A Tail of Camelot Read online

  DEDICATION

  For Kyle:

  I’ll have you, Longshanks.

  EPIGRAPH

  We lived in a land destined to become myth. Powers walked the realm in those days, forces which are now gone from the earth. How or why, I cannot say. But you know that it is true.

  —Roger Zelazny, The Last Defender of Camelot

  CONTENTS

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Credits

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  PROLOGUE

  Macie Cornwall leaped from one tree branch to the next, keeping a wary eye on the winged shadow as it moved closer to the open fields that marked Camelot’s borders. The owl’s wingspan nearly blotted out the sun as the bird passed overhead. The young squirrel narrowed her eyes.

  The Darkling Woods possessed secret ways of warning. To those who knew how to listen, they had many important things to tell. Macie knew this better than most. For as long as she had patrolled the forest, she had been able to decipher its language. Her da, who patrolled as head scout before her, had taught her well.

  The low chirping from the crickets meant a long, frigid winter ahead. The thickness of moss on the rowan trees predicted the inches of the first snowfall. Too many speckled moths meant a slim harvest. The creatures that called these green wilds home existed in a delicate balance. If something disturbed the order, there were signs all around.

  When she reached the highest bough on a giant elm, Macie found the vantage point she needed. Her ear tufts twitched as she gauged the wind’s direction. She retrieved an arrow from her quiver and notched it into her reed bow. Setting the bow against her arm bracer and pulling the string taut, Macie lined up a warning shot to whizz past the horned owl’s left ear.

  “Too close to home, birdbrain,” she whispered.

  Before she could release the arrow, the owl was joined in the air by a fledgling brood. There were three in all; the owlets were just shedding the fluff of their nest days. Flying shakily, they followed their mother as she banked to the south, away from Camelot and toward the ruins of St. Gertrude. The top of the church’s blackened steeple peeked above the trees.

  Macie exhaled and lowered her bow, wiping the sweat from her paws. She was relieved to have avoided a confrontation. But a larger worry had wormed into her heart.

  This was the third owl flock she had seen take flight at midday in the past month. And the Owls of Fellwater Swamps did not venture outside their territory without good reason, especially not during the day.

  It was an omen of great change. Macie did not know what exactly it foretold; she only knew that she did not like it.

  CHAPTER

  1

  The red hawthorn berry flew at Calib Christopher faster than he could dodge it. Swallowing back a squeak, the mouse gripped the wooden toothpick tighter in his paws and swung down as hard as he could.

  Thwack!

  Calib struck the berry mere inches away from his snout. It broke in half, splattering his face with sticky pulp. Breathing heavily, Calib wiped the gunk off his whiskers. He scowled in the direction of the tall brown mouse stationed behind the slingshot.

  “Top form, Calib!” Devrin Savortooth cheered. She picked up another berry and readied it in the sling. “Now, try leaning sideways from your strike so you don’t get sprayed! Remember: don’t overthink it!”

  Calib shook his head. Five heart-pummeling rounds against the Hurler were more than enough for one morning, and Devrin was launching the targets faster than usual.

  “Hold your whiskers!” he yelled back. He dropped his practice sword and raised his paws. “I need to wash off!”

  He walked to the edge of the training ground, which was nestled in a weedy corner of the castle garden. Wetting his paws with dewdrops that had collected on a turnip leaf, he did his best to clean the sticky juice from his fur.

  Calib breathed in the late autumn smells of crisp leaves and woodsmoke. The air hummed with excitement as the mice of Camelot made their final preparations for the Harvest Tournament. The bustling was a welcome break from a somber harvest season, full of rumors of possible Darkling attacks. But in the end, the wheat and barley had been collected without any trouble. It was time to celebrate.

  This year would be Devrin’s first time attempting the three Harvest Tournament challenges to prove her bravery, strength, and wisdom. If she passed, she could begin her career as a squire, go on adventures beyond Camelot’s borders, and eventually become a knight.

  As an adopted daughter of Camelot, Devrin was eager to prove her worth. She was an orphan, having lost her parents when she was only two years old during the Great War between the creatures of the castle and the creatures of the nearby Darkling Woods. Now ending her third year as a page, Devrin was ready to do her part to defend Camelot.

  Calib understood. He couldn’t imagine anything more glorious than becoming a knight himself and following in his grandfather’s and father’s pawsteps to protect their home. Though the Great War had ended ten years ago with a peace treaty between Camelot and the Darkling Woods, there was still deep mistrust. Rumors of restless and raiding Darklings grew each year. It was more important than ever to stay vigilant. Even though Calib was only a second-year page, he also wanted to do his part to be prepared.

  He just wished Devrin would channel her excitement into someone else’s drills.

  Calib eyed the other pages going through their morning exercises. To his left, a timid brown mouse named Barnaby Twill slashed blindly at the air with his wooden sword. Coaching him was a sprightly tan mouse with white fur trimming her ears and tail. She wore a chain-mail tunic over her smock. Calib felt a tangle of envy and admiration at the sight of Cecily von Mandrake. The best swordsmouse of all the pages, she patiently gave pointers as she sparred with Barnaby.

  “Don’t close your eyes! You want to see where you’re aiming your blocks!”

  Glancing away from Barnaby’s awkward parries, Cecily noticed Calib watching.

  “Morning, Calib!” She smiled and gave a wave across the arena. “How’s the Hurler this morning?”

  “Hi, Ceci,” Calib croaked back.

  He was debating whether she really wanted to know about the Hurler or whether she was just being polite, when something coiled tightly around his legs. Off balance, Calib toppled onto all fours in the dirt. He looked down and found his footpaws ent
angled by a bola—a length of rope with a pebble tied to each end. When thrown, it was meant to trip an unsuspecting target from behind. Calib twisted around and saw Warren Clipping sauntering toward him.

  “Sorry about that!” Warren said, barely containing a smug smile. “You were staring for so long I mistook you for a target dummy.”

  The gray-furred menace had always made Calib’s life at Camelot extra difficult. Warren had been especially grating since he’d entered himself into the Harvest Tournament. For the past few months, he hadn’t let anyone forget it. Today, he was already dressed in his newly stitched tournament robes.

  “I wasn’t staring,” Calib protested, dusting himself off. He glanced over to make sure Cecily hadn’t overheard. Luckily, her attention had turned back to Barnaby. “I was just taking a break.”

  “A break from the berries?” Warren scoffed. “I thought berries were only for first years. I stopped using them a full year ago.”

  Calib’s face turned hot under his whiskers. Warren’s insults always managed to find their targets. Truth was, Calib dreaded the prospect of facing the harder seeds and nuts. Missing them meant being covered in bruises instead of berry juice.

  “As a matter of fact, I was just about to move on to the acorns,” Calib said. “If you’ll excuse me.”

  He brushed past Warren and marched back to his place before the Hurler. Picking up his wooden sword, Calib gave a few practice swings as a show of confidence.

  “Bring on the acorns!” he called to Devrin, hoping he sounded more fearless than he felt.

  “Feeling bold, are we?” Devrin said good-naturedly as she grabbed an acorn to set in the Hurler. “All right, here comes the first one!”

  Calib’s stomach clenched as Devrin began pulling the acorn tight against the sling, stretching the fabric to its very limits.

  “Uh, Devrin, are you sure you need to—”

  The acorn shot across the field. For Calib, the world seemed to slow to a crawl. His muscles froze; his mind went blank. As the nut barreled straight for Calib’s head, he had only one thought: This is going to hurt.

  The next thing Calib saw were white clouds swimming into focus above him. The left side of his snout blossomed with throbbing pain, and his eyes smarted with tears. The acorn had knocked him flat on his back.

  “Rat whiskers! Are you all right, Cal?” Devrin yelled.

  Calib blinked to stop the sky from spinning and then slowly sat up. Everyone in the training ground had stopped to stare. Cecily had one paw to her mouth. And Warren was nearly doubled over laughing.

  Barnaby ran up to Calib’s side and offered to help him up.

  “Got bonked pretty good there,” he observed.

  “I’m fine! I’m fine!” Calib shooed Barnaby’s outstretched paw away like a bothersome fly. He stood up on his own. Woozy and disoriented, he touched his jaw tenderly. Luckily, nothing seemed broken.

  “At this rate, Barnaby will be made a squire before you, and he can’t even parry without closing his eyes!” Warren jeered. Calib’s ears boiled with embarrassment.

  Before he could respond, a hawthorn berry smashed into Warren’s side. It left a smear of pulp along the length of his new clothes.

  “Oops!” Devrin called out, smirking. “My paw must have slipped.”

  Warren turned as red as the juice stains. He opened his mouth to say something when a brusque voice barked out across the arena.

  “At attention, pages!”

  Sir Owen Onewhisker entered the far side of the grounds, dressed in a hauberk—a shirt of chain-mail. The burly black mouse was Camelot’s fiercest hand-to-hand swordsmouse. He had lost most of his whiskers in a duel with a ferret, but he kept his single remaining one oiled and groomed.

  Calib and the rest of the mice rushed to form a line in front of him, saluting with their tails.

  “I take it you all know the importance of tonight,” Sir Owen said in a gruff tone. As the mouse responsible for combat training, he was known to be hard but fair. “This evening, three of you ratscallions will be given a chance to prove your qualities and become Camelot squires.”

  Mice wishing to compete in the Harvest Tournament had signed up months ago by slipping their names into a locked box outside Sir Owen’s workroom. But aside from Devrin and Warren, Calib knew of no other mouse who had declared intentions to participate that year.

  While anyone—from the field mice to the kitchen mice—could enter the tournament, most who participated were trained for three years as a page first. Devrin and Warren were the only third-year pages that year.

  Calib and the others looked around, wondering who the mystery third contestant might be. Was it Cecily? Calib felt a nibble of jealousy at the possibility.

  “It is now your turn to protect Camelot for future generations. There are creatures out there who would like nothing more than to see this castle fall. Remember, the Darklings were merely driven back—not defeated—in the Great War. If they ever attack again, we must be ready.”

  Camelot was always at odds with the loose network of woodland tribes—black squirrels, crows, clever hares, and their ilk. Wild in nature, they refused to rely on Two-Leggers for anything. Of course, when food ran scarce in the forest, their attention turned to their better-fed neighbors. Bad blood festered between the Darklings and Camelot for generations, forcing every kind of creature to choose sides. Only the Owls of the Fellwater Swamps remained neutral.

  Many years ago, before Calib was born, the Darkling raids were a common menace. Camelot had been forced to retaliate, beginning a long and costly war—the Great War. It was Calib’s father, Sir Trenton, who managed to beat the Darklings back in their final siege of the castle. And it was Calib’s grandfather Commander Yvers who forced Leftie the lynx to sign a peace treaty. The Darklings were banned from ever crossing Rickonback River. Leftie Wildfang and his allies retreated to his lair east of the forest, in the foothills of the Iron Mountains.

  Sir Owen Onewhisker scanned the row of pages with a shrewd eye. “We live in peace and plenty because of the sacrifices made by mouse-warriors who came before you.”

  Calib straightened his shoulders as he thought of his father.

  “After your morning chores, each contestant will report to the armory to have your armor fitted and inspected,” Sir Owen said, unrolling a scroll of parchment. “And now, for our contestants.

  “Warren Clipping!

  “Devrin Savortooth!”

  Warren and Devrin each stepped forward as Sir Owen called out their names.

  “And our final contender this year is . . . Calib Christopher!”

  CHAPTER

  2

  It was as if the acorn had smacked Calib in the head a second time. His jaw dropped open. Devrin gave his shoulder a friendly punch.

  “You little rat. You didn’t tell me you were competing!” she laughed.

  Calib’s throat went dry as bone. Who slipped my name into the box? he wondered, frantic. Devrin and Warren had been training for the tournament for months.

  The challenges were notoriously dangerous. Just two years ago, a page had burned off all his whiskers in the bravery challenge. And the year before that, poor Lars, the stable mouse, had lost his tail entirely. Worst of all, those who failed the Harvest Tournament didn’t get another chance to prove themselves as squires. They had to choose a different path—one that led to the kitchen with Madame von Mandrake, the fields with Farmer Chaff, or another trade entirely.

  “There must be a mistake,” Calib whispered to Devrin. “I—I didn’t sign up.”

  Devrin frowned. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean someone else must have entered my name. . . .” His eyes landed on Warren. The gray mouse smiled back at him, a thin leer that lit up his eyes with cruel amusement.

  Warren.

  As Sir Owen went over the rest of the day’s preparations, Calib was consumed with thoughts of revenge. He could cover Warren’s shield with kitchen grease so he couldn’t pick it up. Or glue his swor
d into its sheath. Or put spitfire peppers into his helmet.

  But none of these ideas could help him withdraw from the tournament without embarrassing the family name.

  As a Christopher, Calib had a lot to live up to. His grandfather was the great Commander Yvers Christopher, leader of all Camelot’s mice. Calib’s father, Sir Trenton Christopher, had been a war hero.

  “Are you paying attention, Calib?” Sir Owen’s voice cut through the mouse’s thoughts.

  Calib opened his mouth. Just say it, a tiny voice urged inside his head. Back out while you still can. Warren’s smirk was so large that the corner of his mouth was halfway up his snout. A hot spark of anger ignited in Calib. He wouldn’t let Warren make him look like a fool again!

  “Yes sir,” Calib lied. Warren gaped at him. Clearly, he had expected Calib to back out.

  “Good,” Sir Owen said. “Then you three are released from training early to attend your morning chores. After breakfast, you will show up at your designated times for your armor fittings. Don’t be late.”

  Calib was too stunned to speak. Before any of the other mice could question him and demand explanations he couldn’t provide, he turned and hurried to the tapestry hall, where his chores waited. Calib barely noticed where he was going along the way. He was too preoccupied with thoughts of Warren, the prank, and the tournament he would have to face.

  Calib followed a gutter path that cut across the castle gate. The secret passageways that ran throughout the castle were well known to him. They formed an intricate labyrinth from the stone foundations to the rafters, an invisible world where Camelot’s mice flourished. Just as he was nearly across the gate, he felt a rumble underneath his paws, like faraway thunder. He looked up just in time to see four horses trotting across the open drawbridge, heading straight for him.

  With a squeak of alarm, Calib dashed for the nearest cover he could find, climbing into an empty feeding trough. It wasn’t a perfect hiding spot, but at least now the horses wouldn’t trample him.

  Peeking over the lip of the trough, Calib watched the steeds pass, each carrying an armored Two-Legger on its back. They were warhorses, all muscle and power, draped in red-and-white silks that matched the Two-Leggers’ shields: three diagonal red stripes set against a white background.