The Trophy of Champions (9 page)

Back in the circle, Furious Fur grabbed Tuffy and Sir Mecks by their ankles and dragged their stunned bodies over the sideline. He took one look around the empty battlefield and raised two triumphant paws in the air.

‘Coooeee!' Chatterbeak squawked. ‘The fight is over in record time. The Cat Fish are the champions.'

A few hours later, six sombre rats and a blowfly sat on a high branch overlooking the marina. It was early evening and the crescent moon hung directly overhead, its pale light barely penetrating the wispy clouds that drifted across the sky. Leaves rustled softly in the breeze. The calm waves of the ocean gently rumbled in to shore.

The surveillance party was there on direct orders from the head coach, while the team officials enjoyed a relaxing dinner in the Champions Tavern.

Pete was still grumbling about the team's defeat and how it could have been prevented. Fred wouldn't stop apologising for stepping out of the circle, and Ruby refused to speak to any of them.

The object of their attention was Baron Gustave's lavish three-masted ship, the
Velvet Wave.
Anchored a short distance beyond the northern pier, its six purple sails, carved mahogany railing and three-tiered deck set it apart from the cruder pirate ships of the marina. Between the foremast and the mainmast of the lower deck was a small raised cabin. Wide double doors hung open on its port and starboard sides. In the centre of the cabin, surrounded by lush velvet curtains, stood the Trophy of Champions, its purple flames clearly visible through an open trapdoor in the roof. An eerie glow radiated upwards, illuminating the edges of furled sails and the tips of the masts.

‘There it is,' Horace whispered from the end of the branch. ‘Now how do we get to it?'

‘With great difficulty,' Pete murmured. ‘Have you counted all those guards?'

Whisker moved his paw to his drawstring bag and pulled out a tiny golden spyglass, one of many useful items Madam Pearl had supplied for the games. Extending the spyglass to its full length, he scanned the ship for signs of Gustave's twelve sons.

He easily spotted two of them standing outside the starboard doors of the trophy room and another two guarding the port side. There was one on the middle deck and two on the helm. Two rabbits watched from the bow of the ship and one crouched in the crow's-nest.

That makes ten,
Whisker said to himself.
Now where are the other two?

He lowered the spyglass to the northern pier. Between Rat Bait's boat, the
Golden Anchor,
and the Sea Dogs' vessel, the
Blood an' Bones
, lay a row of open crates. Each crate was marked with a large purple
G
and filled with a variety of foodstuffs. One white rabbit was inspecting the contents of the crates while another used a hand-operated wharf crane to lower the crates into a small rowboat.

‘They're thorough,' Horace whispered, pointing to the rabbits with his hook. ‘I doubt we could smuggle our way on board.'

‘So how do we get across?' Pete sniffled.

‘Oh, there are many ways,' the Captain answered casually, staring through his own spyglass. ‘Take a look – starboard side, behind the rudder. The entire royal family is bobbing around down there.'

Whisker trained his spyglass on a green and brown patch in the water, not far from the
Velvet Wave.
King Marvownion, Queen Marmalade and their two children, Prince Marcabio and Princess Mayenya, were paddling towards the ship with long strands of seaweed draped over their heads.

On the opposite side of the rudder, Whisker noticed a large piece of driftwood moving steadily through the waves. There was no mistaking the soggy white poodles clinging to its side.

‘Double trouble!' Horace gasped. ‘We can't just sit here while another team gets the bonus point –'

‘Hold your horses,' Pete cut in. ‘I think the bumbling buffoons have just spotted each other.'

The monkeys were too far away to be heard, but their angry paw gestures made it perfectly clear they had sighted the dogs. The dogs responded by lowering their heads and paddling even faster towards the ship.

Unbeknown to the pirates, four rabbits lined the back railing of the ship. Whisker watched, transfixed, as the expert marksmen aimed their paint-pellet rifles at the animals and opened fire with four loud
CRACKS.

Startled howls and barks echoed across the marina. King Marvownion thrashed around dramatically in a pool of bright purple seaweed and bellowed at the top of his lungs, ‘Great grape-flavoured gumballs! Call the coastguard. I've been hit …'

With the evening's entertainment drawing to a close, the Pie Rats scampered down the tree.

‘That was far better than a dreary old dinner in the tavern,' Horace chuckled, reaching the ground. ‘Three teams down and three to go.'

‘It would be better if the Cat Fish were out of the running for the bonus point,' Pete muttered. ‘They're cunning – and we're yet to come up with a plan.'

Whisker sighed. ‘Believe me. I'm working on it…'

Bullseye!

The third event of the Centenary Games was the much-loved Cannon Firing contest. Mid-morning, six teams and their supporters assembled at the firing range to the south of the Death Ball arena. It was a dreary, overcast day and many of the well-to-do spectators carried large umbrellas in anticipation of a passing autumn shower or two.

Six large circular targets were lined up in a straight row at the far end of the flat plain. Each target was marked with a red bullseye and a white outer ring. Six iron cannons were positioned at the closest end, surrounded by representatives from each team. A crowd of spectators watched from either side of the range. Much to Whisker's disappointment, no fox was among them.

In accordance with Baron Gustave's instructions, each team was required to shoot five projectiles of their choosing. Two nominated team members took turns shooting the first four shots, with the final shot being fired by either member. Shots that touched the bullseye scored two Cannon Firing points. Shots that hit the outer ring scored one point. If two or more teams were tied in first place at the end of five rounds, a shoot-off would be used to determine the winner. The winning team received one championship point.

Horace and Pete had been selected to represent the Pie Rats and stood in readiness with a pile of Whisker's finned pies. As the inventor of the
three-finned projectile
, Whisker acted as an assistant coach, while Granny Rat watched from the safety of the sidelines.

‘Ridiculously ridiculous!' Horace exclaimed as Prince Marcabio inserted a gold-plated Death Ball into his cannon. ‘It's supposed to be a shooting competition – not a flying art show.'

‘And you don't think our pie projectiles look a tad abstract?' Pete muttered.

‘They're an engineering masterpiece,' Horace exclaimed, tapping a pastry fin with his hook. ‘Cooked to
pie
fection! They're faster than the cats' flaming fur-balls, more accurate than the toads' poison blobs and far less temperamental than the Sea Dog's biscuit bones.'

‘I admit we have the aerodynamic edge,' Pete said cautiously, ‘but the wind will still be a determining factor. It appears to be blowing from several directions at once.'

‘Leave it to me,' Horace said, inserting the first pie into the cannon. ‘Bullseye, here I come.'

‘Let the first round begin,' Gustave shouted from the sidelines. ‘FIRE WHEN READY!'

Horace made his final adjustments and lit the fuse. A moment later, the cannon roared to life with an enormous
KABOOM!

The pie rocketed into the air, veering hard to the left. It continued its wayward journey across the field before crashing ungraciously into the grass beside the Sea Dogs' target.

‘Nice shootin', pie-brain!' Bartholomew Brawl howled. ‘Hit our target next time and we'll claim your points.'

Pete gave Horace a firm prod with his pencil. ‘What the flaming rat's tail just happened? That was the worst shot I've ever seen. Even the penguins hit something with their melting ice cubes.'

‘H-how could that happen …' Horace gabbled, staring into the distance. ‘I did everything right, honestly. It's not like a fin fell off or anything …'

At the end of the field, the penguins, toads and marmosets had clipped the edges of their targets to claim one point each, while the Sea Dogs and Cat Fish had both hit bullseyes. Whisker had his doubts about the accuracy of the cats' shot. With their entire target on fire it was impossible to prove exactly where their flaming fur ball had landed.

‘I wish it would pour,' Horace sulked, watching the misty patches of drizzle blow across the field. ‘Or better still, I wish it would hail. That would put a damper on the cats' flaming start.'

‘You still need to hit something,' Pete said, preparing his first shot. ‘All the storms in the world won't steal you a victory.'

Minutes later, Pete's first shot hit the bullseye.

‘That's how it's done,' he gloated, tapping the base of the cannon with his pencil. ‘Go easy on the blast and you'll get a straighter launch.'

‘Alright, Professor Perfect,' Horace said through gritted teeth. ‘I'll cut back on the gunpowder next time.'

The Pie Rats watched anxiously as the other teams completed their second-round shots. The toads and penguins missed their targets altogether and the Sea Dogs' flying biscuit bone disintegrated in the air. The marmosets and Cat Fish managed to hit bullseyes, moving them to three and four points respectively.

‘Oh swell,' Horace muttered, fumbling with a pie. ‘What are the cats' chances of missing the next three shots?'

Whisker took a look through his spyglass. ‘The targets appear awfully soggy from all this drizzle,' he said. ‘It might put an end to their easy run.'

‘Three perfect shots and we're still in the hunt,' Horace said, managing a small grin. ‘Okay, wish me luck.'

Horace's second shot was neither lucky nor was it accurate. From the moment the pie left the cannon, there was no doubt where it was headed. It curved in a wide, wayward arc and landed at the foot of a gum tree.