Mice of the Round Table #3

by Julie Leung

  The red squirrel’s face popped out above the tree branches. “Calib?” Her eyes widened. “Cecily!” Quick as a flash, Macie ran straight down the trunk of the tree and wrapped Cecily in her arms. “Thank goodness you’re all right!”

  “I’m fine,” Cecily said, hugging her friend back. “But you’re clearly not.” Cecily was right. A white bandage was looped lopsidedly around Macie’s left ear, and a scrap of cloth had hastily been tied around her forearm.

  “What happened?” Calib asked. “Where’s Commander Kensington? Where are the others?”

  Macie’s smile fell off her face. “Most of them are still in the castle,” she said, her voice strained. She drew up her bow again. “And some are behind you!”

  “I know,” Calib said, and was aware of Thomas shuffling farther back into the crowd, sweeping Rosy and Silas back with him.

  “But I promise,” Calib continued, “these are friendly ones. They have been hurt by the Saxon army and Morgan—er, the Manderlean—just as badly as us.”

  “Speaking of,” Cecily interrupted, “Macie, what happened? Is Maman all right?”

  Macie threw one last suspicious glance at the mishmash of animals behind Calib before looking at Cecily. “For now,” she said cautiously, “Viviana is hiding with some others in the caves. It all happened so quick!”

  “What did?” Leftie growled as he made his way to the front.

  “Leftie!” Macie cried. “Where? How?” But she seemed at a loss at what to say first. Finally, she seemed to settle on the most obvious truth. “I’m so glad you’re here!”

  Leftie tapped his paw on the ground. “I expected more precise reporting from Camelot’s chief scout,” he chided. “Report!”

  “Yes, sir.” Macie saluted with tail to forehead. “The invaders took the castle by surprise. We think that Morgan cast a sleeping spell that put all the sentries into a slumber, because she rode into the courtyard on a jet-black stallion with no one raising so much as a hiccup.” Macie shut her eyes briefly before continuing. “It wasn’t until she had King Arthur and Queen Guinevere at swordpoint that anyone realized what had happened. Commander Kensington is still trapped in the castle with most of the others, held hostage by Saxon weasels.”

  “And how did you escape?” Galahad asked, kneeling down into the dirt. To Calib’s surprise, Macie didn’t look the least bit startled when Galahad addressed her. Man and beast were getting better at conversing—at listening.

  “Commander Kensington and most of the mouse-knights were set upon in a similar way,” Macie said. “We were only able to get out because Warren knew about the secret tunnel leading out to the beach.”

  “I knew it!” Red said, stepping out from behind Galahad, who must have been translating for him. “I knew those passageways under Camelot had to lead to somewhere.”

  Before Calib could even blink, Macie had notched her arrow and let it fly loose.

  “Ow!” Red yelped as suddenly as the arrow dug into his calf. “You know, you animals are making it very hard to want to help you!”

  “You deserved it,” Cecily snapped while Macie quickly notched another arrow.

  “Peace, squirrel,” Leftie said. “That Two-Legger is helping us.”

  Surprised, Macie’s bow dipped slightly. “Isn’t that Mordred? Morgan’s son who just last season attacked King Arthur?”

  “Er, yes,” Calib said. “It’s a long story, but we trust him. For now. You keep saying ‘we’—who else is here?”

  Hesitantly, Macie lowered her bow all the way, but she still kept the arrow in her paw. “Follow me,” she said. “I’ll show you.”

  As silently as they could, the procession from the Iron Mountains wound themselves through the trees. Soon, Calib heard the sound of water, and a few minutes later, saw the river. Anchored near the tangled roots of a willow, there floated a rodent-sized ship with black sails.

  Galahad moved his hand to Excalibur, but Calib immediately recognized the ship as The Salty Pup—the very same vessel that had taken them to Avalon. At that moment, the head of a plump mouse popped up over the prow of the ship.

  “My friends! At last!” Barnaby’s face lit up in a gigantic grin, and a few minutes later, the brown mouse was joined on deck by even more familiar faces: Warren, Devrin, Sir Alric, and Dandelion.

  “Admiral Barnaby,” Macie called out, “permission to board?”

  “Granted!”

  “Oh, so you’re an admiral now!” Ginny teased once they’d clambered on deck. “I must have missed that!”

  “Ginny!” Barnaby cried, his whiskers curling in delight. “Your letters stopped coming! I thought the worst had happened!”

  Ginny ran up and planted a big kiss on his snout. “Well, it wasn’t great, I’ll tell you that.”

  Suddenly conscious of everyone watching, Barnaby quickly composed himself.

  “Er, yes, Tristan decided he wanted to settle on some island he found far north of here. He’s given The Salty Pup to me to run for those of his crew uninterested in farming.”

  The crew of The Salty Pup was hurrying around, handing out blankets and hanging up extra bunks for the unexpected number of guests. The larger animals, like the foxes and badgers, were handed spare sails to wrap themselves in as they settled along the grassy banks. Leftie organized the older animals into sentry shifts.

  “How did you get here so fast, Barnaby?” Cecily asked. She was sitting comfortably between Devrin and Dandelion, and she had wrapped her arm around Dandelion, who couldn’t seem to stop trembling. Warren stood stiffly to the side on account of a bandaged tail.

  Barnaby walked over and handed each of them a piece of hardtack. “After Ginny’s messages stopped arriving at my ports of call, I began to get worried. So I sailed back as quick as I could. We arrived just as the Saxons had broken through the main castle gate. I managed to smuggle everyone I could out through the secret tunnel that leads to the beach.”

  With an eye on the shivering Dandelion, Calib leaned over and whispered into Barnaby’s ear, “What happened to her?”

  Barnaby shook his head, eyes sad. “She’s been like that ever since we got word of Morgan’s plan.”

  “The Saxons will execute King Arthur and Queen Guinevere in the morning.”

  “We have to stop them!” Calib cried out.

  “Yes,” Cecily said grimly. “We need a war council.”

  CHAPTER

  41

  While Galahad and Red snuck their way into town to find anyone who might be able and willing to help, the allied animals of Camelot, the Darkling Woods, the Iron Mountains, and Saxony were hard at work executing the plan decided on by the war council.

  Squirrels hacked away at the willow branches that lined Rickonback River. Hares hopped along the ground, gathering fallen branches, while mice and weasels lashed them together with vines braided by the shrews.

  Calib hoped his idea would work.

  Taking a break from building, Calib grabbed a walnut shell to fetch water for the other thirsty creatures. The mouse walked until the sounds of the camp faded away. He let the burbling of Rickonback River quiet his thoughts down to just one:

  This was where his father died.

  Your heroes are not the perfect mice you think they are! Sir Percival’s accusations lashed out from the past like a mental barb. Calib closed his eyes and tried to banish the memory. He leaned over to splash water from the river on his snout, as if that might wash away Percival’s influence.

  The vole was a known liar. Nothing he said could be trusted. However, Calib simply did not know enough about the circumstances concerning Sir Trenton’s death to have a defense.

  Perhaps that’s why he had walked all the way here to the river—to look for any evidence he could use to prove his father’s honor.

  He looked at his reflection in the water. For a moment, he could almost see the ghost of the mouse he only knew from a tapestry.

  He remembered what Red had said back on the mountain.

  What is a mi
rror but a reflection that can be turned into a portal?

  A cool tingle traveled down Calib’s spine. All along, Merlin had ensured that any Two-Legger treasure could not be attained without the cooperation of the woodland folk, be they from the Darkling Woods or Camelot. Merlin’s Crystal unlocked Excalibur. Perhaps Merlin’s Mirror unlocked something else?

  Leaving the quiet of the river, he quickly ran back to camp to find Leftie assisting Rosy and Silas with their painting.

  “I’m not quite sure I understand what you’re getting at,” the wildcat grunted as he pulled out the mirror for Calib. The Darkling leader now carried the mirror by him at all times. He was determined not to lose it again.

  “I think the mirror isn’t just for fortune-telling.” Calib unfurled the scroll that read “Merlin’s Last Quest.” The runes were still as mysterious as ever. “I think it might be a portal, too—one that only a creature of small size can go through. It just has to reflect the correct object.”

  Calib tilted the mirror toward the page and looked at its reflection. At first, nothing happened. He felt foolish. He thought for sure he had figured out what Merlin’s secret was.

  But then suddenly, the parchment in the mirror swirled, and words began to appear like a running river of blue on the scroll. Too fast to read. Calib realized that everything had ceased to move around him. The scene reflecting in the mirror was not a blank page, but a full and vibrant valley, with a mouse that looked very much like an older version of Calib.

  This mouse was trying to say something to them.

  Calib leaned in to listen, but as his snout touched the glass surface, he was pulled into the mirror.

  “We should camp here for the night. The water at Rickonback is fresh and clean. It will be our last chance to replenish before entering Fellwater Swamps.”

  Calib knew this voice, even though he had no true memory of hearing it before. He recognized it as clear as his own, having spent many years wondering how this voice might sound in his ears. As his vision cleared, Calib’s ribs tightened like a screw.

  Before him crouched a tall, proud-looking mouse-knight with tawny fur and kind eyes. A white patch of fur marked his right ear. He wore colors of rich burgundy and gold, all hidden underneath a green cloak camouflaged with leaves.

  “Father?” Calib’s voice came out like a croak.

  Sir Trenton sniffed the air, as if sensing a change in the winds, but he did not see Calib, who stood a mere arm’s length away.

  “Owen, would you mind checking the wheels? I think some mud might be stuck in the axel from when we forded the river.”

  Calib turned, and he was surprised to see a burly black mouse emerge from the banks of the river. He knew Sir Owen as a grizzled old soldier with only one whisker, which he groomed meticulously. And yet, here he was, sporting the biggest cluster of fine hairs that Calib had ever seen on a mouse. It was practically a Two-Legger beard.

  Was he in a memory or a vision? Calib could not tell. Or perhaps he had traveled back in time?

  “Hello! Father!” Calib jumped up and down and waved his paws in front of Sir Trenton’s face. But he was invisible to the knight. Sir Trenton walked right through Calib, sending a jolt of emotions through the mouse. Calib sensed that his father was worried and upset about something.

  Calib followed his father and Sir Owen as they walked past at least twenty soldiers setting up camp along Rickonback. They were all guarding a small wagon covered by a canvas tarp. Calib didn’t even have to look; he knew what was underneath it the moment Trenton walked through him: The Grail was strapped down inside the wagon.

  Sir Trenton and Sir Owen set to cleaning the mud off the wheels so the wagon would roll more smoothly.

  “Trenton!” Another familiar voice reached Calib’s ears, but this one filled him with venom. “I’ve scouted ahead. We’re all clear for the next few leagues. No Darklings to be found.”

  Calib’s blood ran hot as a young Percival Vole emerged from the far side of the wooded clearing. The vole was less portly, and when he smiled toothily, Calib saw that he still had most of his teeth.

  “Thank you, Percy!” Trenton waved and smiled back. “Please make a note of your scouting in the commander’s log.”

  Percival saluted and retreated to the largest tent set up by the river.

  “Commander Yvers wanted this delivered to General Thaddeus for safekeeping by nightfall,” Sir Owen whispered under his breath, patting the top of the wagon reverently. “Are you sure we should camp overnight?”

  “The owls will meet us here tonight and carry it back by air,” Sir Trenton said in a voice barely above a whisper.

  Sir Owen looked confused. “But you just sent Percival on a scouting trip. . . .”

  “I know what I told Percy,” Sir Trenton said. “And there’s a reason for that which I will not speak of here.”

  Calib’s jaw fell open. His father had suspected Percival Vole was a traitor from the beginning! But then why did he never tell anyone? The answer came quickly: because he would never get the chance to tell anyone. This must be Sir Trenton’s last day—the day of the Battle of Rickon-back River.

  Calib’s eyes smarted from unshed tears, and his throat closed up. He felt sorrow from deep inside his gut. Still, he forced himself to watch Percival disappear into the tent, and he followed him as he snuck back into the woods to leave a note in a trunk.

  Calib read over Percival’s shoulder: Grail is in the wagon. Remember to wear the Darkling colors.

  Calib balled his paws into fists. So Howell was telling the truth after all. Sir Trenton was never murdered by Darklings, as the stories said. It had been the Saxons all along, tipped off by Sir Percival. The entire Darkling war of his grandfather’s was based on a lie. The Saxons had tricked both sides into thinking the worst of the other. They had spent years fighting for no reason.

  Time sped forward, and the sunlight fell away like a dying candle. Calib could see the Saxons slipping silently forward out of the darkness as the moon hung low in the sky. With a wild whoop that mimicked Leftie’s war cries, the Saxon raiders fell upon the group, taking many of the knights by surprise.

  Trenton and his knights fought viciously on the banks of the river. Sirs Owen and Trenton stood back-to-back in a way that reminded Calib of fighting alongside Warren or Cecily. He couldn’t stand to watch, knowing that at any moment, an arrow or a sword slash would kill his father.

  He couldn’t look away, either.

  Trenton kept casting desperate glances up at the sky. The owls had not arrived yet. The Saxon raiding party outnumbered them five to one. A number of them had fought their way to the wagon.

  Sir Trenton and Sir Owen rushed forward to wrest the treasure out of their grasps.

  The Grail fell out of the wagon and cracked on the rocks of the river.

  Bending down, Trenton placed a paw on the Grail and muttered something Calib could not quite catch above the din of shouts and clanging metal. The Grail suddenly began to glow.

  “What are you doing?” cried Sir Owen. His snout was bloody, and most of his whiskers were now missing.

  “Send my love to Clara,” Trenton said apologetically to his friend. “Tell her I’m sorry, but I know she is strong. And give this to Calib when he is ready.”

  Trenton handed Sir Owen his sword, the one called Darkslayer. The same one that Kensington had eventually given to Calib before he went questing for Avalon. And the same one that Calib sacrificed to the lake to learn the cure for Camelot.

  The golden light of the Grail grew blinding, and it consumed Trenton in that instant in a bright wall of illumination. The Grail’s light then shot up into the night sky, and in an arc, poured onto the remaining ten Camelot knights still standing, including Sir Owen.

  Golden armor formed around their bodies, and they suddenly moved with increased energy and speed. Calib’s eyes widened at this transformation.

  Sir Owen fought as if he were not one creature, but twenty—fighting off the Saxon attackers wit
h two swords in his paws, his own and Sir Trenton’s.

  Calib rubbed his eyes. The power demonstrated here by the Grail was so much more than what Morgan and Galahad had been able to achieve. Compared to his father’s army, Morgan’s feat was a mere parlor trick. What could be making the difference?

  The harsh screech of owls broke through the noise of battle. Calib looked up to see a cluster of wingspans blotting out the moon. General Thaddeus and his owl regiment had finally arrived. A number of his group began dive-bombing from the sky, hacking and slashing with their claws.

  The Saxons booked a hasty retreat to the cover of darkness. One of them pocketed the piece of the Grail that had broken off. Calib knew that would be the piece that Morgan would eventually fashion into a cursed ring, corrupting its magic to spread the mysterious white fever to Camelot.

  “Our plans have been betrayed. The owls cannot harbor this treasure. Take the Grail back to Camelot, and tell Merlin and Yvers—” Thaddeus looked around for Sir Trenton. “Where is Trenton?”

  Calib was stunned by what he had just witnessed. His father had not been killed. He had willingly sacrificed himself to activate the Grail’s powers.

  The Grail did not just require a sacrifice—it required self-sacrifice.

  Which meant Morgan didn’t know how to unlock the Grail after all; she assumed she could it operate it out of greed. Like Britta had said, her fundamental misunderstanding of magic was that she assumed you must take from others to create your own. Little did Morgan know the opposite was true: to power the Grail—the most powerful magical artifact of all—you had to give it something of yourself.

  “Now you know.”

  Calib turned, sure that the voice must be addressing someone else.

  A white wolf stood among the trees, looking straight at him with one green eye and one blue eye. Merlin. Howell. One and the same.

  “You can see me?” Calib said.

  “As sure as you can see me,” Howell replied. “In a way, this is just an echo I’ve left of myself in this memory, in case it was ever needed.”