A Tail of Camelot (7 page)

T
he pair arrived at the mouth of another beach cave, this one hidden underneath a large flat rock. The opening was much smaller than Howell's—just large enough for the wolf to pass through.

“Mind your ears, young master,” Howell said as they traveled up the gently inclined tunnel.

“Where are we?” Calib asked, sliding down to Howell's shoulders to avoid bumping his head against the ceiling.

“These caves extend farther inland than you would expect. And this particular tunnel will lead you right beneath the castle,” the wolf replied. “You know your
way around the cellars, I suspect.”

“Yes,” Calib said, “but I've never seen a way to get in or out of them except for the stairs.”

“Ah, and I doubt anyone has ever looked,” Howell said. “This path was laid by someone who took great pains to keep it hidden. Unless you know what you are looking for, its entrance will remain concealed.”

“Who was this person?” Calib asked.

“A foolish old man who can no longer walk the earth,” Howell said. He seemed eager to change the subject. “But tell me, how was the harvest this year?”

The wolf asked many more questions about Camelot. Calib answered as best as he could. After some time, they arrived at what looked like a solid stone wall.

Howell listened intently for a few seconds before pushing the flagstone loose with his front paws. As they squeezed through to the other side, Calib saw that they were in the wine cellar.

“How can I ever thank you?” Calib whispered as he slid off Howell's nose and onto the dirt-packed ground.

“By seeking the truth behind your grandfather's death,” Howell said. “Somebody is weaving lies, for another war with the Darklings will bring only pain, death, and no justice.” His extraordinary eyes seemed to be flooded with secret meaning. “It
will
take much courage to ask the right questions.”

Calib looked down at his paws.

“I'm wrong for this quest. I'm not very courageous at all.”

“I would think differently of a mouse who has just ridden a wolf,” Howell said, smiling. “There can be great power even in the smallest warriors.”

Calib looked up to protest, but the wolf had disappeared, slipping away silently into the darkness. No ordinary wolf indeed.

Calib scampered along the base of the cellar wall to the nearest set of stairs that would lead back into the Two-Legger kitchen. By now, the mice would have finished their suppers, and everyone would have known he was missing. But Calib wasn't concerned. Once he told them where he had been, and what he had discovered, they would understand. He picked up his pace.

The kitchen looked empty. Calib sniffed the air, stepping cautiously inside. Suddenly, a paw reached out of the shadows and grabbed the back of Calib's hood.

“Well, well, if it isn't the deserter,” Warren drawled. “I pegged you as a turncoat, but I guess you're just dumber than you look.”

He set Calib down and gave him a little shove. “We better report to the council room this instant. Macie sent scouts out looking for you. Thought you were kidnapped by Darklings. Sir Kensington is going to flay you alive with your own tail!”

But Calib stood his ground. He crossed his arms, wishing he were at least a half inch taller.

“Funny you mention being a traitor when
you're
the one who's been lying to everyone,” Calib said.

Warren gaped at him. For a second, he said nothing.

“What are you talking about?” he finally asked.

“The assassin's tail couldn't have brushed by you. You were in the champions' circle on the other side of the arena.”

For once, Warren didn't have a good comeback. His face pinched with a shadow of worry.

“Oh yeah?” Warren shoved his nose directly into Calib's. “If you're so sure about that, why haven't you told anyone?” Warren gave Calib a hard push, and Calib stumbled backward. “You're too scared, that's why! And you're going to get your hide shaved off for breaking the rules.”

But Calib had seen Warren's face and knew that his instincts were right: Warren had lied.

Warren marched Calib to the council room, where all the knights stood clustered around a large map of Camelot and its surrounding areas. Search zones were already marked on it. Barnaby sat sniffling in the corner, his arm in an improvised sling made of cheesecloth.

“Look who I found lurking around in the kitchens, hunting for a snack!” announced Warren, shoving Calib forward.

“Calib Christopher!” Sir Owen jumped up, his voice full of relief. “Where were you off to, lad?”

“I went to the beach to bring shells for the arrowheads,” Calib said quietly. He held out the rucksack half filled with clamshells. His original quest now sounded foolish, even to his ears. Had he really believed a few broken shells would make him a hero?

“Och, I take full responsibility, sirs!” Macie came forward, waving her paws. “Calib only wanted to get the shells as a favor to me.” She discreetly took the bag from Calib.

“I won't forget this, mate,” she whispered.

Calib's attention turned to Barnaby, who was still whimpering quietly. “What happened?”

“The cobbler threw a shoe at me!” the mouse retorted, sticking out his bottom lip. “Because
someone
wasn't there to be my lookout!”

Annoyance prickled Calib like a boar-bristle brush through his fur. Everyone knew Old Cobbler Hamish had bad eyes. Only Barnaby would let himself get caught in the open.

“What do you have to say for yourself, Calib?” Sir Kensington crossed her arms, waiting for an answer.

Calib thought about Warren's words and what Howell had said before he left. Calib needed to tell the truth.

“I'm sorry Barnaby got hit by a shoe, but I have very important news.” Calib sucked in a deep breath. “Two-Bits is
innocent
. The night Commander Yvers was attacked, I
saw the paw prints leading away from Grandfather. They were far too big to belong to a squirrel. They had
claws
. And Howell agreed it couldn't have been Two-Bits who murdered Commander Yvers,” he added in a rush. “And he said the Darklings didn't murder my father.”

“Howell?” Sir Owen looked confused. “Who is Howell?”

Too late, Calib realized he'd said too much. But now that he'd mentioned Howell, he didn't see how he could weasel out of telling the whole truth. “He's . . . Well, you see . . . he was this wolf I met on the beach. A big white one . . .”

“You
spoke with a wolf
?” Macie's eyes nearly popped out of her head.

“He wasn't just any wolf,” Calib said quickly. “His name is Howell, and he said he knew my father, Sir Trenton.”

“I don't care if his name was Humdinger the Fourth!” Sir Owen shouted. “Wolves are our natural enemies! They cannot be trusted!”

Sir Percival shook his head and tsked. “Calm yourself, Sir Owen. The poor thing is obviously hallucinating. Grief from losing his grandfather has driven him out of his mind.”

“But you don't understand,” Calib began, his voice squeaky with desperation. “The Sword in the Stone has returned!”

A dumbfounded silence filled the room. Sir Owen found his voice first.

“Making things up won't get you out of trouble, laddie.” He tugged his one whisker and gave Calib a stern look. “I thought I had taught you better than that!”

“But I—”

“You're a page, Calib.” Sir Kensington stepped in. There was a cold finality to her tone that Calib dared not contradict. “And more than that, you are a Christopher. If you can't set an example for Camelot, who will?”

Anger rose in Calib's chest. “But I was only trying to help.”

“You abandoned one of your own, Calib. Barnaby got hit by a shoe!”

“Wasn't a house slipper, either, but a thumpin' boot!” Barnaby added.

“And were you dancing a jig two inches from his nose?” Calib shot back hotly. “Because I don't see how else you could possibly—”

The council door suddenly swung open, slamming into the wall with a bang. One of Macie's forest scouts burst into the room. Still dressed in his leaf-colored camouflage, the tall squirrel was breathless and panting from excitement.

“Reporting from . . . the search party, ma'am!” he gasped, saluting Macie quickly.

“We've just . . . captured . . . a Darkling crow stealing from the gardens!”

C
alib watched open-mouthed as four squirrels marched into the council room. Together, they had a young female crow pinned between them. Her wings were restrained with a chain made from a broken Two-Legger necklace. Her pitch-black feathers were dull and indistinguishable from her threadbare cloak of the same color.

Calib felt sorry for her, thief or not.

“My name is Valentina Stormbeak,” she said with a slight squawk in her accent. “I'm a messenger for the Darkling nests. I take sole responsibility for my actions. I
was only hoping to borrow enough food for my trip home. I'm just so hungry.”

“Quiet,” said Sir Kensington as alarmed whispers rose up from the Round Table. Macie looked devastated.

“We found this in her possession.” The scout handed Sir Kensington a torn piece of parchment. The mouse took it and read the message out loud.

“‘There is strength in numbers. Join your fellow Darkling crows in a fortnight in the Slate Rocks at the foothills of the Iron Mountains . . . ,'” Kensington trailed off, and her face clouded over. Calib twitched his ears—the Slate Rocks were where Leftie the lynx made his lair.

Sir Owen, who had been peering over Kensington's shoulder, snatched the parchment out of her paws. He held the paper out for everyone to see. A large paw print was stamped at the bottom of it, identical to the one on the treaty.

“Leftie's paw print!” he exclaimed. “I knew it!”

“What more evidence do we need?” shouted Sir Percival. “They're building up an army against us!”

“What is the meaning of this, crow?” Sir Kensington demanded.

“Our stores have been raided clean. The crow clans need shelter and protection this winter,” Valentina said, desperation in her voice. “Leftie was only offering that and nothing else. Please, I must relay this message back to my
people, or we will starve!”

“Oh yes,” Sir Owen interjected. “I remember now. We sheltered some of your kind once. As I recall, you turned on us the minute the rest of the Darklings emerged from the woods!”

“You wanted the truth, did you not?” Valentina sounded close to tears. “We would not seek war at a time like this, when we have had nothing to eat for days!”

“And you'll get not a crumb from us!” Sir Owen shouted, pulling his last whisker taut. “Not until you tell us the truth about the Darkling plot!”

“There
is
no plot!” Valentina insisted. “Where is Commander Yvers? I wish to address myself to him.”

His grandfather's name pricked Calib's heart like a bee sting.

Sir Owen crumpled Valentina's message and threw it away. “Don't you dare speak his name. You lot know well enough where the commander is. You
murdered
him!”

Valetina's beak dropped open in surprise. “Commander Yvers has been murdered?”

“Assassinated in cold blood during our Harvest Tournament,” Sir Kensington said, sounding a good deal calmer than Sir Owen but no less dangerous. “I am Sir Kensington Knaps, the acting commander now.”

“Whatever bad blood lies between our kinds, Sir Kensington, I assure you, we did not have anything to
do with this!” Valentina squawked. “We Darklings are hungry, but we're not killers! We are being framed!”

Hope fluttered in Calib's stomach. Perhaps Kensington and Owen would believe his story now. He studied the bird's coal-black eyes. He didn't
think
the crow was lying.

“I will tolerate no more lies from this birdbrained murderer!” roared Sir Owen. In his fury, he drew his sword. “The Darklings must answer for Commander Yvers!”

“You can't!” Calib shouted. Without thinking, he stepped forward, blocking Sir Owen's path to the crow. In the same instant, Sir Kensington drew her own broadsword. She blocked Sir Owen's with a clang. Calib's heart pounded as he stood still under the gleaming arch made by his teachers' swords.

“Stay your paw, Sir Owen,” Sir Kensington said between clenched teeth. Her voice was barely above a whisper, yet it seemed to chill the entire room. “This is not what Yvers would have wanted. We will have the prisoner taken to the cellar dungeon,
with
food, and we will question her again when emotions are not so high.”

Surprised at the rebuke, Sir Owen sheathed his sword, but not before giving Valentina one last scowl.

“As you say, Kensington.” The black mouse marched to his seat and drank deeply from his flask of elderberry wine.

Sir Kensington turned to Calib, whose legs suddenly felt like wet noodles. Calib couldn't believe he had just stood up to Sir Owen—one of the most fearsome mouse-knights of Camelot.

“As for you, Calib Christopher, you are relegated to kitchen duty starting this evening. You will no longer be part of the war effort and are relieved of your page duties for the time being.”

Calib felt like someone had gutted him from the inside. “But—”

“We all made a promise to your father a long time ago that we would look after you like one of our own babes,” Sir Kensington continued. “This is as much for your own good as it is a punishment. You have shown that you are not ready to defend Camelot.”

Calib opened his mouth to protest.

“No,”
Kensington said, holding up a paw before he could get another word out. “No more excuses. We're done here. To the kitchen this instant.”