The Golden Anchor. Cameron Stelzer

in every direction, it covered the glassy water like a blanket, the ghostly layers of cloud hovering motionless in the frozen mountain air. Framed by the rays of the autumn sun, the looming summit of Cloud Mountain cast a long shadow across the alpine lake.

      Flap, flap.

      The sound of beating wings penetrated the stillness.

      Flap, flap, flap.

      Blue and yellow feathers rose up and down as a large macaw parrot flew southwards over the water. Laden with four passengers, he maintained his slow but steady pace, emerging from the shadow of the mountain to find himself bathed in misty sunlight.

      From his position on the parrot’s back, Whisker, the Pie Rat apprentice, watched the morning sunlight filter through the fog and then shimmer off the surface of the lake. Breathtakingly beautiful, the vivid blue colour of the glacial water only reminded him of the danger they were in. Sunlight brought warmth and, when the cold air warmed, the protective layer of fog would lift.

      Whisker’s thoughts were interrupted by a high-pitched cry from the sky. His eyes flashed heavenwards, searching for the source of the sound, but he saw nothing through the fog.

      There was a soft hiss of steel behind him as Ruby Rat drew one of her scissor swords.

      ‘Correct me if I’m wrong,’ she whispered in his ear, ‘but that sounded an awful lot like a golden eagle.’

      ‘Make that two golden eagles,’ Whisker murmured as a second eagle answered the first with a chorus of cries.

      The shrill sounds awoke the small rat nestled in Whisker’s lap and she clawed at Chatterbeak’s feathers, trying to find a firm grip on his blue plumage.

      ‘Hold steady, Anna,’ Whisker said, wrapping a strong arm around his frightened sister. ‘We don’t know if they’ve spotted us yet.’

      The companions listened anxiously as several more cries rang out across the grey sky.

      ‘Shiver me scissor swords!’ exclaimed a voice from below. ‘There’s more than a couple of eagles up there. There’s an entire flock. Talk about persistent. I thought they would have given up the hunt by now.’

      ‘Not likely, Horace,’ Ruby said dryly. ‘We ruined their feast, stole their prize captive and gave them a lesson in air-to-air combat. If that’s not a recipe for revenge, I don’t know what is.’

      ‘Yeah, well rotten pies to revenge,’ Hook Hand Horace muttered from the clutches of the parrot’s claws. ‘I didn’t come all this way to end up as a bird’s breakfast.’

      Chatterbeak let out a low whistle and tightened his grip on the anxious rat. ‘Caw, caw. No need to panic, Master Horace. The southern shore is just ahead.’

      With a thrill of hope, Whisker looked to his right to see the eerie silhouette of the Hawk’s View jetty appearing through the thinning fog. The jetty and its surrounds appeared completely deserted, with not a single one of the moored vessels he had seen three days earlier.

      ‘I don’t like the look of this,’ he said nervously.

      ‘Well, whatever foul play is at work, disappearing boats are the least of our worries,’ Ruby hissed, thrusting her sword into the air.

      Whisker raised his eyes to the clearing sky and saw a procession of dark shapes racing towards them from the mountain.

      ‘Ratbeard save us!’ he gasped. ‘Every eagle on Cloud Mountain must be in that flock.’

      For a fleeting moment, he considered hiding under the jetty and waiting for the eagles to pass. But he dismissed the idea instantly when he realised that if he could see the eagles, the eagles had already seen him.

      The boatshed came into view halfway down the jetty. Whisker was confronted by four enormous wanted posters plastered to its wall. Any hopes of finding refuge in the sleepy town were quickly dashed.

      ‘Argh me pastries,’ Horace groaned, pointing his hook at the billboard-sized wanted posters. ‘A thumb-sized mugshot in the paper is one thing, but with portraits that big, even a short-sighted mole would recognise us.’

      ‘Moles I can handle,’ Ruby said, glancing over her shoulder. ‘It’s those eagles I’m worried about.’ She instinctively reached for her quiver of arrows, then, finding it empty, let out a hiss of frustration. ‘Oh great! My arrows are spent and we’re fast running out of fog.’

      ‘Rotten pies, putrid pastries and burnt biscuits rolled into one!’ Horace wailed. ‘Does anyone have any good news to share?’

      Whisker didn’t and so he said nothing. Instead he turned his attention to the scene ahead. At the end of the jetty, the cobblestone esplanade of Hawk’s View ran in a long arc along the foreshore, lined with boutique shops and lakeside chalets. Second floor balconies and steep, tiled roofs rose out of the wispy fog. Every window was closed. Every door was shut. The place looked like a ghost town.

      ‘Which way, Whisker?’ Horace hissed. ‘You’re the escape artist.’

      Whisker plucked a small golden spyglass from his drawstring bag and hurriedly raised it to his eye. He focused the lens and began scanning the esplanade for an escape route. The ornately decorated buildings were jammed in like sardines, with barely a gap between their walls.

      ‘Hurry!’ Horace yelped as the buildings drew closer.

      Whisker continued his frenzied surveillance, moving his spyglass further down the line of terraced buildings until he spotted a small alleyway between a hotel and a seafood restaurant. Directly behind it, a tall clock tower rose into the sky.

      ‘There!’ he cried, pointing ahead. ‘Take us into that alley, Chatterbeak.’

      Flapping his wings frantically, Chatterbeak altered his course, scraping past several lamp posts and fishing statues in his haste to reach the alley. With the sound of the eagles growing louder, he steered his large feathered body into the brick-walled alleyway, almost colliding with a row of garbage bins.

      Whisker held on for dear life, the red bricks flashing past him in a blur. Directly ahead, the alley formed a T-intersection with a wide cobblestone road. On the far side of the road stood the town hall and its mighty clock tower. The elegant stone building was wedged between the theatre and the magistrate’s court. The entire suite of buildings ran in an unbroken line through the centre of the town, with no alleyways, lanes or walkways between them.

      ‘Left or right?’ Horace shouted as the light at the end of the alley grew brighter.

      Whisker hesitated, considering his options. Flying left would lead them to the river mouth. Flying right would take them to the market square. Both directions meant following the road and both directions were in plain sight of the eagles.

      ‘What’s it to be?’ Horace urged.

      Whisker was about to yell ‘LEFT,’ when he remembered something his father had once told him – a piece of advice passed down from his great-grandfather, Anso. Always look for the third option.

      It had saved him in the past and it could save him today. Suddenly, Whisker saw the situation in a whole new light.

      ‘Over,’ he bellowed. ‘Fly over the buildings.’

      ‘Caw, caw! Are you crazy?’ Chatterbeak squawked, clipping the lid of an overflowing garbage bin with his right wing. ‘Every bird in the sky will see us up there.’

      There was a crescendo of clanging metal as the lid crashed unceremoniously to the ground.

      Ruby winced. ‘I’m pretty sure they already know our location, Clatterbeak.’

      Conceding the point, the heavily laden parrot took several great wing strokes, rising higher