The Golden Anchor Read online

  Titles available in the Pie Rats series

  (in reading order):

  The Forgotten Map

  The King’s Key

  The Island of Destiny

  The Trophy of Champions

  Child of the Cloud

  The Golden Anchor

  For Jenny,

  and for our little Pie Rats:

  Olivia Grace,

  Emmaline Hope

  & Jasmine Faith.

  The story begins and ends with you.

  Sincere thanks go to Tyson, Rachael, Robin, Lis, Lauren and Sarah for their editorial input. A special mention also goes to the ‘junior editors’, Linden and Huon, and to the Glover family for helping name the pirate captains. This book is truly a family affair. C.S.

  First published by Daydream Press, Brisbane, Australia, 2017

  Text and illustratio­ns copyright © Dr Cameron Stelzer 2017

  Illustrations are watercolour and pen on paper

  No part of this book may be reproduced electronically, verbally or in print without written permission from the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  National Library of Australia Cataloguing-in-Publication Entry

  Author: Stelzer, Cameron, 1977 –

  Title: The Golden Anchor / by Cameron Stelzer

  ISBN: 9780994248657 (pbk.)

  Series: Stelzer, Cameron, 1977 – Pie Rats; bk. 6

  Target audience: For primary school age.

  Subjects: Rats – Juvenile fiction.

  Adventure stories.

  Dewey number: A823.4

  An anchored ship is a safe ship.

  But it is only when the anchor is raised and the vessel is at the mercy of the wind and the waves that a ship is truly a ship.

  Anso Winterbottom

  Explorer, Discoverer and Adventurer

  Part 1

  The Isle of Aladrya

  — PROLOGUE —

  The Fish ‘n Ships Inn.

  Five days earlier.

  The young rat crouched, unseen, on the balcony of the high rollers’ room. His tail twitched nervously behind him. He was alone, and he was searching for an answer. Over the soft splashes of a stone fountain in the centre of the courtyard, he heard muffled voices coming from an open window. Intrigued, he pricked up his ears and listened.

  ‘… business as usual then?’ asked a thin, raspy voice.

  ‘Aye,’ replied a younger, quivering voice, ‘but we’re running short on workers and production’s ramping up. You wouldn’t happen to –?’

  ‘No,’ snapped the first voice. ‘That was never part of the deal. If you can’t meet the deadline, then –’

  ‘We’ll meet the deadline,’ interrupted a third voice, deep and confident. ‘I can assure you that more workers are being recruited as we speak.’

  ‘Good,’ hissed the first voice. ‘At least you have things under control.’

  ‘Always,’ said the deep voice. ‘Now, if we’re done talking, I’d like to get this game underway.’

  There was a shuffle of chairs, the tinkle of coins and the creak of a door. The rat seized his opportunity to venture closer. He lowered himself onto his stomach and slithered towards the base of the window. Using a black marble statue as his cover, he raised his head and peered inside.

  In the light of a small candle chandelier, he saw four animals seated around a felt-covered card table.

  Two of the animals were meerkats, both smartly dressed. The third was a fox, wearing a long, black coat. His penetrating amber eyes stared, unblinking, at the high stacks of Aladryan gold coins belonging to the fourth member of the gathering – a mysterious cloaked figure with his back to the window.

  A young mink in waitress attire approached the table holding a small deck of playing cards.

  ‘Gentlemen,’ she said, ‘the rules of Four-Suited Showdown are as follows: each player must first nominate a different suit – hearts, diamonds, clubs or spades.’

  She held up a card from each suit as she spoke, then went on to explain the rest of the rules.

  The rat listened from the shadows of the balcony, barely daring to breathe.

  When the mink had finished speaking, she looked up at the four card players and announced, ‘And now, gentlemen, please make your selections.’

  ‘Diamonds,’ the fox said without hesitation, his deep voice stern and determined. ‘My lucky suit.’

  ‘I’ll take spades,’ a meerkat chimed in, his eyes fixed on the glittering gold. ‘The quickest way to riches is with a good ol’ spade – and I don’t mean by digging.’

  ‘Clubs,’ said the second meerkat, raising his paw.

  The cloaked figure, left with no choice but to accept hearts, simply tapped a long, ape-like finger on the table, signalling for the game to begin.

  As the mink stepped closer to the table, her foot caught on something resting against the fox’s chair. Trying to regain her balance, she stumbled forward and a thin, black walking cane toppled towards the ground. With lightning-quick reflexes, the fox threw out an orange paw and grabbed the cane in mid-air.

  ‘Do watch yourself, my dear,’ he said in a restrained voice. ‘A new cane of this quality would be hard to replace on waitress’s wages.’ With a contemptuous smirk, he hoisted the cane into the candlelight, revealing an enormous pink stone set into its hilt.

  The rat stifled a gasp.

  A rare pink diamond, he thought in amazement, and it’s huge …

  As he continued to marvel at the glittering jewel, he noticed that the knock had separated the wooden handle of the cane from its lower shaft, exposing a thin blade of steel at its core.

  His eyes widened.

  That’s no walking cane, he realised. It’s a sheathed sword.

  The mink stammered her humble apologies and the fox hurriedly slid the cane out of sight under his long coat.

  In moments, the first round of cards was being dealt.

  The rat watched, enthralled, his eyes fixed on the cloaked stranger’s cards, unaware that the game taking place would change the rest of his life.

  Through the Fog

  Morning fog hung low over the surface of Lake Azure, pale, dense and still. Extending 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 Whisk
er’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 into the air. He strained under the weight of his four passengers but quickly reached the second story windows of the theatre.

  Whisker glanced behind him to see two dozen eagles drawing level with the jetty, their eyes locked on the parrot.

  ‘Listen, Chatterbeak,’ he whispered. ‘When you reach the top of the theatre, I want you to fly right as if you’re heading for the market square. As soon as you’re out of sight behind the clock tower, change direction and fly east towards the Hawk River. The line of buildings should hide you from view and, with any luck, the eagles will take the bait and continue into town.’

  ‘And then what?’ Horace asked as they reached the gutter line.

  ‘The fog is thickest over the river,’ Whisker said, glancing to the east. ‘It should provide us with enough cover for a stealthy getaway.’

  ‘Stealthy?’ Ruby muttered. ‘That will be a first.’

  The Getaway

  Chatterbeak did as he was instructed. Nearing the apex of the theatre’s curved roof, he manoeuvred to his right and began skimming low over the tiles in the direction of the clock tower.

  Whisker looked down to see the entire township spreading out beneath him. Curious eyes peered out through closed windows, but the laneways and pavements were deserted. He felt uneasy. It was as if the townsfolk had anticipated their arrival.

  ‘Gertrude,’ he muttered to himself. ‘That betraying beaver must have arrived before us and raised the alarm.’

  No, he reasoned. Surely she’s still on the lake …

  The triangular spire of the clock tower rose in front of him and his attention turned to the white clock face, hovering in the shadows like an enormous full moon.

  It engulfed his entire vision, and for a moment he was back on Cloud Mountain with his sister lying captive on the stone altar and the full moon rising above her.

  And then he was falling, holding on for dear life as Chatterbeak plummeted from the sky.

  Hidden from sight behind the high tower, the freefalling parrot rocketed down the side of the building, gathering speed with every metre he dropped. The icy air blasted Whisker’s eyes and his snow hood was wrenched from his head. Eyes
blurring, fingers slipping, he struggled to maintain his grip on his sister.

  Hold on, he urged himself. You’ve got to hold on.

  Chatterbeak continued his manic descent with no sign of slowing. Anna let out a startled gasp as rose bushes and topiary trees raced up to meet them.

  The moment before impact, the speeding parrot pulled up short, swooping low over a box hedge and then ploughing through an arched rose arbour. Thorn-riddled branches scratched at him like claws and his passengers flattened their bodies against his feathers, desperate to avoid being snagged on a rose thorn and wrenched from their seats.

  Horace copped the brunt of the battering and he yelped in pain as sharp, spiky branches lashed out at him from all directions.

  The rose arch widened and Chatterbeak emerged from the other side, shaking thorns and twigs from his feathers.

  Horace continued to yelp and moan, ‘Rotten pies to second class seats.’

  ‘You’ll live, Horace,’ Ruby hissed, untangling several branches from the end of her longbow.

  ‘Yeah, as a pin cushion,’ Horace muttered, as the parrot swept low over the snowy lawn.

  Whisker looked back, his heart pounding, his paws trembling. Brushing the unruly fringe out of his eyes, he fixed his gaze on the town hall. The cries of the eagles still echoed across the sky, but the tiled roofs of the buildings obscured them from his sight. Uncertain if his plan had actually worked, he swivelled forward, urging Chatterbeak on.

  The ground raced beneath them, close enough to touch, much to the dismay of Horace who was soon coated in a layer of snow. By the time Chatterbeak reached two riverside cottages on the outskirts of town, Horace resembled a miniature snowman.

  The parrot cleared a final picket fence and, with no sign of pursuit, plunged into the soupy fog of the river.

  The fog rolled around them like a protective cacoon and Whisker allowed himself a small sigh of relief.

  He glanced down to see how his sister was faring.

  ‘How are you holding out, Anna?’ he asked.