The Trophy of Champions (25 page)

‘How about this,' Ruby said, shuffling the seeds around.

Whisker shook his head.

Ruby let out a small ‘humph' and then hurriedly reordered the words.

‘That's it!' Whisker exclaimed, trying to keep his voice down. ‘The finish line must be the dry dam – it's a perfect circle.'

‘So what are we waiting for?' Ruby said, brushing the seeds aside with her paw. ‘The dam's only a short sprint from the fallen tree.'

Side by side, the rats took off in the direction of the second river crossing. The vibrant colours of the field flashed past them in a blur as they leapt over leaves and hurdled pumpkins.

Whisker burst through an enormous line of leaves and skidded to an abrupt halt. Directly in front of him, lying deathly-still on the ground, was the unmistakable blue-grey body of Prowler.

Whisker half expected the cat to spring up and bite off one of his ears, but all Prowler did was gaze in his general direction with stone-cold eyes.

As Whisker stared warily at the silent cat, he noticed a dozen small, feathery objects protruding from Prowler's fur.

Before Whisker could figure out what they were, he heard several
vrooshing
sounds over his shoulder.

Ruby gasped in panic, pulling Whisker behind a pumpkin as a red, feathery shape whizzed past them. As he hit the ground, Whisker felt a needle-like pain in the tip of his tail. He looked up to see a red dart sticking out of his skin. A numb feeling began spreading through his tail.

‘Tranquiliser darts!' Ruby hissed, yanking the object free. ‘They must be the marmosets' handiwork. Can you move?'

‘I think so,' Whisker squeaked, wiggling his fingers and toes. He tried to lift his tail but it remained motionless on the ground.

‘You're lucky you only copped one dart,' Ruby whispered. ‘Prowler won't be going anywhere in a hurry.'

Whisker took another look at the frozen feline. Prowler was still staring at them, unable to move a muscle. The remains of a second pottery pumpkin lay strewn over the ground beside him. There was no sign of any seeds.

‘Where's Cleopatra?' Whisker asked in alarm.

‘No idea,' Ruby answered, ‘but if she's good at word games we're in big trouble. Come on!'

Leaving Prowler where he lay, Ruby began crawling through the leaves. Whisker followed silently after her, keeping his body close to the ground.

There were further
vrooshing
sounds and a stream of darts raced through the air, striking the tops of pumpkins to either side of them.

Head down, Whisker scrambled forward, his tail dragging paralysed behind him.

‘This way,' Ruby whispered from up ahead. ‘I can see the creek.'

A few steps later, Whisker was peering through the pumpkin leaves at a shady riverbank. A fallen, moss-covered tree lay to his right. To his left sat a green-eyed Abyssinian cat, grinning at a pawful of porcelain seeds.

The Other Side

Whisker didn't wait to see what Cleopatra had discovered. He stuffed the limp end of his tail into his pocket, scrambled out of the pumpkin patch and leapt onto the trunk.

Ruby was right behind him.

Startled by the sudden movement, Cleopatra's green eyes flashed in the rat's direction.

‘Pesky Pie Rats,' she snarled, scattering the seeds. ‘I'll be dammed if you reach that dam before me.' Hissing and spitting, she bounded after them.

Ruby ran a perfectly straight line and quickly overtook Whisker, struggling to maintain his balance without the use of his tail. He swayed awkwardly from side to side, almost toppling into the water. As wayward as his path was, it proved to be his saving grace.

Reaching the centre of the trunk, he saw three horrifying things at once: Ruby lurching backwards through the air yelling
‘AMBUUUSH,'
a water-filled bucket swinging straight past him, and two penguins clutching a long rope from the top of a tree.

Steadying himself, Whisker made a desperate snatch for Ruby's arm, but his fingers clutched at thin air. He watched helplessly as she plummeted into the creek with a loud
SPLASH
and disappeared beneath the frothing rapids. A moment later, her head burst from the surface.

‘RUN, YOU FOOL!' she spluttered, as the current swept her away. ‘I can swim …'

Before Whisker could move, he heard a startled
hiss
behind him and spun around to see Cleopatra throwing herself onto the trunk. Above her, the flying water bucket hurtled back on its return journey.

With no time to leap clear, Whisker braced himself for the impact. The bucket hit with seismic force, knocking the breath out of his lungs and saturating him with icy cold water. Gasping for air, he threw his arms around the bucket and held on for dear life. There was more than one way of reaching the other side – and he was riding it.

The
bucket express
carried Whisker's shell-shocked body all the way to the willow trees on the far bank. As it began to slow down, Whisker leapt free, commando-rolling into a patch of clover and springing to his feet.

It was now an uphill dash to the finish line.

Whisker had a head start, but he was winded, woozy and sopping wet. Cleopatra, on the other hand, had speed. Oodles and oodles of speed. By the time Whisker had cleared the thicket of trees, the Egyptian speedster was already bounding off the trunk.

He increased his pace, his legs pumping, his heart pounding in his chest. The words of Frankie Belorio flashed through his mind:
Keep on running. Keep on fighting.

Cleopatra's footsteps thundered behind him. With grit and determination, he clambered higher up the hill. Ahead of him, the southern edge of the dam came into view. Frenzied spectators threw their paws in the air, cheering the runners home.

Fifty metres to go,
he told himself.

Cleopatra was closing fast, tearing up the hill like a hungry cheetah.

Whisker's muscles burned. His lungs heaved. His tail did nothing. Losing the strength in his legs, he began to falter.

Forty metres
.
Keep it together.

The crowd was suddenly all around him, shouting and screaming. He could feel Cleopatra's breath on the back of his neck. He could hear her snarling victoriously.

Thirty metres,
he panted, willing himself on.
You can still win it.

The purple ribbon of the finish line drew closer. Cleopatra was right beside him. Shoulder to shoulder, they tussled for the lead.

Twenty metres.

Reaching the edge of the dam, Cleopatra made her move. She broke away from Whisker with explosive acceleration and hurtled up the steep bank like a mountain goat on a sugar rush. Before he knew it, she was a full body length ahead of him. Then she was two bodies clear.

With only ten metres to go, Whisker knew he would never catch her.

It can't end like this,
he told himself.
Come on …

With a mighty
KABOOM! KABOOM!
two cannons roared to life from the centre of the dam. Caught unawares, Cleopatra was blasted off her feet by a wave of sticky, green goo. Startled onlookers screamed in panic as mangled chunks of Granny Smith apples sprayed everywhere.

Avoiding the brunt of the attack, Whisker brushed an apple seed from his chin and kept on running.

Five metres to go. You've still got a chance.

Ahead of him, Cleopatra began dragging herself out of the putrid muck, clawing her way to the finish line. Fuelled by adrenalin, Whisker lowered his head and powered on.

Four metres.

Cleopatra stumbled forward, green-eyed and terrifying, her brown fur glistening with apple juice.

Three metres.

He was almost there.

Two metres.

Neck and neck, they approached the line, the ribbon close enough to touch.

One metre.

It was now or never.

With every last ounce of his strength, Whisker hurled his body forward. He heard the roar of the crowd. He felt the ribbon brush the tip of his nose.

Victory.

As he crashed to the ground in a tangle of purple material, he knew he had done it.

This one's for you, Mum,
he said to himself as he lay in a heap, panting for breath.
Red roses and rotten apples. If only you could see …

To either side of him, Horace and Pete thumped their cannons in celebration. Granny Rat and the Captain cheered and paw-pumped the air.

‘Caw, caw,' Chatterbeak screeched. ‘What an explosive finish. Watch your backs, Cat Fish. The Pie Rats are coming for the trophy.'

‘Awesome treasure hunting, Whisker!' Horace cried, rushing over.

‘Awesome shooting, yourself,' Whisker said, untangling himself from the ribbon.

‘Aw, shucks,' Horace replied, brushing the praise aside with his hook. ‘I can't take all the credit. It was Pete's idea to plant the cannons on the finish line.'

‘Thank Ratbeard the Cat Fish supporters stayed out of our way,' Pete added dryly. ‘The fools all presumed our cannons were for the victory celebrations.'

‘The celebrations vill have to vait, I'm afraid,' Gustave said, stepping out of the crowd. He gestured behind him to where a throng of rowdy Cat Fish supporters were leading a chant of, ‘Death Ball! Death Ball! When do we want it? Now!'

‘In an endeavour to avoid a riot,' Gustave continued, ‘I have rescheduled ze Death Ball final for zis morning.'

Whisker felt his jubilation turn to despair. The Pie Rats' rent-a-crowd was nowhere in sight and, without their camouflaged uniforms, the entire team stood out like bright-red strawberries in a spinach patch.

‘We begin in thirty minutes,' Gustave said firmly. ‘Gather your vits and prepare to do battle.'

Fuming with rage at her inaccurate game-time prediction, Granny Rat called an emergency meeting in the grassy centre of the dam. Ruby arrived, sopping wet and shivering, and joined the five rats in a tight huddle.

‘We've got good news and bad news,' Horace said, bringing her up to speed.