Julie Leung - Mice of the Round Table #1: A Tail of Camelot

M acie 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 Camelots borders. The owls 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 winds 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 owls 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 churchs 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.

T he 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 dont get sprayed! Remember: dont 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 Devrins 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 Camelots 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 couldnt imagine anything more glorious than becoming a knight himself and following in his grandfathers and fathers 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 elses 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.

Dont close your eyes! You want to see where youre aiming your blocks!

Glancing away from Barnabys awkward parries, Cecily noticed Calib watching.

Morning, Calib! She smiled and gave a wave across the arena. Hows 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 entangled by a bolaa 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 Calibs life at Camelot extra difficult. Warren had been especially grating since hed entered himself into the Harvest Tournament. For the past few months, he hadnt let anyone forget it. Today, he was already dressed in his newly stitched tournament robes.

I wasnt staring, Calib protested, dusting himself off. He glanced over to make sure Cecily hadnt overheard. Luckily, her attention had turned back to Barnaby. I was just taking a break.