Mice of the Round Table #3

by Julie Leung

  “I thought we were here to go to war with them, not teach them magic tricks,” the tall one complained as he lifted his footpaw off Calib’s basket.

  The weasels continued to mutter to each other as they stomped off, and soon, Calib couldn’t hear their voices anymore. Slowly, he poked his head out.

  The coast was clear—so why were his whiskers tingling so hard that he thought they might fall off?

  Something pinched Calib behind his neck, and suddenly, he was yanked out from inside his hiding place.

  “I thought I smelled a dirty little mouse,” someone snarled.

  Twisting, Calib glanced back to see the wicked gleam of weasel teeth.

  CHAPTER

  13

  The eye-patched Saxon guard cuffed Calib so hard in the head that stars exploded in his eyes. Then he threw him to the ground.

  “The last prisoner I caught for slacking, I whipped him with his own tail—after I removed it!” the weasel growled. He cracked the whip that had been at his side.

  Not daring to blow his cover, Calib tried to play along.

  “My apologies; I got lost.”

  The guard yanked him up by the tunic collar, peering at him in the eye intently. “Now where would you be headed, with a sword, no less?”

  Calib looked at Lightbringer, his heart dropping to his stomach. He needed to think of an excuse quickly. “Th-this old toothpick?” he stammered. “I’m delivering it to the Manderlean. I was just polishing it up.”

  “I’ll take it to our glorious leader; might even get a few boons for it,” the weasel said. Calib watched helplessly as the Saxon guard pocketed his beloved sword. Would the Manderlean recognize the design when he saw it?

  “Now where do you belong?” the other guard snarled.

  “B-b-belong?”

  Another slap across the snout sent Calib’s whiskers stinging. “Where. Do. You. Work? The eastern or the western forges?”

  “Er . . . the eastern one?” Calib replied.

  “Then run back there!” barked the weasel. He prodded Calib with the butt end of his club. Stumbling a bit, Calib caught himself and began to walk away.

  There was the crack of a whip, followed by a sharp sting in Calib’s ear.

  “Did you not hear me?” the weasel growled. “I said . . . run.”

  Calib ran.

  He had no idea where the eastern forges were located, but he sprinted down the stairs as if he did, praying that the guard would not follow. It was only after he’d fled down two landings and twisted out of sight that he slowed back down to a walk.

  Passing some of the fiery huts he’d seen from afar, Calib realized they were actually forges. And the incessant clanging noises came from the animals working at them, heating metal over the fires and then pouring the molten metal into curved, wicked-looking molds.

  They were creating scimitars, maces, and axes.

  Weapons to maim and kill.

  But that wasn’t what made bile rise to the back of Calib’s throat. Because for the first time, Calib could clearly see that each of the creatures who worked the forges wore chains.

  They were shackled to each other, links of metal running from paw to paw.

  Some wore unfamiliar garb and bore tattoos he’d never seen, but others looked familiar . . . including a massive badger. Though the badger was not wearing his signature tortoise shell armor, Calib recognized him as Lylas Whitestripe—second-in-command of the Darkling army and a hero of the Battle of the Bear.

  Lylas wore a rough cloth sack and was wielding a massive hammer, and red sparks flew in all directions as he beat a sheet of steel. The badger turned slightly, and Calib’s heart lurched. Fresh red scars scored the badger’s back.

  How did a great Darkling warrior like him end up in a place like this?

  Without thinking, Calib began to run to his injured friend.

  Crack!

  Instinctively, Calib ducked. But the whip hadn’t been directed at him, it’d been cracked above the heads of a line of creatures—hares, otters, squirrels—who were being ushered to another forge, and they were momentarily blocking Lylas from Calib’s view.

  Some of the creatures bore bandaged paws, others visible burns. All carried expressions of misery and exhaustion, made worse by the sheen of black dust and oil from the forge fires. The workers kept their eyes down, and they flinched whenever a guard walked by.

  Ruby the vixen’s warning came back to Calib: Animals keep vanishing from the forest, not returning from the hunts.

  So this was where the missing animals had gone.

  A big plume of black dust enveloped Calib from behind. His fur was instantly covered in clinging black soot.

  Coughing, Calib looked up to see the badger standing over him. “Lylas!”

  “I thought that was you,” Lylas murmured from the side of his snout. “And if I did, others will too. Make sure you keep dirty.”

  “What’s happened?” Calib asked. “Lylas, what’s going on?”

  But Lylas just shook his great head and rolled his eyes in the direction of a sentry who was stationed within earshot of their conversation. The weasel, however, was deeply engaged in gorging himself on a slice of blue cheese. Calib’s stomach growled. It had been a long time since he’d had a proper meal.

  “Hand me the bellows!” Lylas said loudly. He grabbed a set of chains on his worktable and hastily clipped them around Calib’s footpaws. The metal was cold, but not tight, and if Calib wasn’t careful, they would slip off.

  Lowering his voice, Lylas said, “Keep going down. And whatever you do, don’t—”

  The crack of the whip snapped the air just above Lylas’s ear, making both of them wince.

  “No talking among the prisoners!” the weasel guard barked, crumbs tumbling down his tunic as he stood. “Or do you need another lesson in humility, skunk-beast!”

  Lylas’s eyes burned with defiance, but he turned back to his forge and again picked up his hammer. The weasel turned to Calib and squinted. “And what are you? A rather large mole?”

  “I’m a mouse, actually—”

  But the guard wasn’t listening. Instead, he had grabbed Calib’s paw and was marching him forward. “Moles belong in the mines,” the weasel barked, and before Calib knew it, he was shoved onto a small platform, along with other moles—proper moles with dull black fur that didn’t look too dissimilar to Calib’s soot-covered body.

  Suddenly, the floor beneath him began to move down. It was sinking!

  “Rat whiskers!” Calib cried, clutching the cart, as if it were somehow more secure than he was.

  “Get ahold of yourself,” whispered one of the moles.

  “Be nice, Charles,” the mole on Calib’s other side admonished. Then he turned his head to Calib. “They’re lowering us down into the mines—there’s a pulley system that will bring us back up later.”

  The mole smiled sympathetically at what Calib guessed was the stunned expression on his face. “You must be new. Just keep your ears down and your tail close.”

  Calib looked up at the elongated tunnel above him and wondered how far they would go underground. And even though he knew Cecily had to be somewhere in this cavernous place of lakes, hidden cities, and mines, he felt as though the stars must be closer. At least for them, he knew where to look. His ears popped as the creaky pulleys lowered them farther down, the platform inching deeper and deeper into darkness.

  Finally, the lift came to a screeching halt. As the moles filed out, Calib gave his whiskers a quick pat. The presence of magic was strongest down here, and his whiskers felt like they were burning again.

  Stepping off, he saw that they had arrived at another subterranean alcove, smaller than its counterpart thousands of feet above. A row of five armored Saxon weasels with whips and swords greeted them.

  “Move out!” they barked. “Faster!”

  Not knowing what else to do, Calib followed the kindly mole, avoiding rogue kicks from the guards. As his eyes adjusted to the darker cave, he
was taken aback by the number of ragged animals gathered here in loose lines—moles, foxes, and badgers . . . all the natural diggers.

  Their eyes squinted against the torchlight being carried by Saxon guards. Like Lylas, the animals too wore sack-like clothing. They were covered in a fine layer of dust. Calib could count the ribs on some of these creatures. Many of them were coughing from the poor, uncirculated air.

  From a distance, Calib could hear the steady strike of pickaxes chipping against rock.

  “Here,” the kindly mole said, handing him a pickax. “This way.”

  Not knowing what else to do, Calib followed the mole to a rocky wall. “Like this,” the mole demonstrated, swinging his tool. Rubble and grit showered down on them. A group of younger moles, maybe only half Calib’s age, scrambled forward to begin to pick through the rock.

  “What are we mining for?” Calib asked as he swung his own pickax at the wall. Dust exploded, filling his eyes, nose, and lungs. He began to cough.

  The mole shook his head. “No one knows,” he whispered. “But whenever we find an interesting-looking rock, we’re supposed to bring it to the guards.”

  “How many of you are down here? Have you met a mouse named Ce—”

  “Shush!” another mole with a star-shaped nose digging near them cut Calib off. “Are you trying to get us killed? No talking allowed!”

  Taking a swing, Calib joined the steady beat of the axes breaking into the mountains. Soon, his footpaws grew weary. It had been night when he and Galahad had broken the barrier, and Calib thought that it must be well into the next morning by now. Each strike against the rock shot pain into his shoulders.

  Just as he thought he could bear no more, a Saxon struck a large gong with a hammer. Immediately, silence washed over them as the miners abandoned their work and ran toward the entrance.

  “Food,” Calib’s mole neighbor murmured. “Come on!”

  Dazed from exhaustion and hunger, Calib allowed himself to be swept into the rush. Mice wearing aprons had formed a line with their carts, and already the rest of the digging animals were holding out acorn caps for teaspoons of soup and mush.

  When Calib approached a calico-furred kitchen mouse, the mouse paused a moment and whispered, “Not . . . Calib Christopher?”

  Calib’s paw flew to his ear, and when he drew his paw away, it was smeared with soggy soot. His disguise was slowly slipping off.

  “I’m sorry,” Calib said to the kitchen mouse. “Do I know you?”

  “Oh my whiskers,” the mouse whispered excitedly. He was even a little younger than Calib. “I’ve seen you before, but you wouldn’t remember me. I was there, in Leftie’s den, when you first arrived to ask the Darklings for help last autumn. But what are you doing here?”

  “I’m on a mission for Camelot,” Calib said, keeping his voice low and his eye on the guard. “I just don’t know how I’m going to get out of the mines. . . .”

  The mouse’s whiskers twitched. “Switch places with me! I’m a server. We have more access than most of the prisoners.”

  “No,” Calib said, shaking his head. The hollow desperation he’d seen in the miners’ eyes told Calib this wasn’t nearly enough food for the hard labor they were doing. It was certainly no place for a mouse even younger than him. “It’s miserable down here.”

  “You’re going to save us, though,” the mouse said earnestly. He was already untying his apron. “The Saxon weasels can’t be bothered to learn who we are. They only count that the same number of creatures who came down, go back up.”

  The rough burlap apron was thrust into Calib’s paws. “Please,” the mouse said. “We can’t last much longer. And I know you can help.”

  His heart sinking, Calib nodded and handed the mouse his pickax. “What’s your name?” Calib whispered as he tied the apron around his waist.

  “Fennel Fraytail.”

  “Do you know Dandelion Fraytail?”

  “Yes.” Fennel bobbed a nod. “She’s my cousin.”

  “Hey!” All the creatures, including Calib, jumped as a Saxon guard strode over to them. “You,” he said, prodding a paw at Calib. “Get behind your cart. And the rest of you, keep it moving. Don’t make me say it again!”

  “Yes, Commander,” both the miners and kitchen staff said despondently, and with that, young Fennel was swept away into the bowels of the mines. His heart squeezing, Calib picked up a teaspoon ladle and began to scrape at the bottom of the pots.

  The food was going rapidly. With a sinking stomach, Calib saw there wouldn’t be enough soup to feed half the line of hungry miners before they ran out. When the food had been emptied from each tray and trough, the kitchen mice were ushered back into the pulley box.

  “Are we bringing more down?” Calib whispered to his neighboring mouse.

  The mouse looked at him disdainfully and didn’t bother answering what he clearly thought was a foolish question.

  Calib had to bite his tongue from lashing out at his fellow mice. How could they be silent? The injustice of the situation was unbearable. Britain was where all creatures could live as equals. That was the foundation upon which King Arthur built Camelot and his Round Table. How had Camelot let this happen, right under their snouts?

  Calib stood with fierce determination as the lift moved upward. He had come here to rescue Cecily and the Goldenwood Throne, but what was another few thousand souls added to that tally?

  He would save them.

  He would save them all.

  CHAPTER

  14

  Galahad drifted into an uneasy dream that felt more real than it should. He was standing on top of a mountain. A glowing white shadow in the shape of a wolf swam just out of focus. He could hear only the faintest of whispers in the wind—nothing he could actually understand.

  “I can’t hear you,” he said. He tried to reach out and touch the wolf, but suddenly, a great pain exploded in his hands. He looked down and saw that he had grabbed Merlin’s Mirror, the thorns cutting into his palms. Inside the mirror’s reflection, Camelot was engulfed in flames.

  Galahad bolted out of his dream, gasping for air.

  “Finally, you’re awake,” Red drawled, standing over him. Groggy and confused, Galahad took a few moments to remember where he was. After Morgan had dismissed him last night, Red had lead Galahad to a small room with a rickety bed and a dresser. He had locked Galahad in, with not only a key, but also, Galahad suspected, with magic. With no way to escape and look for either Calib or the Grail, he had fallen asleep, exhausted from both his travels and his nerves.

  Red yanked the covers off Galahad. “You’re no pampered hero of Camelot here. In my fortress, you work. Get up and get dressed,” he said as he strode to the door.

  Galahad rose from his bed and got dressed for the morning. His body felt heavy and groggy, his mind fuzzy. His conversations with Morgan the evening before felt like muddled memories from long ago. Was it true that she had been wronged by Arthur?

  When Galahad had put on a fresh tunic from his pack, he stepped out to see Red waiting impatiently for him.

  “Let’s go,” the older boy grumbled. “You’re making me late for training.”

  “Where are you taking me?” Galahad asked.

  “You don’t get to ask the questions here,” Red said, and began to walk quickly down a passageway . . . and then another . . . and another . . . and another.

  Red marched Galahad confidently past an underground quarry, which had been turned into a makeshift battle arena. Saxon soldiers sparred in pairs. Others practiced beating on straw men with iron clubs, spraying stuffing and sawdust everywhere. The clanging and shouting were constant and deafening. Galahad thought back to the gentlemanly jousts and chivalrous fighting King Arthur employed among his knights. He couldn’t see how that code of honor could outlast the Saxons’ brutal melee training.

  Red prodded Galahad to move faster. Galahad blinked. They had just made a quick left down a corridor that he could have sworn wasn’t there a second
before.

  “How do you find your way around in here?” he asked, the question tumbling from him before he could stop it.

  “My mother’s security at work,” Red responded, waving casually at a carved door Galahad thought they’d already passed earlier. “The halls are enchanted. Once you know how to master the magic, the right room will come to you.” Galahad deflated. He was used to having people working against him—it was quite another to have an entire fortress against you.

  He wondered where Red was taking him. The dungeons? He didn’t think so. But wherever it was, he was sure it couldn’t be good.

  Red eventually opened a door and ushered Galahad inside. They were standing between two long bookshelves at least three times his height. They were filled with yellowed books and rolled-up scrolls. The shelves extended for many feet beyond him. Red walked them to the end of the aisle, where Galahad was astounded to see rows and rows of shelves in a room as big as Morgan’s throne room. Rays of yellow beams poured from the cavernous ceiling, where crystals were embedded into the stone roof as skylights.

  This book collection puts Camelot’s to shame, Galahad thought jealously. He leaned in closer to look at some of the titles, admiring the gilded spines and fine leather bindings.

  “Finally!” a voice called from beneath the stacks. “Lord Mordred, you’re late. The scrolls aren’t going to translate themselves!”

  A girl about Galahad’s age popped her head up from the opposite side of the shelf. She had spritely features—a heart-shaped face that framed inquisitive brown eyes. Her brown hair sprouted in a thick mass of curls that she kept in a high bun, making her a foot taller than Galahad.

  “Actually,” Red said, pushing Galahad forward, “I’ve brought you a new assistant.”

  The girl’s eyebrows shot up. “The queen didn’t mention that,” she said. “In fact, she said that you, Red, were supposed to—”

  “This,” Red interrupted, “is Galahad. Galahad, meet Britta, Mother’s head researcher.”

  “Hmm,” the girl said as she stepped out from behind the shelves. Her arms were full of scrolls. She was dressed in a page boy’s long black tunic with many pockets filled with quills and ink. “Do you know Gaelic?”