CHAPTER

20

The blindfold was yanked away, and the sun glared into Calib’s eyes. He squinted against the yellow-white light, trying to make sense of his surroundings. He was surprised to be standing outside on a thin stone ledge overlooking the rest of the Iron Mountains. A strong wind blew away the bits of soot that still clung to his fur. Sir Percival stood before him, smug with his new triumph.

If Calib weren’t shackled, he would have kicked himself.

He couldn’t believe he’d fallen again for an enemy’s trap. He surely must be the worst Christopher ever to come out of Camelot. Jasper was right: his reckless heroics endangered everyone he held dear.

After catching Calib, Sir Percival and his guards had blindfolded him. “March,” the guard had growled.

Calib had been led to a twisting stairwell and made to climb out to this precipice outside the mountains, where he now stood. The sun was low in the sky and approaching sunset. Calib could hear the sound of the rushing river far below; likely the same one that the hot spring fed.

“Well, well.” Sir Percival had smiled widely. His teeth revealed themselves like two rows of rotten tree stumps. “I knew you would come calling sooner or later. Like grandfather, like father, like son. Christophers always let their foolish pride get the better of them.”

“It’s called honor,” Calib spat. “Something you obviously know nothing about, traitor.” His ears flushed hot from Percival’s barbed words. The greedy old vole might have the upper paw and the Grail, but Calib’s family name was unimpeachable.

“I know about honor—just not for the great lie that is Camelot.” Percival shook his head in mock wonder.

“Tell me where Cecily is!” Calib said, fixing his eyes on Percival. “What have you done with her?”

“You want answers, and you’ll have them. After we get ours,” Percival said. “What do you know about the Grail and its powers?”

“Nothing. You killed the only mouse who knew anything before he ever got the chance to tell me.” Calib’s mind flashed back to the terrible moment when he saw his grandfather’s shadow twist in pain from the assassin’s blade. Nothing would ever bring his grandfather back, but his death still left Calib with the bad taste of injustice. Even though the assassin had been vanquished at the Battle of the Bear, Percival was the true murderer.

“Now you’re the one who is lying.” Percival grew impatient, and paced around Calib like a bird ready to pluck a worm from the ground. “Yvers and Merlin would not have left you completely in the dark.”

“I’m telling you, I don’t know anything!”

“How did you discover where the Grail was, then?” Percival asked.

“Cecily helped with the final clue.” Calib shrugged. “Maybe if you had smarter friends . . .”

“I’ve had enough of your insolence!”

The vole raised his paw, as if he might strike Calib across the face. Calib cringed and closed his eyes for the impact, but it never came.

When he opened his eyes, he saw why.

The Manderlean had appeared.

“What did I say about your temper, Percy?” the Manderlean spoke in a rasp. The warlord had appeared soundlessly at Percival’s side, catching the vole’s arm and twisting it around his back. “You should have told me sooner that you had a Christopher caught in your little web. Why was it Lieutenant Johann who had to tell me?”

“My liege,” Percival said, his face twisted with frustration and fury. “I wanted to make him tell us the secret to the Grail. I was going to tell you once—”

Percival stopped speaking as the Manderlean held up a paw. “Once you found out the Grail’s powers?” the Manderlean said, eyes flashing. “If I didn’t know better, I would think you were trying to keep secrets from me.”

The gold mask was blinding in the sun, giving the Manderlean an otherworldly glow. “Step aside, Sir Percival. There is something I would like to try one-on-one with our guest.”

With a wave of his paw, another set of weasel guards came forward, bearing the Grail on their shoulders. Calib expected his whiskers to detect whatever powerful magic was inside the Grail, but there was nothing coming from the cup. Calib was confused. Was this a trick of some sort?

The only thing that pulsated with any power was the Manderlean.

Once, Calib had thought of the Grail merely as a broken Two-Legger cup turned into a throne for the mice commanders of Camelot. It was only after Galahad made the cup whole again with Excalibur that Calib finally had seen the cup’s resemblance to the one on the Christopher coat of arms.

The mouse was beginning to realize that his grandfather had probably given clues to the Grail’s true identity through the years. Perhaps if Calib had paid closer attention, he would have discovered the Grail sooner.

Some sort of liquid sloshed inside the cup. Calib’s guards pulled him up to his hind legs and brought him to the lip of the Grail. Calib sniffed at the liquid.

“You must be thirsty,” the Manderlean said.

Calib was parched, but he was also suspicious. “Is this poisoned?” he asked.

“No.” Without warning, the Manderlean shoved Calib’s head into the cup.

Surprised, Calib sucked down a few sips. He fought to resurface, but the Manderlean’s grip on the back of his head was ironclad. For one awful second, Calib thought he would drown.

Suddenly, the grip released.

Calib burst out of the water, sputtering and choking. He expected water from the Grail to taste different—possibly magical—but it didn’t.

The Manderlean gestured, and the guards unchained Calib. When he was free of the weight, the Manderlean stepped back and threw Lightbringer at his footpaw. “Surely you didn’t think I would forget a sword such as yours! Now time to test your mettle!”

Calib grabbed the hilt and pointed the blade at the Manderlean, but one of the Saxon guards stepped between them. The weasel was clad in leather armor and carried a heavy wooden cudgel. Calib made a feint to the left and then darted right, trying to reach the Manderlean, but the Saxon was not fooled

With a casual swing, he leveled the cudgel at Calib’s head. Calib was barely able to scamper out of the way in time.

The weasel turned to follow him, dull eyes watching impassively as Calib repositioned his footpaws. Desperately trying to remember all his dueling lessons, he advanced slowly toward his opponent, holding Lightbringer before him. He very much wished that the Manderlean had given him a shield. It was no use trying to parry a cudgel with a sword. The weasel swung again, and Calib dove away. A stinging blow landed on his tail, leaving it bruised and numb.

Springing back to his feet, Calib tried a different tactic. He charged at the weasel, ducking below the cudgel to land quick slashes wherever he could. Most of them glanced harmlessly off the armor, but a few found the unprotected fur of the weasel’s shoulders and hindquarters.

The weasel hissed but gave no other indication that he even felt the cuts. He stood unmoving as Calib darted in for another attack. But at the last minute, the weasel took a quick step backward, swinging the cudgel low instead of high. The heavy club caught Calib in the midsection, knocking him on his back and sending Lightbringer clattering away. Calib lay on the ground, gasping for air, waiting for the killing blow.