Steal or be stolen from. Kill or be killed.
Whisker had no idea if the cats had followed him from the bonfire or whether their timing was purely coincidental, but he knew for certain they had come for the trophy and they’d stop at nothing to get it.
He was faced with a terrible dilemma: What to do next?
If he warned his friends he would lose his one chance to escape. But if he didn’t …
He let out a low groan. Every option seemed like the wrong one and he was running out of time – fast.
The options are right in front of you, he told himself. You have to choose.
But he knew it was never going to be that simple.
And so, with a whirlwind of emotions, he took his last look at the fire, wrapped his grey-hooded cloak around him and made his decision.
The Answer
The Golden Anchor glided effortlessly through the calm water of the Hawk River, barely leaving a wake. Its lone passenger fixed his eyes on a small fishing jetty and steered the vessel to shore.
It was late in the evening and his journey was nearing its end. He had sailed undetected past the blackened watch towers of the cove and slipped silently into the mouth of the river. As hoped, the tired crabs had been too busy repairing the wharf to notice one, small sailing boat returning to the scene of the crime.
On arriving at the fishing jetty, he secured the vessel to a sturdy pylon and hauled the golden trophy onto dry land. In the pale moonlight, he had no trouble locating the cart of Trojan pasties hiding in the nearby bushes. Using his sword as a lever, he prized open a pasty like a clam shell and began removing great chunks of sticky filling. Despite the enormous size of the pasty, it took some gentle manoeuvring before he finally fit the trophy inside the crust.
Resealing the pasty, he wrapped his greasy paws around the handle of the cart and began lugging his precious cargo up the steep path to the Fish ‘n Ships Inn.
The Inn was alive with music and laughter, the open windows of the restaurant revealing a bustling bar and a crowded dance floor.
Ignoring the late night festivities, the hooded cart-bearer followed the gangplank to the swinging saloon doors. He was met by a familiar looking mink in a black and white apron.
‘Good evening, Sir,’ she said politely. ‘My name is Delores. Welcome to the Fish ‘n Ships Inn.’
‘Evening,’ he mumbled, keeping his head bent low.
She stared at him with a puzzled look on her face before letting out a small gasp.
‘Whisker!’ she exclaimed. ‘Is that you? I almost didn’t recognise you under that hood. Have you come to visit Mr B again?’
Whisker raised his head and looked at Delores in confusion. ‘Mr B?’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Mr Belorio.’
‘Oh,’ Whisker said, finally understanding. ‘Frankie. Yes – of course.’
Delores pointed to a pasty protruding from the top of the cart.
‘I see you’ve brought some midnight munchies with you,’ she laughed. ‘I hope you’re hungry.’
‘They’re Frankie’s favourite,’ Whisker said, playing along.
‘Well, we’d best not keep him waiting then,’ Delores said, ushering Whisker into the foyer. ‘Mr Belorio is staying in the penthouse suite of the eastern tower. The stairs are located at the end of the first corridor, past the high rollers’ room.’ She gave him a small curtsy. ‘Can I assist you with anything else tonight?’
‘No – thank you, Delores,’ Whisker said, stepping into the corridor. ‘You’ve told me everything I need to know.’
The sounds of the restaurant faded to silence as Whisker tip-toed down the lantern-lit corridor. Only the sound of the cart’s rubber wheels broke the eerie stillness.
… Squeak … squeak … squeak …
He passed a door marked Two Up and another labelled Blackjack, and, before he knew it, he was facing a carved oak door with the words High Rollers’ Room painted in thick gold letters.
This is it, he thought, drawing a breath. This is where my search ends. He raised his arm to the door, but a sick feeling of dread seemed to paralyse his fingers.
Can you really trust the fox to keep his word? he asked himself. Forcing himself to be brave, he placed his paw on the brass handle and opened the door.
The only light of the room came from a stumpy candle in the centre of the card table, its smouldering wick clearly struggling to stay alight. Wax oozed over its sides, pooling on the lush felt below. A solitary figure sat at the table, clutching a deck of cards. His black trench coat disappeared into the deep shadows of the room. His orange eyes glowed like coals in the flickering candlelight as he stared unblinking at Whisker.
‘I trust you’ve brought my trinket,’ the fox stated casually, without a word of introduction, as if expecting his guest.
‘Yes,’ Whisker said, pulling the cart inside.
The fox shot a quick glance at the pasties and then shifted his attention to the open doorway.
‘And who else is with you?’ he asked suspiciously.
‘No one,’ Whisker said, hurriedly closing the door. ‘I kept your secret – as promised.’
The fox locked eyes with Whisker, studying him closely. ‘Really?’
Whisker held his gaze, not daring to look away.
After a tense moment, the edges of the fox’s mouth curved into a satisfied smile.
‘Very well,’ he said, rising from his chair. ‘Now show me the trophy.’
The fox watched attentively as Whisker broke open the pasty and began removing the vegetable-covered trophy. Using his sleeve as a rag, he wiped the parsnip and turnip filling off its surface and placed the sticky object on the edge of the table.
A look of greedy delight flashed across the fox’s face.
‘It appears the pirating world has a new champion,’ he mused, placing the deck of cards in front of him.
Whisker stared down at the top card.
Ace of Diamonds, he gasped. The fox’s lucky suit.
The fox stepped eagerly towards the trophy, his paw twitching on the diamond hilt of his sword.
Whisker suddenly felt ill.
‘A-and what about my answer?’ he stammered. ‘I’ve kept my end of the bargain.’
‘Oh, yes,’ the fox said, with a mock sigh. ‘Your poor lost sister. I’d almost forgotten about her.’
A spark of anger flashed inside Whisker.
‘What have you done with her?’ he burst out. ‘If you’ve touched a hair on her head –’
The fox’s eyes narrowed.
‘How dare you,’ he snarled, his fingers tightening on the handle of his sword. ‘I’m a trader, not a monster.’ He took a step towards Whisker and spat, ‘Dead rats are worth nothing to me – don’t you forget it!’
Whisker cowered back, panting for breath, the fox’s words echoing in his head. Dead rats are worth nothing …
‘So – she’s – alive?’ he gasped.
The fox stared at Whisker, unmoved. For a moment he said nothing. Then he answered with a single word, ‘Yes.’
Whisker’s heart almost burst from his chest.
Anna was alive!
‘W-where can I find her?’ he cried, yearning to know more.
‘On a mountain,’ the fox said in a flat, expressionless tone. ‘She’s found a new home with a family of birds. They love rats dearly.’ His lips formed a thin smile. ‘Your sister was a little undernourished for their liking, but I’m sure with a few mountain berries she’ll be as plump as a pig in no time …’
Whisker struggled to process everything he was hearing. Mountains … berries … birds … All he knew was that his sister was alive.
‘And what about my parents?’ he asked excitedly. ‘Are they alive, too?’
‘Your parents?’ The fox repeated, a cruel smirk creeping across his face. ‘I recall our deal was for one answer, not two.’
‘What?’ Whisker gasped, his stomach twisting into a knot. ‘But that’s not fair … y-you’ve got to tell me. Pl
ease –’
‘A deal is a deal,’ the fox snarled, pushing past Whisker to the trophy.
In anger and desperation, Whisker moved his paw to the handle of his scissor sword. ‘Tell me where they are or I’ll-I’ll …’
‘You’ll what?’ the fox hissed, scooping up the trophy in his arms. ‘Stab me with a broken piece of stationery? I think not!’ He stepped backwards, raising the trophy like a shield. ‘I’d love to stay and fight, dear apprentice, but both of us should really be getting a move on. And I thought rats had good hearing …’
Whisker shot a terrified glance at the open window. The unmistakable scuttle of crabs echoed from the balcony beyond.
‘The Blue Claw,’ he gasped.
By the time Whisker had found his legs and turned to flee, the fox was already disappearing out the door.
Panic-stricken, Whisker hurtled over the hollow crust of the pasty and sprinted for the closing door.
With a rumbling THUD–D–D, the door slammed shut in his face.
Frantically, he lunged for the door knob. There was a soft click from the other side and Whisker knew his fate was sealed.
Trapped in a room with nowhere to hide, he did the only thing he could think of: he drew his sword, steadied his nerves and sprinted for the window.
The Blue Claw converged from both ends of the long balcony, their powerful claws snapping wildly. They reached the high rollers’ room as the cloaked body of Whisker hurtled through the window. With a panicked squeak he cleared the balcony and plunged head first into a fish-shaped topiary tree.
The leafy foliage broke his fall, but the branches left him stinging and sore.
With no time to examine his wounds, he scrambled down the tail of the giant green fish, landing on the dew-covered grass.
Desperately, he scanned the moonlit courtyard for an escape route. He was surrounded on all four sides by solid brick walls. Above him, the two huge towers of the inn rose high into the air. In the centre of the courtyard stood the glorious stone fountain. Water squirted from the mouths of three enormous fish, splashing playfully into the pool below. Pale moonlight reflected off the rippling surface of the water, bringing the entire courtyard to life.
As beautiful as the fountain was at night, it was the wrought iron door in the centre of the northern wall that caught Whisker’s attention.
Ignoring the shouts of the watching crabs, he scurried across the courtyard towards his only exit. He had barely reached the fountain when the door burst open and a swarm of angry crustaceans surged through. Led by a gigantic blue soldier crab, they fanned out in a wide arc.
Outnumbered fifty-to-one, Whisker stumbled backwards into the pool, splashing through the shallow water towards the closest stone fish.
The crabs continued their advance, moving in an unbroken ring, their claws open and their eyestalks twitching in anticipation. Reaching the pool, they began to swim.
Whisker stowed his sword and climbed. Using the strength in his arms, he pulled himself up the stone scales of the fish until he reached the very top of the waterspout. Icy water splashed over his hooded cloak, soaking him to the bone. His chest heaved as he gulped in great breaths of air.
He looked down to see the leader of the crabs hauling himself onto a ledge at the base of the fish. He was broad-shelled and powerful, sporting the biggest claws Whisker had ever seen. The lightning-bolt tattoos on either claw revealed his unmistakable identity: General Thunderclaw, the most feared officer in the Aladryan Navy.
Thunderclaw let out a sharp whistle and a mottled blue soldier crab wearing a monocle appeared on the edge of the pool. In his undersized claw he clutched a tightly rolled scroll.
Whisker instantly recognised the crab as the clerk from Prison Island.
‘Is that our suspect?’ Thunderclaw asked, raising a claw in Whisker’s direction.
The clerk unrolled the scroll to reveal a crumpled poster. In its centre was a portrait of a scruffy-looking rodent wearing a grey hooded cloak.
Whisker glanced down at his soggy, grey traveller’s cloak and he wished he’d worn his tacky palm tree tourist shirt instead.
‘It’s our mouse, alright,’ the clerk acknowledged, peering through his monocle. ‘We’ve been on his trail for several weeks.’
‘Then it’s high time we brought him into custody,’ Thunderclaw roared. ‘You know the drill. Dead or alive – but preferably dead!’
With a great cheer, the crabs converged.
Flight
Whisker never dreamed his life would end this way – all alone, on the wrong side of the law, but as the hostile crabs surged up the sides of the fountain, three little words gave him hope.
Hold on, Whisker.
The words seemed to be carried on the wind, barely louder than a whisper.
In confusion, he looked down, his head spinning, water blurring his eyes. The crabs were right below him, snapping their claws and taking wild swipes at his toes. But as hard as they tried, they couldn’t quite reach him.
Mystified, he continued to stare as the bodies of the crabs shrank smaller and smaller. Then, to his amazement he saw that he was no longer standing on the fountain. He was floating in mid-air, high above the courtyard.
Am I dead? he thought, trying to move his arms and legs. A sharp, stabbing pain in his shoulder gave him the answer.
‘Caw, caw,’ squawked a familiar voice. ‘Stop your squirming or I’ll drop you!’
‘Chatterbeak?’ Whisker exclaimed, looking up at the shadowy mass of feathers above him. ‘Is that you?’
‘Keep your voice down,’ the bird cooed. ‘I don’t want my beak featured on the next wanted poster.’
‘But-but what are you doing here?’ Whisker gasped.
‘I thought that was obvious,’ came a second voice from above. ‘He’s rescuing you.’
‘Ruby?’ Whisker gasped.
‘And me,’ Horace called down to him. ‘There’s room for two on this flying taxi.’
‘Skraww, skraww!’ Chatterbeak shrilled, gliding past the turret of the eastern tower. ‘Prepare for landing!’
Whisker had just enough time to glimpse the circular balcony of the penthouse before Chatterbeak released his talons and he was somersaulting through the open door.
‘Ouch,’ he groaned, landing in a soggy heap at the foot of a luxurious four-poster bed.
Frankie Belorio, dressed in a pair of gold-thread pyjamas, rushed over and helped him to his feet. Smudge buzzed in circles around his head.
‘Evenin’, Whisker,’ Frankie said in a matter-of-fact voice.
Smudge pointed vigorously to the open French doors.Sensing he was not out of danger yet, Whisker drew his sword and turned to see Ruby storming into the room. Behind her, Horace was still clambering off Chatterbeak.
‘You’ve got some explaining to do, apprentice,’ she hissed, striding up to him.
Before Whisker could stop her, she had thrown her arms around his neck and was hugging him tightly. Speechless, Whisker dropped his sword and hugged her back.
‘I’m still angry with you,’ she said, her voice quivering with emotion. ‘And I haven’t forgotten you’re a lying scumbag.’
‘I know,’ Whisker said, smiling through his pain. ‘It’s good to see you too, Ruby.’
Ruby released him from her embrace and pointed to a crumpled scrap of paper lying on a bedside table. Large words were scrawled across its yellowed surface in campfire charcoal.
‘I found your note in my quiver of arrows,’ Ruby said, picking up the paper. ‘Something told me you needed our help.’
‘Isn’t that the truth!’ Horace called out.
‘What about the cats …?’ Whisker began.
Ruby flashed him a mischievous grin. ‘Still dozing in the bottom of our rowboat. The Captain thought it would be safer if we took their boat instead. As you can see, Horace and I found a swifter way to reach you.’
‘Fred wanted to come, too,’ Horace added, ‘but our fine feathered friend imposed some weight rest
rictions.’
Chatterbeak shook his tail feathers defensively. ‘Caw, caw! I’m not a flying packhorse!’
Whisker was still puzzled about one thing.
‘How did you know where to find me?’ he asked.
‘The clue on your note was a dead giveaway,’ Ruby replied.
‘Clue?’ Whisker said, dumfounded. ‘What clue?’
Ruby flipped the scrap of paper over to reveal a detailed map of a deserted farm and a ship-shaped inn.
‘Gustave’s Plan B,’ Whisker said, feeling slightly stupid. ‘It was the only paper I had.’
‘A fortunate coincidence,’ Ruby quipped. ‘We already knew that something strange happened to you in the inn – something you couldn’t tell any of us.’
‘And when we spotted the fish-shaped topiary trees from the air, it seemed like the logical place to find you,’ Horace added. ‘Frankie even offered up his penthouse suite for our stakeout.’
‘Thanks, Frankie,’ Whisker said gratefully. ‘I’m sorry to drag you into this mess.’
‘Oh, don’t apologise,’ Frankie said cheerfully. ‘I’m rather enjoyin’ all the excitement. It’s not every day a band of trophy-winning desperados show up on my balcony!’
Whisker felt a sudden pang of guilt.
‘A-about the trophy,’ he began, shuffling uncomfortably from foot to foot. ‘It’s, well … gone.’ He shot a wary glance in Ruby’s direction, expecting a scathing remark or a word of rebuke but Ruby simply pursed her lips and shrugged.
‘Never mind, Whisker,’ Horace said, pointing his hook at a large hole in his companion’s cloak. ‘We’ve still got the prize money, and judging by the state you’re in, the trophy was more trouble than it was worth.’
Whisker felt an enormous weight lift off his shoulders. But before he could say anything, there was a loud commotion from the balcony.
‘Skraww, skraww!’ Chatterbeak screeched, extending his neck over the railing. ‘Don’t look now, but more trouble is on its way.’
Horace rushed to the edge of the balcony and peered below.
The Trophy of Champions Page 21