The Trophy of Champions

by Cameron Stelzer

  With the Trojan Pasty plan now out of the question, the Pie Rats would have to win the Sea Race if the cats pulled off a stealth raid of their own. It seemed highly unlikely the rats could out-sail their competitors, especially with the Captain lying unconscious on a bench.

  Whisker wondered if he was simply being paranoid.

  The cats are probably lazing under an apple tree, licking their fur, he reasoned, turning his attention back to Gustave.

  ‘… All participating crews must be assembled on ze wharf in thirty minutes,’ the Baron announced. ‘Ships are to remain in a moored position vith sails tightly furled until ze starting signal. Upon leaving ze river, crews vill make zeir vay through ze Crumbling Rock Islands. As zese vaters are currently uncharted, no maps vill be provided.’

  Crumbling Rock Islands, Whisker repeated in his head. Now why does that name sound so familiar?’

  He recalled sailing through the waters as a boy, following the wide Central Channel from southern Aladrya to Freeforia. The route was safe and easy to navigate, and few ships ever strayed into the rocky maze of islands to the north and south of the channel, in fear of being shipwrecked or buried alive by collapsing cliffs. Dangerous and inhospitable, no one had attempted to map the individual islands, and the whole place remained an uncharted mystery.

  Although he couldn’t quite place it, Whisker knew he had a more recent connection with the islands.

  Did I overhear a conversation in the athletes’ village? he thought. Or was it something the fox said? Unable to put his finger on it, he returned to Gustave’s final instructions.

  ‘Navigators may set zeir own courses,’ the Baron said, ‘but each ship is required to pass two checkpoints. Ze first is a cliff on ze northernmost island and ze second is a marker ship anchored to ze south of ze finish line.’

  ‘And where exactly is the finish line?’ squawked one of the penguins. ‘Don’t tell me it’s an uncharted location, too.’

  ‘Oh no, you’ll have no trouble finding it,’ Gustave grinned. ‘It’s none other zan ze desert island from ze Mystery Challenge. Ze first crew to reach its sandy shore and set off a flare vill receive one point, officially ending ze Centenary Games.’

  ‘A fat lot of good one point will do us,’ another penguin grumbled. ‘The Cat Fish and the Pie Rats are the only teams that can still win the Cup.’

  ‘True,’ Gustave considered, ‘but you can still have an impact on vhich team vins.’

  ‘Great goats gobbling gumboots!’ King Marvownion exclaimed, almost losing his crown. ‘A flea-ridden rat on a victory podium is one thing, but there’s no way I’m letting those cheating cats claim the trophy. It would be an abomination.’ He turned to the Pie Rats. ‘The Royal Court of the Marmosets are at your service.’

  Before any of the rats could respond, a fairy penguin stepped forward and saluted them with a scorched flipper.

  ‘Count us in, too,’ he piped. ‘The Cat Fish have used us for target practice one too many times.’

  ‘Hear, hear,’ agreed the rest of his crew. ‘No more barbecued penguins!’

  ‘Very well,’ Pete said cautiously. ‘We have ourselves an alliance. I can’t guarantee success, mind you, but with three ships against one, we’ve at least got a fighting chance.’

  The next fifteen minutes rushed by in a blur. There were hurried goodbyes to Mr Tribble and the twins, forced to return to school before the home-time bell. Next came a tirade of abuse from Granny Rat about the unkempt state of the Apple Pie and, lastly, a heated debate broke out about who should command the ship while the Captain lay concussed in his cabin. Pete won in the end, mainly due to his superior navigational knowledge and the number of six-syllable words he threw into the argument.

  With the leadership sorted, the crew got straight to work, preparing the ship for the race.

  As Whisker scampered up the rigging to make his final adjustments to the sails, he was relieved to see six cats skulking around the deck of the Silver Sardine. Climbing higher, he saw an empty fishing jetty in the distance.

  They weren’t raiding the Velvet Wave after all, he thought, relaxing his tail. Gustave’s sons must have moved the ship after the Blue Claw sighting.

  He hurried down the rope ladder to join Rat Bait and the rest of the crew, who had gathered around Pete.

  ‘Our course will be roughly triangular in shape,’ Pete explained, scratching three lines on the deck with his pencil leg. ‘We’ll circumnavigate the northern group of islands, staying well clear of the cliffs, and then sail back through the Central Channel. It’s the longest route, but it’s also the safest and we can utilise the kite sail for the downwind sections.’

  ‘What about the other crews?’ Horace asked. ‘Which route will they choose?’

  ‘The same as us if their heads are screwed on,’ Pete replied. ‘The Silver Sardine and the Arctic Wind are built for open-sea sailing – not for manoeuvring through tight passages; and HMS Majesty is bigger than both of them. Remember, the marmosets and the penguins are on our side. A win for one of them equals a win for us.’

  ‘Them penguins be yer best hope,’ Rat Bait remarked. ‘I know the Arctic Wind back-to-front from me years as a ship repairer an’ I’ve no doubt she’ll give the Sardine a run for her money. She might not look as flashy as the Majesty, but this ain’t no beauty pageant.’

  Whisker looked up at his own vessel, the humble Apple Pie. Her tarnished cutlery masts and tattered clothing sails were junk compared to the marmosets’ gold-plated galleon and the cats’ silver speedster. But she had saved them time and time again and, to Whisker, that made her priceless.

  ‘Good luck to ye, Whisker,’ Rat Bait said, giving him a friendly slap on the shoulder. ‘I’ll be waitin’ on the finish line with a barrel o’ berry juice to celebrate yer victory.’

  With a cheeky wink, he scampered down the gangplank to where Granny Rat and the Hermit sat waiting in the Golden Anchor. Due to the imminent threat of the Blue Claw, Gustave had ordered for a full-scale evacuation of the farm. Not only were the four competing pirate ships leaving, but also the remaining spectator vessels.

  Baron Gustave stood at the bow of a small mahogany passenger ship and gave the one-minute warning. Horace’s sisters and parents waved enthusiastically from a crowded ferry as the Pie Rats prepared to cast off.

  Whisker took his position on the wharf next to Fred, his paws gripping a rope in readiness. Further along the wharf he could see two members from the other three crews standing beside their own ships.

  Cleopatra returned his gaze with a confident smirk, her green eyes gleaming with greedy ambition.

  The final event was about to begin – winner takes all.

  Crumbling Rock Islands

  Gustave’s shout of ‘Let the race begin!’ brought the entire wharf to life. Fingers and flippers moved like lightning. Boards echoed under stomping feet. With shaking paws, Whisker began unravelling his rope from the bollard.

  One loop … two loops … three loops. Done!

  Without looking up, he hurled the rope onto the deck and bounded up the gangplank. Fred thundered after him, dragging the heavy plank aboard.

  ‘All clear!’ he boomed.

  Above him, Whisker saw the mainsail and foresail already filling with air.

  ‘Sails are out,’ Ruby shouted as the underpants jib sail cascaded open in the wind. ‘Get ready to race.’

  Whisker braced himself for the first jolting movement.

  Nothing happened. The Apple Pie remained stationary on the wharf.

  ‘What the flaming rat’s tail is going on?’ Pete hollered from the helm. ‘We’re supposed to be sailing, not sitting!’

  Whisker rushed over to the starboard side bulwark, hoping he hadn’t missed a rope. He leant over the edge and ran his eye along the hull.

  There was nothing connecting the hull with the wharf, but the ship still wasn’t moving.

  ‘Check the anchor,’ he cried over his shoulder.

  There was a clunking sound as Fre
d picked up a large metal object from the deck.

  ‘Anchors away,’ he said, perplexed.

  Pete pounded the wheel in frustration. The rest of the crew scampered around the deck, laying blame and trying to figure out what had gone wrong.

  Ahead of them, the other vessels had left the wharf and were making their way into the centre of the river. Tussling for pole position were HMS Majesty and the Silver Sardine.

  Cursing under his breath, Whisker scurried to the bow of the ship, hoping the Mer-Mouse was simply snagged on a bulrush. As he surveyed the clear water, he was confronted by a loud commotion coming from the Arctic Wind.

  The ship was a short distance away and moving at a snail’s pace. Several of the penguins were squawking loudly and pointing into the air. Whisker followed the direction of their flippers to a huge white sail, suspended from the mainmast. In the centre of the sail was an enormous banana-shaped hole. The escaping wind whistled through the gap.

  ‘Shiver me scissors!’ Horace gasped, rushing up behind Whisker. ‘That’s taken the wind out of their sails.’

  ‘It’s worse than that,’ Whisker said, pulling away from the golden figurehead, ‘it’s taken them out of the race. Our greatest ally has just fallen victim to sabotage and, judging by the mess we’re in, so have we.’

  ‘Rotten pies to sabotage!’ Horace exclaimed, following Whisker along the starboard bulwark. ‘So who do you think did it? The marmosets? They love bananas.’

  ‘If only,’ Whisker replied gravely. ‘Whoever did this wants us to think it was the marmosets.’

  ‘Oh,’ Horace gulped. ‘That sounds like Sabre’s handiwork.’

  ‘Exactly,’ Whisker said. ‘The Cat Fish disappeared straight after the Death Ball final and there’s no prize for guessing where they went.’

  ‘Can we prove it was them?’ Horace asked, wishfully.

  ‘I doubt it,’ Whisker said, stopping to examine a partly-shut cannon hatch. ‘But I think I’ve discovered our snag. Look!’

  He pointed to the bottom of the hatch, where a taut length of rope extended down the side of the hull and disappeared into the water. It was a similar ochre colour to the paintwork on the ship, making it almost impossible to spot.

  With a sharp whistle from Horace, the hatch burst open and the cauliflower-shaped chef’s hat of Fred popped out. Clutching the rope in both paws, he began hauling it into the ship.

  Whisker almost tumbled overboard as the Apple Pie suddenly lurched forward. A moment later, a large banana-shaped anchor appeared at the end of the rope.

  ‘We’re off and running,’ Pete hollered from the helm. ‘All paws on deck. We’ve got a race to win!’

  As the Apple Pie left the safety of the secluded Hawk River and sailed into the bustling cove, Whisker realised there was more than just victory to consider. There was also survival. The Pie Rats had lost their entire arsenal of cannon pies in the Dagger Island raid, leaving them totally defenceless.

  Whisker could already hear the cannons firing from the wooden watchtowers along the wharf, as the procession of pirate ships and spectator vessels made their way past the fortified town.

  At the front of the convoy, the Cat Fish returned fire with a wave of flaming fur-balls. The speeding projectiles raced through the air like meteors, exploding on impact and sending panicked crabs scuttling from the burning buildings. For the first time in his life, Whisker was thankful the cats were such excellent shots.

  Continuing their escape through the cove, Whisker noticed the unmistakable outline of a Claw-of-War ship, docked on the western corner of the wharf. The sight of her claw-shaped battering ram sent a shiver down his tail.

  As he studied the vessel more closely, he realised her twelve mighty sails were tightly furled, her oars were stowed and her hull was secured to the wharf by dozens of thick mooring ropes. Even her cannon hatches were fastened shut. Although the Claw-of-War was in no position to mount a quick pursuit, Whisker knew that once she finally got moving, she had the speed to outrun any ship.

  Taking no chances, the Cat Fish sent a second round of flaming fur-balls hurtling towards the wharf. The deck of the Claw-of-War erupted in flames, as the fur-balls hit their target, and in seconds the entire vessel was ablaze – masts, battering ram and all. The crabs scattered like ants, frantically scooping up buckets of seawater to quell the ravaging flames. Breathing a sigh of relief, Whisker took his last look at Two Shillings Cove and prepared to enter the wide, open sea.

  Firmly entrenched in third place, several minutes behind the other competitors, the Apple Pie rounded the coast of Aladrya and headed north-east. One by one, the spectator vessels peeled off towards the desert island, leaving the three pirate ships sailing along the western outskirts of the Crumbling Rock Islands. The Arctic Wind, almost out of sight behind the Apple Pie, made an ungracious exit from the race and limped to shore.

  A strong eastern headwind forced the Pie Rats to rethink their kite sail strategy, and they had no choice but to tack in short legs rather than sailing in a continuous straight line. The tight manoeuvring and constant change of direction meant their bulky downwind sail would be more of a hindrance than a help, and the Eagle remained tightly stowed in a corner of the navigation room.

  Despite their best efforts, the rats lost considerable ground as they made their way towards the northernmost point of the race. Their two-masted brig was considerably slower in open waters than the three-masted ships of their competitors, and the Captain’s sailing expertise was sorely missed. Smudge spent much of his time flying below, hoping the Captain would suddenly awaken with a clear head and a brilliant plan.

  But the Captain didn’t wake up, and when the Pie Rats reached the first checkpoint, the other teams had already disappeared behind the curving cliffs to the east.

  Whisker saw Chatterbeak perched on top of a windswept cliff, flapping his blue-and-yellow wings excitedly.

  ‘Caw, caw,’ he squawked. ‘Welcome to checkpoint number one. Please proceed with caution and watch out for falling rocks – Oh, and in case you were wondering, you’re officially in last place.’

  ‘Marvellous,’ Pete muttered from behind the wheel. ‘And here I was thinking we were winning.’

  Hoping for a clearer picture of the situation, Whisker called out, ‘Excuse me, Chatterbeak, exactly how far behind are we?’

  Chatterbeak tilted his head to one side, considering his answer.

  ‘You’re roughly five minutes behind HMS Majesty,’ he chirped. ‘And thirty minutes behind the Silver Sardine.’

  ‘Thirty minutes!’ Ruby exploded. ‘Are you serious? There’s no way we can catch the Cat Fish with a thirty minute head start. Not even the marmosets can.’

  Chatterbeak flapped his wings and rose into the air. ‘Caw, caw,’ he squawked, flying in circles around the cliff top. ‘You could always take the short cut …’ And with a final squawk he disappeared over the island.

  ‘Short cut?’ Horace exclaimed. ‘What’s he talking about?’

  Pete let out a long groan. ‘I believe our bird-brained friend is suggesting we take the scenic route through the islands.’

  ‘Oh,’ Fred sighed. ‘Is it pretty?’

  ‘Of course it’s not pretty, you delusional day-tripper!’ Pete snapped. ‘It’s filled with dead-end passages, hull-splitting waves and fifty metre cliffs that collapse on your head with the slightest puff of wind.’

  ‘Isn’t that a bit over the top, Pete?’ Whisker ventured. ‘I mean, one of the passages might continue all the way through.’

  ‘And how would you know that?’ Pete shot back. ‘The islands are uncharted so unless you’ve been there …’

  ‘No,’ Whisker conceded. ‘I haven’t been there. It’s just that …’ he lowered the rope he was holding and closed his eyes. ‘It’s just that when I concentrate hard enough, I can picture the islands – right down to the very last detail. I can’t explain it, but I’m convinced I’ve seen them before.’

  ‘You have!’ Ruby shouted, leaping off th
e rigging in excitement. ‘We all have. Don’t you see? It’s so obvious.’

  ‘Is it?’ Horace shrugged.

  ‘Yes!’ Ruby cried. ‘And we should have thought of it earlier – page six hundred and sixty.’

  Without further explanation, she sprinted across the deck and disappeared into the navigation room.

  Fred and Horace exchanged blank looks.

  Ruby emerged a moment later, clutching the Book of Knowledge in her arms.

  ‘Of course!’ Whisker gasped, suddenly remembering where he’d seen the islands. ‘There’s a map near the outrigger page. We saw it on the desert island.’

  Ruby raced up the stairs to the helm, with Whisker and Horace hot on her heels. She balanced the book on the wooden balustrade and opened to a page two-thirds of the way through. The bright afternoon sun began to work its magic. As the sun-reactive ink grew clear, Whisker noticed the number 715 on the bottom of the page. The rest of the paper was blank apart from one line of text:

  ‘Hardly motivational,’ Horace muttered, as Ruby began flipping the pages back to 660. ‘I’ll take blind victory any day.’

  Anso’s map of the Crumbling Rock Islands (subtitled A Bird’s Eye View) was nothing short of spectacular. Where other maps of the region showed two shapeless blobs for the northern and southern groups of islands, this map revealed every curve, cliff and crag.

  It only took Whisker a moment to find what he was looking for.

  ‘There!’ he exclaimed, pointing to a passage weaving its way through the northern islands. ‘Fishtail Passage. It begins at the tail of Mermaid Island, a short distance from our current location, then passes under the Rock Arch, continuing all the way to the Central Channel –’

  ‘– Saving us at least half-an-hour of sailing,’ Horace chimed in.

  ‘Now hang on a minute,’ Ruby said, tapping the map with her fingernail. ‘I’m all for discussing our options, but we don’t even know what the wind will be like in there.’