IT BEGAN WITH a single bird, gliding over the winter fields, a small gray dove with strangeness in its flight, pursued by a silent shadow. Then two. Then many.

Cold dread seized Arthur’s chest. His back crawled like a wound infested by maggots. His brothers trembled. Birdsign.

“To ground!” came the cry from the infantry.

“Hold fast,” Alexander whispered. “Hold fast!” he cried, and Arthur cried with him. The King of Mice pulled themselves together and stood tall while around them their soldiers cowered in fear.

“Sires, to ground!” the piebald Snitter begged. The King’s guard had already begun digging a trench. Was he expected to lie down in it until the danger had passed? His mother never lay down. She fought. Like ice shattering on the surface of a pond, Arthur came awake. The numbness that had settled over him since their declaration of war had finally melted away. Hannibal was the fighter, but he was only one-seventh of their might. It would take all of them to win this war. Alexander, Charlemagne, Genghis, Roland, even Julius. They were each a part of one whole. The King of Boldavia. The King of Mice. He would not cower any longer.

“They are only birds,” Arthur said as an owl dove toward him. “We are hunters of men.” He pulled his sword. And felt his mother’s love.

But the piebald guards knew their duty. Snitter deftly pushed his sovereign leader into the freshly dug trench. He dove in after, covering Arthur and his brothers with his own small body. Over the piebald’s shoulder, mice dug in, their spears butted into the earth to form a crown of thorns to protect their King.

The owl screamed, a sound that could flay the fur off an honest mouse. Arthur smelt the chalky stench of owl feathers and droppings, the foul, hot breath of an entrail eater. The great yellow claws stretched down, only to be thwarted by the bristling spears.

One shaft broke. The rest held.

Angered, the owl screamed, and with a thunderous burst of wings, pulled up into the sky.

Around them, more birds came swarming from the north. The sun had set, and the scent of mice had risen in the wind, waking the night raptors. Above them, the enraged owl cut an arc across the heavens and swooped, skimming its claws across the stubbled field.

It was more than some mice could take. Three soldiers broke and ran, chased by the curses of their fellows. The great bird raked the deserters with its talons, tearing them to pieces. With a shrill cry, it rose into the sky again, its sharp gaze on the greatest prize. The largest mouse it had ever seen.

Within the circle, the King of Mice rose to his feet. “Release me!” his voices bellowed as one.

The mouse guard trembled and obeyed. They stepped back, spears to the sky, a sparse ring around their leader.

Hannibal hefted their sword. Arthur and his brothers looked into the yellow eyes of death.

And they struck with the force of seven kings.

The owl cried out as the sword pierced its breast. “Attack!” Arthur bellowed.

“Attack!” his brothers joined in.

The King’s guard sucked in their collective breaths. A mouse of Boldavia had stood alone against an owl, and won.

“To the King!” they cried, and struck in a rush of pride and fury. The owl fell beneath their weapons, their teeth, and their claws.

Rising above the fray, Arthur and his brothers watched their army attacked and harried from above. Here and there, a mouse was taken, screaming a high shrill death cry.

Arthur wanted to weep from exhaustion and fear, but his pride would not let him. Hannibal and Charlemagne wanted to continue to fight. But the remaining piebald guard was determined to keep their King alive.

“We’ve found a moleway, sire,” Snitter muttered into Arthur’s ear. “We can get Your Majesty underground. Half your soldiers are under way already. We’ll lose some, but save more. Come, sire. Let us flee before nightfall. We’ve no chance against more owls.”

“No!” Hannibal snarled. “We have our sword!”

A cold stillness surrounded Arthur, despite the flickering shadows from above, despite the owl-darkening skies. They had felled one raptor, it was true. And, following his lead, the rest of the army had brought down three more. But that was not the reason they had left Boldavia.

“Birds are not our quarry,” he reminded them. “We hunt men. Lead on, Snitter. Our mother must be avenged.”

Pressed close to the earth, hidden by dirt and winter wheat, Arthur and his guard made their way across the frost-chilled field. One of his guards was lost in the process, twenty-seven mice in all. But his army counted in the thousands. Nothing could stand in their way for long.