‘A little,’ Whisker replied.
‘It’s a great game, Death Ball,’ Papa Niko said, with a broad smile. ‘Why, it was just the other day I was talking to Frankie Belorio about that very thing.’
‘Frankie Belorio?’ Whisker said, trying to place the name.
‘You know,’ Papa Niko went on. ‘Frankie the flame, the Big B, Super Slammer of ’86, the fastest Bilby in the Aladryan league, world record holder for the most goals scored in consecutive games …’
‘Yes, of course,’ Whisker said, still drawing a blank, ‘him.’
‘Do you want his autograph?’ Papa Niko asked. ‘I can get it for you – no sweat. I know he’s a big celebrity and all but he’s on a promotional tour in Two Shillings Cove, not far from here, and he owes me a favour.’
‘Gee, thanks,’ Whisker mumbled.
‘Speaking of all things Frankie,’ Papa Niko continued, ‘I’ve got an inside scoop – straight from the Bilby’s mouth. I’m yet to learn the details, but Frankie’s working on a new set play for the winter season.’ He beckoned for Whisker and Horace to move closer and whispered, ‘It’s called the Double Decoy – Centre Steal. Pretty amazing, hey? You should see his set plays from last season – unbelievable! I’ll show you sometime. When’s your next training session?’
‘Err … I’m not exactly sure,’ Whisker replied, ‘but right now we need to get ready for the opening ceremony.’
‘Of course you do,’ Papa Niko laughed. ‘Hey, that reminds me, I saw some of the other teams down at the marina – big strong brutes, all of them. Boy oh boy, it’s going to be a fierce competition.’
The Centenary Games
Dressed in their official team colours of red, black and gold, the Pie Rats stood in the shadows of the dark tunnel, awaiting their entry cue. Large sheets of bark curved over their heads, supported by a framework of sticks and rope. Through small cracks in the bark, Whisker could see the flickering light of hundreds of flaming torches in the grandstands above him. The dull stomping of feet and the muffled shouts of excited spectators reverberated through the roof.
Clearly visible at the end of the tunnel was the glorious Death Ball arena, a dusty circle of earth where challengers would battle for victory in the days to come.
Joining the Pie Rats in the tunnel were their team officials: Granny Rat (Head Coach), the Hermit (Team Trainer) and Rat Bait (Chief of Security). The noticeable absentees were Madam Pearl (Team Sponsor) and the three mice. With an enormous bounty on her head, the fugitive white weasel had decided it was safer not to attend the games, while Mr Tribble, Eaton and Emmie were forced to return to Oakbridge Primary School for the start of the autumn term.
Whisker was glad to have Rat Bait as a valued member of the team. The reformed scoundrel had found a new lease on life since landing on the island and he seemed determined to prove his loyalty to the Pie Rats. Wearing a black shirt marked SECURITY, he appeared to know more than anyone about the evening’s proceedings, and it came as no surprise to Whisker to learn that Rat Bait and the Hermit were both members of Granny Rat’s original Pirate Cup team.
‘Any moment now,’ Rat Bait whispered to Whisker, as the sound of the crowd grew louder. ‘It’s always the same. As soon as the mysterious organiser appears, the teams’ll parade out.’ He gave his swollen eye a quick rub. ‘Tell me when we’re up, lad, me vision’s still a bit hazy.’
Whisker looked cagily at Rat Bait’s black eye.
‘Did you get that in the line of duty, sir?’ he asked.
‘Err, not exactly,’ Rat Bait answered sheepishly. ‘It be more a matter o’ someone settlin’ an old score.’ He shot Granny a quick glance and whispered. ‘Best ye be followin’ yer coach’s instructions, young Whisker.’
‘Aye,’ Whisker said, with wide eyes.
There was a loud fanfare of trumpets and the entire crowd fell silent. Whisker saw a tall white rabbit in a purple coat and a top hat hopping into view. With several graceful bounds, he reached the centre of the arena and raised a funnel-shaped bullhorn to his mouth.
‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ he began in a thick accent, ‘it is a great pleasure to velcome you to ze twenty-fifth Pirate Cup. As you know, zis spectacular event is held once every four years, making zis year’s tournament ze Centenary Games. I am Baron Gustave, otherwise known as ‘G’, your games organiser.’
There was an enthusiastic round of applause.
Horace nudged Whisker with his hook. ‘I thought I recognised him. Baron Gustave owns the Gunpowder Galleria on Sea Shanty Island.’
‘Remind me to thank him sometime,’ Whisker murmured. ‘That Gourmet Gunpowder really packs a punch.’
The sound of the crowd died down and Gustave continued, ‘As you are avare, ze authorities have gone out of zeir vay to stop zese games. Rest assured, no Pirate Cup has ever been cancelled. Nor vill it be. Zis year’s entries may be small, but ze talent is enormous.’
The crowd roared and Gustave pointed to a tunnel on the opposite side of the arena.
‘Presenting ze first challengers. From ze icy waters of Antarctica, I give you ze Penguin Pirates!’
There was a cacophony of squawks and hoots as six identical fairy penguins waddled out. Each wore a checked bandanna and a navy blue singlet with the monogram PP emblazoned across the chest. A flag bearer at the front of the procession carried an enormous navy and white flag.
‘Me old employers from the south,’ Rat Bait laughed. ‘Not the fastest bunch o’ birds in a footrace, but they’re as quick as fish in the water.’
Gustave pointed to a second tunnel and continued his introductions. ‘From ze west coast of Aladrya, I present to you ze Cane Toad River Pirates!’
With loud CROAKS and RIBBITS, six large cane toads hopped into the arena. Their puffed-up leader carried a mustard-coloured flag with two crossed cane stalks. The all-girl crew behind her wore matching sports dresses. On closer inspection, Whisker noticed their warty faces were smothered in brightly coloured mascara, eyeliner and lipstick.
Horace winced. ‘And I thought my sisters overdid the makeup.’
‘POND SCUM,’ the Captain said, reading the large, green letters on the flag bearer’s shirt. ‘Penelope Pond Scum to be precise. She’s the poison-spitting captain of the Leaping Lily, and her slippery gang consists of her five enchanting daughters.’ He gave Horace a look of concern. ‘Despite what the fairy tales may say, Horace, I would not recommend kissing any of these toads.’
‘Advice taken, Captain,’ Horace gulped. ‘I’ll stick to girls of a less warty appearance.’
The third team was now making its way into the stadium. Even with a bullhorn, Baron Gustave was drowned out by the deafening howls and barks of adoring fans dressed in blue and white.
‘There’s no mistaking that reception,’ Pete muttered, twitching his pencil leg uncomfortably. ‘Those rough-as-guts Sea Dogs always get the crowd support – especially when they’re throwing innocent rats into shark-infested waters.’
Horace gave Pete’s pencil leg a hard tap with his hook. ‘I thought a small fish nibbled your leg off?’
Pete screwed up his nose. ‘That’s beside the point. I’d still have both legs if those bottom-sniffing canines showed some chivalry and left me on dry land.’
‘Well, I doubt you’ll get an apology,’ Horace said, gesturing to a commotion at the end of the tunnel. ‘Bartholomew Brawl and his howlers don’t appear to have attended any doggy obedience classes lately.’
Horace was right. On their march into the arena, two poodles and a bulldog had already bumped over several Penguin Pirates, and were currently heckling a cane toad named Sugar about her choice of blue eye shadow.
Unimpressed, Gustave shook his ears and gestured for the Pie Rats to proceed up the tunnel.
‘And now, dear spectators,’ he boomed through the bullhorn, ‘I present to you, ze most appetising team in ze competition, ze delicious Pie Rats!’
There was a mixture of laughs and jeers as Fred raised the Jolly Rat high into
the air and proudly led the Pie Rats onto the field.
As Whisker left the safety of the tunnel and stepped into the bright lights of the stadium, he felt his tail pulsing with energy. All around him, the mighty grandstands rose to the tops of the tallest trees to create a cauldron-like atmosphere. Ecstatic spectators crammed into every available seat and dangled precariously from overhanging branches. The stadium was a waterfall of moving bodies, louder and larger than any circus audience he’d ever seen.
Whisker knew that Papa Niko and the others were cheering him on from the stands, but it was impossible to make out their faces amidst the screaming mammals, birds and amphibians.
Who else is hidden in that crowd? he asked himself.
Mesmerised by the sights and sounds, he stumbled around the arena in a bewildered daze, almost running into a three-legged pug with a biscuit peg leg. Acting ignorant, Whisker gave the snarling dog a friendly wave and pretended to be listening to Baron Gustave’s next introduction.
‘… Ze fifth team of participants is ze always enthusiastic royal family from ze Island of Kings, ze Marvellous Marmosets.’
A pompous parade of crown-wearing monkeys with white ear tufts and long, banded tails marched out of the closest tunnel. A cross-eyed marmoset in a jester’s hat led the procession, followed by a knight in a rusty metal helmet.
‘Rotten pies to show ponies,’ Horace groaned, trying to hide behind his hook. ‘Since when were they eligible to enter? I’d hardly call jungle kidnapping an act of piracy.’
King Marvownion’s eyes lit up when he spotted Captain Black Rat in the centre of the arena.
‘Great goslings in gumtrees!’ he exclaimed, almost losing his oversized crown. ‘Isn’t this a remarkable coincidence? My old buddies the Pie Rats are here for a rematch.’
The Captain tipped his hat and replied with a pained smile, ‘I’m sure we can squeeze another victory into our tight schedule, Marvownion.’
King Marvownion opened his mouth to object, but Baron Gustave was already introducing the sixth team, his words echoing around the stadium.
‘Our final team is a last minute entry. I have no doubt zey vill bring much excitement to zis tournament.’
There was a startled gasp from the crowd as the team came into view. Whisker’s heart skipped a beat.
‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ Gustave cried, ‘I give you ze dreaded Cat Fish!’
The entire audience watched in fearful silence as Captain Sabre, the formidable orange and black Bengal, led the Cat Fish into the arena.
Brimming with confidence, he pranced into the centre of the field, scanning the trembling faces of his opponents. At the sight of the young Pie Rat apprentice, standing rigid with his teammates, Sabre’s face suddenly turned sour.
‘Dirty little rat,’ he hissed, throwing his flag to the ground. ‘Crawled out of your dingy cave, did you?’
Overcome with terror, Whisker took a stumbling step backwards. Sabre drew his cheese knife and prowled closer, with a look of pure contempt in his eyes.
‘That’s right,’ Sabre scowled, slashing his knife through the air. ‘Run away, little apprentice. You’re not so tough without your pet bear, are you?’
Whisker bit his tongue and held his ground, hoping his trembling legs weren’t about to collapse beneath him. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed Ruby edging closer, with her paws on the handles of her two scarlet scissor swords. Horace was right beside her.
One by one, the Cat Fish gathered around Sabre, their razor-sharp cheese knives glistening in the torchlight.
‘Just like the good ol’ days,’ Horace gulped, putting on a brave face. ‘Outnumbered but never outdone …’
Before the reunion could turn ugly, there was a flash of white and Baron Gustave threw himself between the two teams, waving an open scroll in his paw.
Sabre took one look at the scroll and pulled away. Ruby slowly released the grip on her swords.
‘A reminder to all participants,’ Gustave said firmly, ‘according to ze code of ze games, zere is to be no fighting off ze sporting field. Any teams found breaking ze rules vill be expelled from ze tournament.’
‘Well, that’s a welcome piece of news,’ Horace said, letting out a sigh of relief. ‘Let’s just hope we don’t run into the Cat Fish on the field.’
As Whisker struggled to calm his nerves, Gustave raised the scroll in front of him and boomed into the bullhorn.
‘Now zat ze teams have been introduced, I vill explain ze events for zis year’s cup. Seven events vill be held – one for each of ze seven seas. For reasons of secrecy and security, events vill only be announced on ze morning zey are held. In no particular order, ze events are: Plank Diving, Hand-to-Hand Combat, Treasure Hunt, Cannon Firing, Sea Race, Mystery Challenge, Death Ball.’
The crowd roared with excitement.
Gustave continued, ‘One point is avorded to ze vinner of each event. Zere are no points for second or third places. Death Ball is played in two pools of three teams. Ze top team from each pool plays in ze final. Only ze vinner of ze grand final receives a point for Death Ball –’
He tapped the scroll with the end of his bullhorn. ‘However, ze rules state zat if two teams are tied on equal points at ze end of ze tournament, ze team vith ze most Death Ball victories vill be declared ze champions.’ There was a dull murmur of approval from the crowd. Gustave began rolling up the scroll. ‘And now, gallant competitors, I vill show you vot you are competing for.’
A line of youthful white rabbits wearing matching purple coats marched out of a tunnel carrying three large open chests. Each chest overflowed with sparkling gold coins. As alluring as the treasure was, all eyes were fixed on the rabbit at the end of the line. In his paws he clutched an enormous two-handled cup. A line of precious jewels ran in a circle around its base. Etched into the side of the cup was an elaborate skull and two crossed torches. Cast from solid gold, the Trophy of Champions was truly magnificent.
The athletes watched, spellbound, as the rabbit placed the glittering object on a velvet-covered pedestal. Without a word, another white rabbit hopped out of the tunnel, carrying a flaming torch. When he neared the trophy he took a single graceful leap into the air and thrust the end of the torch over the rim of the giant cup. With a hiss of bright violet flames, the trophy blazed to life.
The arena erupted in spontaneous applause.
‘Zis sacred purple fire vill burn until ze Centenary Games have concluded,’ Gustave stated. ‘To celebrate one hundred years of athletic achievement, I have one final event to announce.’ He waited for total silence. ‘Zis trophy vill remain in public sight at all times. You may see it on ze island, or you may see it on my ship, ze Velvet Wave. Ze first team zat can touch zis trophy before ze end of ze last event vill receive one bonus point.’
There was a murmur of curious interest from the athletes.
‘Piece of cake,’ croaked one of the toads. ‘That’s easier than catching a cane beetle stuck on its back.’ She gave her hind legs a mighty kick and launched herself high into the air.
With lightening quick reflexes, the surrounding rabbits whipped out an arsenal of pea shooters and slingshots from their coats and peppered the unsuspecting toad with purple paint pellets. She crashed to the ground, dripping in sticky purple liquid.
‘The colour suits you, Sugar!’ barked one of the poodles.
Gingerly, she picked herself up and limped back to her team, while the audience roared with laughter.
‘I failed to mention zat my twelve sons vill be keeping a close eye on ze trophy,’ Gustave chuckled. ‘A single spot of paint on any team member vill rule out ze entire team from ze bonus event.’ He frowned sympathetically at the paint-splattered toad. ‘I’m afraid to say, zat includes you, Miss Sugar.’
Ignoring the croaking protests of the toads, Gustave gestured to a square-sided tower rising high above the trees. It was constructed from rough planks of timber and topped with a bark roof. A large bronze bell hung at the top, accessed by a ricke
ty rope ladder. The entire tower appeared to be leaning precariously to the right.
‘Ze first event vill commence tomorrow morning,’ Gustave announced. ‘You vill hear ze bell toll vhen it is time to assemble. I bid you all goodnight.’
‘What about the Death Ball pools?’ Bartholomew Brawl barked. ‘Aren’t you gonna tell us who we’re fightin’?’
‘No,’ Gustave replied bluntly. ‘Zat vould spoil ze surprise – and surprises are vot zese games are about.’
The Bells of Autumn
The stars were still shining in the indigo sky when the bell rang out across the sleepy island. Whisker opened his bleary eyes and stared at the roof of the tent. Troubled thoughts of the Cat Fish had plagued his mind for most of the night.
Every crash and clang from the bustling Champions Tavern had woken him with a fright. Every snarl, sneeze, sigh and snore that echoed through the campsite had set his nerves on edge. In the dark hours of the morning he’d almost convinced himself Sabre was lurking outside his tent, waiting to pounce. Whisker longed for the quiet sanctuary of the ocean, where the dull murmur of the wind and the rhythm of the waves gently rocked him to sleep.
‘Couldn’t they wait till sunrise to ring that blasted bell?’ Horace moaned, covering his ears with his pillow. ‘Professional athletes deserve their rest.’
Fred opened his enormous eye and blinked at his two tent-mates.
‘No time for a cooked breakfast,’ he grunted, clambering out of his sleeping bag. ‘Cold pies on the run – again.’
Nibbling on a slice of stale apricot pie, Whisker followed the rest of the crew towards the lookout tower. The sky was slowly lightening in the east, revealing the black silhouettes of the forest trees high above them.
‘How’s my precious granddaughter this morning?’ Granny Rat asked as Ruby begrudgingly guided her along the uneven track. ‘Ready to show those vile thugs what we girls are made of?’
‘Sure, Gran,’ Ruby muttered, ‘as soon as we know what event we’re in.’
The Trophy of Champions Page 3
