The Trophy of Champions (2 page)

He let out a horrified gasp. There was no way around.

Without brakes, he acted daringly and decisively. Leaping to the very back of the sled, he grabbed the upper edges of the bark with both paws and slowly stood up. As the lichen-covered rocks came into range, he leant back as far as he could and raised the front half of the sled off the ground.

There was a sickening
SCREEECH
as the bottom of the bark collided with the rocks, almost throwing him free. The next moment, the sled was airborne, soaring high over the stones and gravel like a strange, wingless bird – surrounded by stars, held up by the wind. Then it was falling, plummeting down towards the barren slope.

The back of the sled hit first, gouging into the ground. Its passenger lost his grip and sprawled face-down in the centre of the sled. He dug his claws into the bark to steady himself, as his tail and legs bounced uncontrollably behind him.

When he finally managed to regain his balance and clamber to his knees, the sled was already speeding down the final section of the hill.

The gravelly slope levelled out into a grassy meadow extending to the sandy dunes of the coastline. The battered sled skidded to a halt at the foot of a small banksia shrub and its shaken passenger scrambled out.

There's still time,
he told himself, fixing his sights on a dune near the river mouth.
But only just …

With the last hint of colour fading from the sky, he set off across the gently swaying field of redgrass. Parched by a long, hot summer, the grass was thin and dry. Withered stalks crunched under his feet. Straw-like stems rustled beside him.

As he crossed the darkening field, he noticed other sounds: the soft swish of the wind; the gentle rumble of breaking waves … and something else.

Standing on the tips of his toes, he peered above the surrounding seed heads. To his right, not far from the riverbed, he saw movement in the tallest stalks of grass.

At first he mistook it for the wind, but as he looked closer, he realised the grass was parting to form a path – a path headed in his direction.

His heart beating fast, he turned on his heel and ran. Tall stalks of grass battered his face and eyes. The sharp edges of leaves sliced past him like knives, cutting his feet and paws.

Ignoring the pain, he kept on running, tearing through the field like a flame in straw.

He heard scampering footsteps on either side of him and knew his pursuers were close. The next moment, an arrow raced past him, clipping the sleeve of his coat.

Head down, he ducked and wove through the thinning grass, not daring to stop. There was no thought of hiding – movement was his only defence.

He rolled, dived and twisted like an eel, changing direction with every step. The steady stream of arrows missed their mark and the sound of footsteps slowly faded to other parts of the field.

When he finally ventured to raise his head, the dune was right in front of him. Smooth, white and pure, it beckoned him closer.

With aching limbs he began his ascent. The fine grains of sand felt warm beneath his paws and the salty air of the sea tingled on the back of his throat. He took a deep, calming breath.

At last,
he thought.
I'm here.

Exhausted, he reached the crest of the dune. Behind him the field of grass lay silent and still. In front of him, in silhouette against the deep blue of the twilight sky, stood three rats.

They took one look at him, drew their weapons and charged.

Familiar Faces

Three rats …

The words echoed through his mind, awakening a memory. For a moment he was somewhere else. He was standing on a sundrenched beach surrounded by three familiar faces. A deep yearning filled his heart as he pictured them standing beside him – his mother, his father, his sister. He wished they were with him now …

With a small sigh
,
he was back on the dune and the advancing figures began to grow clearer.

The first rat was dressed in a red and black long-sleeve sports top with a golden rat insignia across the chest. On his head, he wore a stately black captain's hat. He whispered a hasty command to his companions before raising a strange scissor-shaped sword above his head.

The second rat, dressed in a similar sports uniform, grunted a response and aimed a giant fork at the stranger. This rat was huge and hunched and towered above the dune like a misshapen piece of driftwood. His oversized chef's hat flapped in the wind, his safety pin earring swayed back and forth, and his monstrous left eye stared down like a full moon on a cloudless night.

There was a soft
swish
of sand as the third rat approached, balancing on the tip of his wooden pencil leg. As his bony frame drew closer, a strange ticking sound resonated from a small object in his paw. He sniffed the air with his long, crooked nose and narrowed his pink albino eyes at the stranger in the cloak.

The stranger looked from one hostile rat to the next and then slowly removed his hood. As the folds of fabric dropped lightly to his shoulders, the unruly fur on the top of his head sprang up like the leaves of a pineapple, revealing his true identity.

The three rats stopped dead in their tracks.

‘Oh my precious paws!' exclaimed the rat with the pencil leg. ‘It's you,
Whisker.
We weren't expecting you for another twenty minutes.'

‘Hi, Pete,' Whisker squeaked. ‘Better early than late.'

As the other rats slowly lowered their weapons, Pencil Leg Pete held out a shiny brass pocket watch and pointed to the minute hand.

‘Take a look at your time, young apprentice,' he said excitedly. ‘No one has completed the Treasure Hunt training course in less than ninety minutes, let alone seventy.'

Before Whisker could reply, the giant rat stepped forward, grabbed him by the collar and hoisted him into the air.

‘Bravo, Whisker,' he grunted, giving the small rat a crushing bear hug. ‘You're a champion.'

‘Steady – on – Fred –' Whisker gasped, struggling for air. ‘I couldn't have done it without all the unexpected encouragement.'

The rat in the captain's hat laughed out loud and clapped Pencil Leg Pete on the back. ‘Did you hear that? Encouragement indeed. That's the politest description of a surprise cannon attack I've heard in years.'

‘Aye, Captain,' Pete said, deadpan. ‘But I'm sure he wouldn't be as complimentary if he arrived back with half his leg missing.'

Whisker stared down at Pete's pencil leg and gulped.

‘Don't worry, Whisker,' the Captain said in a deep, reassuring voice. ‘I'm sure none of the cannons were actually aimed at you.'

‘You might be right about the cannons,' Whisker conceded, ‘but the arrows were awfully accurate.'

The Captain let out a long sigh, ‘That sounds like my dear niece, Ruby. Always the perfectionist.'

‘In my defence,' cried a voice from the field, ‘they weren't technically arrows and I didn't actually hit anyone.'

Whisker looked down to see the immaculately presented Ruby Rat striding towards the dune. She carried a silver-coloured bow over one shoulder and a quiver of arrows over the other. Her crimson eye patch framed her stern yet attractive face and her green eye sparkled up at him like an emerald.

Before Whisker knew what was happening, Ruby had plucked a long, slim shaft from her quiver and was aiming it directly at him.

‘Do you have a problem with my archery, apprentice?' she asked, twitching her fingers on the string.

‘N-no,' Whisker stammered. ‘I'd just prefer if you pointed that thing somewhere else.'

Ruby shrugged. ‘Sure thing, Whisker.'

Without warning, she spun the bow to her left and released the string. The arrow sped through the air, striking the backside of a short rat staggering out of the grass.

‘Shiver me britches!' he yelled, tumbling to the ground. ‘We're under attack. Raise the alarm!'

Ruby ignored the theatrical display and began marching up the dune. She gave Whisker a sly wink as she passed. ‘It's about time I hit something …'

Whisker glanced uneasily at the small rat, rolling around in the grass.

‘Will Horace be alright …?' he began.

With an annoyed huff, Ruby pulled another arrow from her quiver and thrust it at Whisker.

‘Hollow-stemmed bulrush,' she said abruptly. ‘I took the liberty of removing the spiky tip. I doubt it could hurt a fly.'

There was an agitated buzz of wings from the Captain's shoulder and a large green blowfly raised four tiny fists in the air as if to say,
don't you even try it.

‘Steady on, Smudge,' the Captain said calmly. ‘I'm sure Ruby has no intention of harming our official mascot.'

Smudge lowered his fists and settled back on his perch. Whisker turned his attention to the bulrush and ran his fingers over its spongy, sausage-shaped end.

‘So much for impenetrable bark,' he thought aloud. ‘It's no wonder the arrows simply bounced off.'

‘They can still bruise a backside,' Hook Hand Horace called out, rubbing his rear end with his golden hook. ‘My sensitive skin is sixteen times softer than gnarled old tree bark.'

Ruby rolled her eye. ‘Save the science for the scientists, Horace.'

‘Rotten pies to scientists!' Horace shot back. ‘I know what I'm talking about. You can look it up in that dusty old book if you don't believe me.'

‘Shh,' the Captain hissed. ‘The Book of Knowledge is not something to be discussed in public.'

The Captain glanced around suspiciously and lowered his voice. ‘I can't stress to you enough the importance of secrecy when it comes to that item – especially here. The Pirate Cup gathers the vilest of villains and rottenest of rogues together in one location. Regardless of how private your conversations may appear, there is always someone listening. Is that understood?'

‘Aye aye, Captain,' Horace sighed. ‘I won't mention you-know-what again.'

‘Good,' the Captain said. ‘Given the right situation, the information contained in that book could give us a superior tactical advantage over our competitors. It may sound a tad academic, but brains are just as important as brawn in the Pirate Cup. Now, if we have concluded the science lesson, I suggest we get a move on. The opening ceremony commences at midnight tonight, and I am yet to introduce you to our new head coach.'

Pete's ears pricked up. ‘Head coach? Who? Why wasn't I consulted about this?'

‘It was a last minute decision,' the Captain replied flatly, ‘and one made in the best interests of the crew.'

Pete held his ground, ready to mount a challenge.

The Captain let out a troubled groan and tried to explain. ‘As you are aware, our entire campaign had been funded by Madam Pearl, our gracious benefactor. It is also no secret that she expects a winning result. You might assume we can simply sail away with a second place and try our luck elsewhere. But the fact remains that as soon as Madam Pearl's assistance runs out, we find ourselves stone broke. The
Apple Pie
is in desperate need of repair, we have a growing number of mouths to feed and, with the entire Aladryan navy breathing down our necks, our future pirating prospects look even slimmer than our bank balance! It pains me to admit it, but the competition prize money may be our sole means of staying afloat.'