CHAPTER

12

In the hour since Galahad disappeared underwater, Calib felt as though he were the one holding his breath.

Neither Galahad nor Red had resurfaced. Perhaps an entrance lay below the lake. But anytime Calib so much as put a tail tip near the lake, a school of pikes swarmed to the surface, their terrible teeth gnashing every which way.

The mouse would have to find another way into the lair. Retreating deeper into the cave, Calib let his whiskers guide him.

To his dismay, Morgan had her lair well protected with not only magic wards but more conventional traps as well. As he ventured farther in, Calib saw that there were paths that led to false floors, giving way to pits full of sharp spikes. He tiptoed around stone columns where an accidental nudge might bring a pile of boulders onto unsuspecting heads.

Calib scampered on. Had Galahad not granted him his magical whiskers, he would have already walked into a trap. As ugly as they were, he had to admit they were a huge improvement over his previous ones.

Perhaps when they got back to Camelot, Galahad could heal Valentina as well. Calib thought how his crow friend might enjoy magical wings that could help her fly as fast as a storm worthy of her name, Valentina Stormbeak. Guilt lingered in his heart. Magical wings were the least he could do for his crow friend.

The mouse closed his eyes and tried to discern where to go next. He wanted to go where the sensation of magic was strongest, for that would most likely lead to the Grail—and to Cecily. He picked up his pace, following the undertow of magic deeper and deeper into the cave.

Gradually, Calib noticed that the height of the tunnel was shrinking, becoming as large as the opening leading to the Goldenwood Hall. The darkness seemed to retreat, and glowing blue lights began to dot the empty sconces on the corridor’s walls.

This was the same light Calib had seen in Merlin’s Cave near Camelot, and it was the same blue of the crystal that had freed Excalibur from the stone.

For a moment, his fear was pushed aside by a sense of wonder. Magic was rare—the Lady of the Lake had even said that it was seeping away from this world. So how could there be so much magic contained in one place?

The odious scent of weasel musk now mingled with the scent of earth and stone. Calib set his teeth. He’d taken on the Saxon weasels before, and he would do so again.

Suddenly, he hit a dead end. A stone wall blocked the tunnel, and a sculpture of a hissing ferret had been carved into it.

Calib was stumped. He’d been so sure this tunnel was leading somewhere big.

He studied the statue more closely. The detailing was incredible, as if every last strand of fur had been carefully carved. The statue also sported a pair of sparkling eyes—pieces of black onyx set into stone. Calib had the uncomfortable feeling that the statue was watching him.

Cautiously, he reached out a paw . . . and bopped the ferret on its nose.

Nothing happened. Maybe if he twisted its ear?

The feeling of being watched intensified. It was hard to think with the statue’s judgmental eyes glaring at him. He placed a paw over them—and suddenly, the right eye gave way.

Calib jumped back as the entire wall swiveled open about two inches, revealing a set of stone stairs that led down into the darkness. The scent of weasel musk was even stronger now. Though his eyes watered, Calib nearly cackled with delight. He had discovered a secret stairwell!

The steps were shallow and long, sloping down like ramps. They were low enough for a mouse to go down on four paws at a run. In the darkness, he could make out different doors and passageways sprawling away from this center path.

Doubt filled Calib’s chest like steam in a kettle. There was no way to know how big this place was, and any number of tunnels could lead to Cecily. How would he find her?

Not knowing what else to do, Calib kept to the main path. At least he’d be able to find his way out again if he needed to. That was less likely if he started to take turns. After some time, he heard the echoes of rushing water, accompanied by the sound of metal clinking and shouts. The smell of burning wood and sulfur filled the tunnel, and the air grew hot and humid.

Calib rounded the last step and suddenly found himself on a stone balcony. Slinking down in case anyone was watching, he scrambled toward the edge. For a moment, his head swam.

The balcony overlooked a cavern that was taller than the highest spires of Camelot. Heights had stopped bothering him after he’d ridden owls. What made him dizzy was the vast underground city that had been carved into all sides of the cavern.

Steep stairs receded into the cave walls, leading to rows on top of rows of roughly constructed huts, each one glowing red with fire inside. Calib noticed a rhythm to the constant clanging, like the banging of a thousand pots and pans. From his vantage point, it looked like a hedge maze in Camelot’s gardens—only at least three times as big, and vertical. Far below lay an underground lake with steam rising from its surface.

Warships crowded on the pebbled shore—hundreds of them, each sleeker and deadlier than the one before.

With growing horror, Calib realized he was looking at the might of the Saxon weasel army.

The Saxons had not left Britain after all. They had retreated here . . . and by the looks of it, they were preparing for another attack.

He went to flee back up the stairs. Camelot had to be warned before it was too late! But at that moment, the sound of approaching pawsteps blocked his escape route.

Panicked, Calib jumped behind a basket half full of firewood. As the pawsteps came closer, he quickly leaped into the container and covered himself with the branches. He peered through the loose netting, and a pair of burly weasels came into view on the balcony.

Each one wore the rank of a knight on their armor, as well as the Saxon emblem—a red dragon against white. By the looks of them, they’d seen many battles. The taller weasel had a wooden leg, while the shorter one wore an eye patch over his left eye.

“A Two-Legger from Camelot? Here?” the tall one asked, pausing to tie the laces on his boots by propping his footpaw on Calib’s basket. Inside, Calib held his breath.

“True as I’m standing here,” the other replied. “I just saw him through the water gate. He demanded to be trained in magic.”

“I thought we were here to go to war with them, not teach them magic tricks,” the tall one complained as he lifted his footpaw off Calib’s basket.

The weasels continued to mutter to each other as they stomped off, and soon, Calib couldn’t hear their voices anymore. Slowly, he poked his head out.

The coast was clear—so why were his whiskers tingling so hard that he thought they might fall off?

Something pinched Calib behind his neck, and suddenly, he was yanked out from inside his hiding place.

“I thought I smelled a dirty little mouse,” someone snarled.

Twisting, Calib glanced back to see the wicked gleam of weasel teeth.