The Trophy of Champions. Cameron Stelzer

it is time to assemble. I bid you all goodnight.’

      ‘What about the Death Ball pools?’ Bartholomew Brawl barked. ‘Aren’t you gonna tell us who we’re fightin’?’

      ‘No,’ Gustave replied bluntly. ‘Zat vould spoil ze surprise – and surprises are vot zese games are about.’

      

      The Bells of Autumn

      The stars were still shining in the indigo sky when the bell rang out across the sleepy island. Whisker opened his bleary eyes and stared at the roof of the tent. Troubled thoughts of the Cat Fish had plagued his mind for most of the night.

      Every crash and clang from the bustling Champions Tavern had woken him with a fright. Every snarl, sneeze, sigh and snore that echoed through the campsite had set his nerves on edge. In the dark hours of the morning he’d almost convinced himself Sabre was lurking outside his tent, waiting to pounce. Whisker longed for the quiet sanctuary of the ocean, where the dull murmur of the wind and the rhythm of the waves gently rocked him to sleep.

      ‘Couldn’t they wait till sunrise to ring that blasted bell?’ Horace moaned, covering his ears with his pillow. ‘Professional athletes deserve their rest.’

      Fred opened his enormous eye and blinked at his two tent-mates.

      ‘No time for a cooked breakfast,’ he grunted, clambering out of his sleeping bag. ‘Cold pies on the run – again.’

      Nibbling on a slice of stale apricot pie, Whisker followed the rest of the crew towards the lookout tower. The sky was slowly lightening in the east, revealing the black silhouettes of the forest trees high above them.

      ‘How’s my precious granddaughter this morning?’ Granny Rat asked as Ruby begrudgingly guided her along the uneven track. ‘Ready to show those vile thugs what we girls are made of?’

      ‘Sure, Gran,’ Ruby muttered, ‘as soon as we know what event we’re in.’

      ‘It will be Death Ball,’ Granny replied confidently, ‘mark my words. I’ve seen enough of these barbaric games to know how it works. No organiser would be daft enough to start with a soft event like Plank Diving. The spectators would tear him to shreds.’

      As the line of sleepy animals neared the wooden tower, the chimes of the bell were replaced by the booming voice of Baron Gustave.

      ‘Please proceed to ze Death Ball arena immediately,’ he shouted from the top of the swaying tower. ‘All ticket holders are asked to take zeir allocated seats in ze grandstands. Sea Dogs and Pie Rats are to report to ze dressing rooms at once. Ze first pool game will commence in thirty minutes.’

      Granny Rat grinned with satisfaction. ‘Told you so …’

      The southern dressing room of the Death Ball arena was nothing more than a rectangular hole dug under the grandstands. Several frosted glass lanterns hung from the roof, providing dim light for the competitors. The Pie Rats sat on a long bench against one wall, watching their coach hobbling around the centre of the room. Rat Bait stood with his arms crossed and his back to a closed door.

      ‘Here,’ Horace whispered, passing Whisker a small yellow card. ‘You might want to brush up on your Death Ball rules.’

      ‘You’ll notice a few differences to the jungle version of the game,’ Horace explained as Whisker ran his eye down the list, ‘most noticeably the length of matches. Each half runs for thirty minutes and is measured by an hourglass – not a sundial. Due to the brutality of the matches, penalty shootouts replace any extra time.’

      ‘Sixty minutes is still a long time to survive a Sea Dog pounding,’ Pete grimaced.

      ‘Speaking of those slobber-ridden dogs,’ Granny Rat said, ‘do we have any inside information on them?’

      ‘They be the reignin’ Cup champions an’ competition favourites,’ Rat Bait replied, avoiding eye contact with the fiery coach. ‘More bark than bite if ye ask me. Them two poodles, Tuffy an’ Fluffy, will only pick on smaller folk than themselves.’

      ‘Like me,’ Horace muttered, attaching a tightly strung racket to the end of his golden stump.

      ‘Err … I s’pose,’ Rat Bait mumbled. ‘That wee terrier’s a harmless ball o’ fur, though. They call him The Kid. And the three-legged Pug, Biscuit, he’s a pushover. As for the Beagle, Scallywag Sam, well, he’s only interested in entertainin’ the crowd.’

      Granny rat hobbled over to the wall and drew a large circle with a piece of chalk.

      ‘Those despicable dogs will get most of the crowd balls,’ she said, filling the circle with names and symbols. ‘Make it your priority to keep the ball in play. Your opposition will be good for short bursts but they’ll tire by the end of each half. Run them ragged if you can and then strike when their tongues are dragging on the ground.’

      She turned and studied the faces of the Pie Rat team, paying particular attention to Horace and Whisker.

      ‘This might seem like a warm-up game for some of you,’ she scoffed, ‘but I can’t stress enough the importance of Death Ball victories in the bigger scheme of things. A pool-game victory is worth nearly as much as an event win if two teams are tied at the end of the tournament.’

      She glared in Rat Bait’s direction. ‘My first Pirate Cup team lost their opening pool game and it cost them the competition. If I’m to have any hope of winning the cup this time around, I’ll need a strong start from every one of you the moment you step onto that field.’

      ‘Talk about pressure,’ Horace whispered to Whisker. ‘It’s hard enough living up to the expectations of three perfect sisters without adding Granny Rat to the mix.’

      Whisker let out a deep sigh. ‘Welcome to the Pirate Cup.’

      There was a muffled trumpet blast from outside.

      ‘That’s your cue,’ Granny Rat exclaimed. ‘Now get out there and do us proud!’

      Surrounded by an ocean of blue and white-clad supporters, the Pie Rats made their way onto the field. Huge, striped flags fluttered in the morning breeze like the sails of a racing regatta. Spectators jeered and hissed, pelting the rats with half-chewed pie crusts and soggy dog biscuits.

      Shielding his head from the flying projectiles, Whisker glimpsed Horace’s family sitting directly behind the reserve bench dressed in red, black and gold.

      ‘Hi, Whisker,’ chimed the three sisters, waving gold handkerchiefs and blowing kisses.

      Whisker gave them an awkward wave and tried not to blush.

      ‘Groupies …’ Ruby muttered, pushing past him to the centre of the field.

      From a velvet-seated commentary box in the first row, Baron Gustave introduced a large blue-and-yellow Macaw named Chatterbeak as the game’s official commentator. The flamboyant parrot puffed up his feathers and squawked excitedly, ‘Madness, madness, hold onto your hats, here come the reigning Cup champions …’

      The reception for the Sea Dogs was almost deafening. Energised by the welcome, the dogs bounded out of the tunnel and sprinted around the perimeter of the field, sparking a Mexican wave.

      After several whistles from a white rabbit in a striped referee’s shirt, the dogs finally stopped their frivolous display