The Trophy of Champions (20 page)

With every step he took, he felt the enormity of the burden weighing him down. Part of him longed to ignore the fox's warning and share his secret with his friends, but deep down inside he knew he could never take that risk. The fox had an uncanny knack of finding things out and Pie Rats loved to talk.

They'll understand in time,
Whisker said to himself.
Besides, it's safer if they don't know.
He knew that even if his loose-lipped companions managed to keep their mouths shut, he still had to face the fox alone. Whisker doubted he could stare into those piercing orange eyes and lie convincingly when asked, ‘Who else knows?'

A horrible feeling in the pit of his stomach told him that if his parents and sister were alive, they were at the mercy of the fox. One false move and his actions could seal their fate.
This is the way it has to be,
he said to himself
.
No one else can know.

He saw a thin sliver of light on the passage floor and realised he'd reached the restaurant door. Taking a deep breath, he paused to compose himself. It wasn't just his run-in with the fox that plagued his mind. It was the entire series of events he had witnessed in the high rollers' room. Unanswered questions filled his head. Suited cards flashed before his eyes – diamonds, hearts, clubs and spades …

Curiosity drowned the rat,
he told himself.
You have enough to worry about. Let it go.

Putting on his best poker face, he opened the door and stepped inside. The restaurant was deserted. Not a single musician, dancer or hungry diner was in sight. The tables had been cleared. The dance floor had been swept.

Unnerved by the emptiness, Whisker tiptoed across the soft carpet, barely daring to breathe. He'd almost reached the front door when a soft voice broke the silence.

‘Missed the last dance, did you?'

He turned to see Ruby stepping out from behind a pillar, her arms crossed and her chin raised high. He half expected her to start yelling at him but all she did was stare at him with a sad green eye.

‘Oh, h-hi, Ruby,' he stammered.

‘Been anywhere special?' she asked coldly.

‘Th-the bathroom,' he lied. ‘Something in the food didn't agree with me – a wild mushroom, perhaps? B-but I'm fine now, thanks for asking.'

‘You were gone for over an hour,' she said, unmoved.

‘Yes, well, I, err … got lost on the way back,' he gabbled, ‘and I … ended up in a courtyard – and there were these big, fancy trees pruned into the shape of fish and a colossal stone fountain. And I was so thirsty, I –'

‘Is this how it's going to be, Whisker?' she cut in.

‘How's what going to be?' he spluttered.

‘This!' Ruby hissed, stamping her foot. ‘You lying to my face because you're too gutless to tell me you've got the hots for some air-headed goddesses. There, I said it!'

‘N-n-no,' Whisker protested, waving his paws in front of him. ‘It's not like that, honestly.'

‘Well what's it like?' she shot back. ‘One minute you're dancing with Hera like she's the only girl in the world and the next minute you're both sneaking off to some secret courtyard together.'

‘Hera?' he gasped. ‘Me? That's ridiculous. We were just dancing, I swear. She doesn't even know there's a courtyard.'

‘So how do you explain the red lipstick?' Ruby probed.

‘Lipstick?'
Whisker cried in bewilderment. ‘W-what lipstick?'

Ruby pointed to Whisker's right cheek. He touched the tender spot with his finger and suddenly realised what she was looking at.

‘You've got it all wrong, Ruby,' he said, holding up his finger. ‘Look, it's not lipstick, it's blood. I cut myself in the … in the courtyard.'

‘On a fish-shaped tree no doubt?' Ruby scoffed. ‘Don't even try it. You're a worse liar than Horace.' She screwed up her face into a disgusted frown. ‘I thought you were special, Whisker. I thought we were special … but I guess I was wrong. You're nothing more than a dirty – lying – scumbag.' She prodded him in the chest. ‘And as far as scumbags go, the liars are the worst!'

With one last filthy glare, she spun on her heel and stormed out of the restaurant.

The voyage back to Dagger Island was the most unpleasant journey of Whisker's life. Hera refused to talk to him for deserting her on the dance floor (he soon discovered she'd spent the final ten songs hauled up in the powder room to avoid the embarrassment of dancing alone); Aphrodite refused to look at him for dancing with Hera in the first place; and Ruby refused to look at him, talk to him or go within spitting distance of him for more reasons than he cared to count.

Horace (who was still talking to him) lightened the mood somewhat when he pulled out a familiar white napkin and handed it to Whisker.

‘Frankie's autograph, as promised,' Horace said, pointing to a scribbled message on the back. ‘Sorry about the tomato sauce stains. It was all I could rustle up at short notice.'

‘Thanks,' Whisker said politely, folding the napkin into his brown bag. ‘I'll treasure it always.'

‘So what really happened to you in there?' Horace whispered. ‘You can trust me to keep a secret.'

‘L-like I said,' Whisker replied, his ears turning red, ‘I went to the bathroom with a stomach ache and got lost, that's all.'

‘And it took you ten songs and an encore to get back?' Horace asked suspiciously.

‘I-I don't know,' Whisker said, defensively. ‘I found a courtyard and got a drink, didn't I? – Look, I've already told you all of this. What more do you want to know?'

‘Forget it,' Horace muttered. ‘Keep your lousy toilet adventures to yourself.' He waved his hook dismissively through the air and wandered off to talk to Fred.

Whisker didn't know where to turn. His entire world was crumbling down around him and all he could do was make things worse. The futility of the situation reminded him of Eaton, the little mouse who spied for the Cat Fish after Sabre threatened to harm his sister, Emmie. Eaton had grown more and more anxious during his time on the
Apple Pie
as he wrestled with his dark secret. Trapped by his own desperate lie, Whisker was beginning to understand how the poor boy felt.

Longing to escape from the crew – and from himself, Whisker slumped over the starboard bulwark of the ship and stared out at the darkening sea. His despondent thoughts slowly turned to the Pirate Cup.

There were four events left to win: the Treasure Hunt, the Sea Race, the Death Ball final and the bonus Stealth Raid. The Pie Rats had to beat the Cat Fish in the Death Ball final and at least two other events to be certain of the championship. Whisker was quietly confident their Trojan Pasty Stealth Raid would snare them the bonus point and he clung to the hope he could still win his pet event, the Treasure Hunt. He knew the forest better than anyone and, as long as he survived the ambushes, his superior climbing ability would give him the upper edge. The Sea Race would be hard to win against the cats' three-masted ship, the
Silver Sardine,
but the Pie Rats' secret kite sail, the Eagle, at least gave them some chance
.

He pushed any thoughts of failure to the back of his mind.

You can't win unless you believe you can win
, he told himself.
Now is the time for belief.

Quietly pondering his course of action, Whisker stared across the empty ocean. It was a cloudy evening with a large waxing moon and a line of rain clouds building on the horizon. Whisker noticed a flaming orange glow coming from the north in the direction of Dagger Island.

The lookout tower,
he thought, puzzled.
But the
fl
ames aren't purple, they're …

Fearing the worst, he extended his spyglass for a closer look – and froze in horror.

‘What is it?' Horace demanded, rushing over.

Whisker was speechless.

Horace snatched the spyglass from Whisker's paws and held it to his eye.

‘Shiver me cinders!' he cried.

Dead ahead, the top of the tower was ablaze with scorching orange flames. Nearby, a blazing inferno of fifty-foot flames rose in a circle from the forest floor.

Whisker watched in horror, unable to move, as the entire Death Ball arena went up in flames.

Riding a strengthening eastern breeze, the Pie Rats sailed into the marina on Dagger Island to find the northern and southern piers in total chaos. Scared, singed and panicked spectators crammed into boats and ferries, fleeing for their lives. Rowboats, rafts and canoes, overflowing with passengers, splashed past the Pie Rats in a frantic bid to escape.

‘Sail for yer lives!' shouted an old badger in a dingy. ‘The Blue Claw are upon us!'

‘Oh my precious paws,' Pete gasped, steering the hired vessel alongside the southern pier. ‘This gets worse by the minute.'

The Captain drew his sword and leapt onto the pier. ‘Crew at arms,' he bellowed. ‘The Hermit needs our help.'

While Mama Kolina gathered her terrified daughters around her, the rest of the companions drew their weapons and sprinted down the gangplank. Whisker glanced over his shoulder as he scampered over the decking and saw the
Apple Pie
and the
Golden Anchor
moored on the northern pier. Anchored a short distance from shore was the
Velvet Wave.
A flickering purple glow radiated from the trophy room, illuminating an empty crow's-nest and three deserted decks. Unguarded on its lavish purple plinth stood the Trophy of Champions.

Whisker's heart pounded in his chest. In the midst of the chaos, he suddenly had the answer to all his problems – he didn't have to win the trophy, he simply had to steal it.

As he neared the end of the pier, a plan of attack materialised in his head:
swim to the Velvet Wave; steal the trophy; sail the Golden Anchor back to Two Shillings Cove… leaving the Hermit and the Pie Rats to fight the Blue Claw alone –

Whisker cut himself short.

What kind of lying, stealing, deserting scoundrel are you?
he asked himself, horrified that he had even considered the idea.

As the flaming belltower toppled out of sight behind a line of trees, Whisker turned his back on the trophy and scrambled up the path to the athlete's village, determined to do one thing right.

Reaching the campsite, he was met by a scene of total devastation. The ticket booth had been smashed to smithereens. Sticky liquid oozed from shattered barrels onto the floor of the Champions Tavern. Stalls had been ransacked, tents lay flattened and claw marks covered every tree trunk in sight. The village had escaped a torching, but no one was sticking around for the clean-up.

Frenzied spectators darted past Whisker as he made his way through the disaster zone.

‘Have you seen the Hermit?' he shouted, grabbing the sleeve of a passing wombat.

‘Who?' puffed the plump marsupial. ‘I ain't heard of no
Hermit
.' He pulled away and continued his escape.