The Trophy of Champions. Cameron Stelzer

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      The return trek through the forest was pleasantly uneventful. Whisker led the march up the dry riverbed, with Ruby and Horace keeping pace beside him. Only a tiny sliver of the moon was visible in the western sky and Horace carried a flaming torch in his hook, illuminating the way.

      ‘You’re taking this Pirate Cup thing pretty seriously, Whisker,’ Horace panted, struggling to keep up with the energetic rat. ‘I mean, I’ve wanted to win since I was a kid and I know how much is at stake for the Captain, but you’ve taken things to a whole new level. My mind boggles at how much training you can fit into one day.’ He peered across at Ruby and cautiously added, ‘And here I was thinking Little Miss Archery was the competitive one. She’s always got something to prove.’

      Lost in her own thoughts, Ruby said nothing. Whisker simply shrugged and increased his pace. Deep down inside he knew that it wasn’t his desire to win the cup that spurred him on. It was the training itself. The long, gruelling days of running, sailing and diving had given him a new focus. Each hour of training had taken his mind off the one thing he was powerless to control: finding his family.

      In the rare stillness of the evening, his mind drifted back to the moment he first glimpsed his father’s boat, repaired and restored by Rat Bait after the terrible cyclone. There had been no sign of Whisker’s family when Rat Bait purchased the dilapidated vessel on Drumstick Island and, after much questioning, the only useful information the old rogue could share was: ‘I be buyin’ the boat from a trader. Strange fellow he was, a fox with no name, wearin’ a long black coat …’

      As a gesture of goodwill, Rat Bait offered Whisker the restored boat: the Golden Anchor. Whisker resolved that he would only accept the vessel after he had found his family.

      In days that followed, the Pie Rats had searched every small island in the Cyclone Sea, following a map from the newly acquired Book of Knowledge. Although the islands were close to where Whisker’s family had disappeared, his heart was never fully in the search. He knew what they would discover before they even started looking.

      Empty handed, they had sailed east to Drumstick Island, where Whisker hoped to locate the mysterious fox. To his dismay, the elusive trader had vanished without a trace, leaving no clue as to who he was or where he was headed.

      Now, walking through the dark forest on Dagger Island, Whisker’s heart was heavy. He was no closer to finding his parents and sister than he was when the Pie Rats first plucked him from the stormy ocean many weeks earlier.

      Refusing to wallow in his own misery, he tried to focus on the days ahead, hoping the thrill of the Centenary Games would somehow fill the void in his heart. Images of cheering spectators, last minute goals and victory parades filled his mind. He even pictured himself holding up the famed Trophy of Champions – a dream shared by Ruby and Horace. But as hard as he tried, the emptiness remained.

      ‘Whisker?’ Ruby said, breaking his concentration.

      ‘Yeah,’ he mumbled, his head still in a dark cloud.

      ‘There’s something I’ve been puzzling over,’ she said softly.

      Whisker turned to look at her. In the flickering light of Horace’s torch he could see her staring straight at him, as if reading his thoughts.

      ‘When we first arrived here,’ she continued, ‘Rat Bait told me that everyone who’s anyone will be at these games.’

      ‘Everyone?’ he repeated.

      ‘Well, not technically everyone,’ Horace butted in. ‘I doubt General Thunderclaw and his Blue Claw buddies got an official invite. And Mr Tribble and the twins aren’t coming, not with school starting back in Oakbridge. And it’s too risky for our fugitive sponsor Madam Pearl to make an appearance …’

      ‘That’s not what I meant, Horace,’ Ruby snapped. ‘Rat Bait was referring to every scoundrel and villain of importance. You know, the kingpins of the smuggling world and the godfathers of piracy.’

      ‘Not my godfather,’ Horace said. ‘He has a weak bladder and doesn’t travel well … although my Mama, Papa and sisters are coming, and my Papa Niko is a big shot in the Death Ball world – he coached the Freeforian Firetails to three consecutive inter-island championships.’

      ‘Thank you for that highly relevant information,’ Ruby said sarcastically. ‘I’ll make sure I ask your papa for some little league tips if I run into him.’ Frowning, she turned back to Whisker. ‘Where was I?’

      ‘Scoundrels and villains,’ Whisker replied.

      ‘Oh, yes,’ Ruby said, collecting her thoughts. ‘According to Rat Bait, the Pirate Cup doubles as a lucrative business opportunity for underworld figures. Its secret location is the perfect place to cut a deal, plan a heist or –’ she paused for impact, ‘offload a shipment of stolen goods without the authorities knowing.’

      ‘I’m not quite following you,’ Whisker said quizzically. ‘Is there something on the black market you want to buy?’

      Ruby shook her head. ‘It’s not the goods I’m talking about, it’s the shady characters selling them.’

      ‘Traders,’ Whisker gasped, suddenly understanding.

      ‘Exactly,’ Ruby said. ‘Items sold during the games often fetch top dollar. When the money is flowing, the traders swoop like vultures. If your nameless fox has something valuable to trade, he’ll make an appearance sooner or later.’

      Whisker felt a wave of excitement race up his tail. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Instead of searching the vast oceans for the mysterious trader, all he had to do was wait for the fox to come to him.

      ‘Oh, one other thing,’ Ruby added. ‘Spectators always spend more money when they’re being entertained.’

      ‘And how do we do that?’ Horace asked, re-joining the conversation. ‘Comedic routines? Death defying stunts?’

      ‘That’s easy,’ Ruby grinned. ‘We win in style!’

      Suitcases

      The athletes’ village of the 25th Pirate Cup was a hive of activity. Teepees, tents and primitive bark huts covered almost every inch of the grassy clearing. Dozens of small iron braziers burned freely, spreading a warm orange glow over the entire campsite. Feathered, furred and scaly creatures bustled to and fro in the firelight, polishing weapons and adding the final touches to their team uniforms.

      Doubling as a spectators’ resort, the village had it all: souvenir stands, food stalls, betting parlours and the glorious Champions Tavern. Covered by a huge canvas roof, the tavern was the social heart of the games. Long planks of freshly-cut timber, raised on tree stumps, ran the entire length of the expanse to form enormous tabletops. Huge barrels of Apple Fizz, Hot Chilli Cola and Blackberry Surprise lined the back wall, waiting for thirsty competitors to flood in after a gruelling day’s events.

      Situated on the western side of the island, a short walk from the marina berths, the village provided easy СКАЧАТЬ