The Trophy of Champions. Cameron Stelzer

him off balance. He half-leapt, half-fell over the edge, throwing the makeshift sled beneath him. The bark hit the slope at speed and his chest slammed down on top of it. Head lowered and body rigid, he held on for dear life.

      He’d only travelled a few metres when he heard the faint twang of a bow string and knew a second arrow was already on its way.

      Taking evasive action, he threw his entire body to the left, catapulting the right edge of the sled into the air. The arrow bounced harmlessly off the high bark wall, but the craft veered dangerously close to the edge of the cliff.

      Panic-stricken, he hurled his body to the opposite side of the sled to counteract the momentum. For a moment he was skidding precariously along the very edge of the cliff. Then, with the pull of his weight, the sled began to right its course.

      With a breath of relief, he lifted his head and scanned the sky for further arrows. The air was clear, but the slope ahead revealed something far worse: an entire line of egg-shaped rocks.

      He let out a horrified gasp. There was no way around.

      Without brakes, he acted daringly and decisively. Leaping to the very back of the sled, he grabbed the upper edges of the bark with both paws and slowly stood up. As the lichen-covered rocks came into range, he leant back as far as he could and raised the front half of the sled off the ground.

      There was a sickening SCREEECH as the bottom of the bark collided with the rocks, almost throwing him free. The next moment, the sled was airborne, soaring high over the stones and gravel like a strange, wingless bird – surrounded by stars, held up by the wind. Then it was falling, plummeting down towards the barren slope.

      The back of the sled hit first, gouging into the ground. Its passenger lost his grip and sprawled face-down in the centre of the sled. He dug his claws into the bark to steady himself, as his tail and legs bounced uncontrollably behind him.

      When he finally managed to regain his balance and clamber to his knees, the sled was already speeding down the final section of the hill.

      The gravelly slope levelled out into a grassy meadow extending to the sandy dunes of the coastline. The battered sled skidded to a halt at the foot of a small banksia shrub and its shaken passenger scrambled out.

      There’s still time, he told himself, fixing his sights on a dune near the river mouth. But only just …

      With the last hint of colour fading from the sky, he set off across the gently swaying field of redgrass. Parched by a long, hot summer, the grass was thin and dry. Withered stalks crunched under his feet. Straw-like stems rustled beside him.

      As he crossed the darkening field, he noticed other sounds: the soft swish of the wind; the gentle rumble of breaking waves … and something else.

      Standing on the tips of his toes, he peered above the surrounding seed heads. To his right, not far from the riverbed, he saw movement in the tallest stalks of grass.

      At first he mistook it for the wind, but as he looked closer, he realised the grass was parting to form a path – a path headed in his direction.

      His heart beating fast, he turned on his heel and ran. Tall stalks of grass battered his face and eyes. The sharp edges of leaves sliced past him like knives, cutting his feet and paws.

      Ignoring the pain, he kept on running, tearing through the field like a flame in straw.

      He heard scampering footsteps on either side of him and knew his pursuers were close. The next moment, an arrow raced past him, clipping the sleeve of his coat.

      Head down, he ducked and wove through the thinning grass, not daring to stop. There was no thought of hiding – movement was his only defence.

      He rolled, dived and twisted like an eel, changing direction with every step. The steady stream of arrows missed their mark and the sound of footsteps slowly faded to other parts of the field.

      When he finally ventured to raise his head, the dune was right in front of him. Smooth, white and pure, it beckoned him closer.

      With aching limbs he began his ascent. The fine grains of sand felt warm beneath his paws and the salty air of the sea tingled on the back of his throat. He took a deep, calming breath.

      At last, he thought. I’m here.

      Exhausted, he reached the crest of the dune. Behind him the field of grass lay silent and still. In front of him, in silhouette against the deep blue of the twilight sky, stood three rats.

      They took one look at him, drew their weapons and charged.

      

      Familiar Faces

       Three rats …

      The words echoed through his mind, awakening a memory. For a moment he was somewhere else. He was standing on a sundrenched beach surrounded by three familiar faces. A deep yearning filled his heart as he pictured them standing beside him – his mother, his father, his sister. He wished they were with him now …

      With a small sigh, he was back on the dune and the advancing figures began to grow clearer.

      The first rat was dressed in a red and black long-sleeve sports top with a golden rat insignia across the chest. On his head, he wore a stately black captain’s hat. He whispered a hasty command to his companions before raising a strange scissor-shaped sword above his head.

      The second rat, dressed in a similar sports uniform, grunted a response and aimed a giant fork at the stranger. This rat was huge and hunched and towered above the dune like a misshapen piece of driftwood. His oversized chef’s hat flapped in the wind, his safety pin earring swayed back and forth, and his monstrous left eye stared down like a full moon on a cloudless night.

      There was a soft swish of sand as the third rat approached, balancing on the tip of his wooden pencil leg. As his bony frame drew closer, a strange ticking sound resonated from a small object in his paw. He sniffed the air with his long, crooked nose and narrowed his pink albino eyes at the stranger in the cloak.

      The stranger looked from one hostile rat to the next and then slowly removed his hood. As the folds of fabric dropped lightly to his shoulders, the unruly fur on the top of his head sprang up like the leaves of a pineapple, revealing his true identity.

      The three rats stopped dead in their tracks.

      ‘Oh my precious paws!’ exclaimed the rat with the pencil leg. ‘It’s you, Whisker. We weren’t expecting you for another twenty minutes.’

      ‘Hi, Pete,’ Whisker squeaked. ‘Better early than late.’

      As the other rats slowly lowered their weapons, Pencil Leg Pete held out a shiny brass pocket watch and pointed to the minute hand.

      ‘Take a look at your time, young apprentice,’ he said excitedly. ‘No one has completed the Treasure Hunt training course in less than ninety minutes, let alone seventy.’

      Before Whisker could reply, the giant rat stepped forward, grabbed him by the collar and hoisted him into the air.

      ‘Bravo, Whisker,’ he grunted, giving the small rat a crushing bear hug. ‘You’re a champion.’

      ‘Steady – on – Fred –’ Whisker gasped, struggling for air. ‘I couldn’t have done it without all the unexpected encouragement.’

      The rat in the captain’s hat laughed out loud and clapped Pencil Leg Pete on the back. ‘Did you hear that? Encouragement indeed. That’s the politest description of a surprise cannon attack I’ve heard in years.’

      ‘Aye, Captain,’ Pete said, deadpan. ‘But I’m sure he wouldn’t be as complimentary if he arrived back with half his leg missing.’

      Whisker stared down at Pete’s pencil leg and gulped.

      ‘Don’t worry, Whisker,’ the Captain said in a deep, reassuring