The Trophy of Champions (29 page)

‘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 Fred 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.'