

  Pat gulped. In his sudden panic, he’d forgotten that his ringblender was only translating his words, not disguising his appearance.

  “That is no cow . . .” Merlin reared up onto his back legs to mirror Pat’s own pose. “It is a talking BULL! At last – Moodrid himself has come to face me!”

  He doesn’t recognize me, thought Pat. I suppose that to humans, one cow looks a lot like another by moonlight. “I’m not Moodrid!” he hollered.

  “This bullock must be destroyed,” droned the ter-moo-nette.

  “It is my destiny to fight Moodrid,” said Merlin, dropping back down onto all fours. “It must be for this purpose that my body was transformed – a duel of might and moo-gic . . . to the death!”

  With a bullish bellow of rage, Merlin lowered his head so that the pointed wizard’s hat resembled a third horn – and charged. King Arthur and Sir Percival cheered and clapped and shouted as his heavy hooves tore up the turf.

  Still clutching his stolen sword, Pat ran for his life . . .

  Deep in the dark forest beyond Cow-me-lot, Professor McMoo and Bo were running too. Unable to see far in the blackness, McMoo was black and blue inside his armour from crashing into trees. But the butchers on their trail seemed to know the forest far better. They were gaining on the C.I.A. agents, shouting and yelling with growing excitement.

  “I have to rest a moment,” McMoo panted, staggering to a stop. “This suit weighs a ton!” Then he frowned. “Hold on. Where’s tha
t light coming from?”

  “It’s coming from your sword!” Bo pointed to the carved hilt. “It’s just the eyes in the cow face catching the moonlight.”

  “I don’t think so,” said McMoo, looking closely. “Those eyes are glowing! I wonder how long they’ve been doing that.”

  “Who cares?” She grabbed him by the hoof. “Come on, they’re right behind us!”

  McMoo lumbered round to see. “They were right behind us. But why has it suddenly gone so quiet?”

  “Eh?” Bo listened – and noticed the sounds of pursuit had stopped. “Where did they go?”

  Suddenly, a familiar sound floated from the forest: “MOO!”

  “Professor, there’s a cow out there!” Bo realized, starting forward. “If Barmer’s butchers bump into it, the poor thing won’t stand a chance!”

  “That didn’t sound like a cow’s moo to me . . .” Even as the professor spoke, a whole chorus of cattle calls sounded from the darkness. “Listen. It’s like humans doing cow impressions!”

  Cautiously, in the dim, dappled moonlight, McMoo and Bo made their way back to the clearing they had just crashed through. And there, down on all fours, were a number of butchers. They chewed on the grass, shuffling about on their hands and knees, mooing.

  Bo’s eyes narrowed. “What are they playing at?”

  “Being cows, by the look of it,” said McMoo, baffled.

  The next moment, both of them jumped as Bessivere’s head emerged from a nearby bush. “Mooooo!” She shuffled out on hands and feet, a big wad of grass hanging out of her mouth.

  Henry was crawling right behind her. “Hurr-mooo,” he said. “Moo-hurr-hurr-mooooooo . . .”

  “This is weird,” Bo concluded. “One moment they’re chasing us like maniacs, the next they’re acting like peaceful cows who’d never hurt a fly.”