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Authors: Chris Mould

BOOK: The Silver Casket
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They had no idea what ghastly contents this vessel would contain. But all three of them knew that they were about to find out.
The Evil Within
Stanley and Daisy were dwarfed by the might of the hulking shape of the ship's silhouette and they huddled tightly beneath it. On board, lamplights twinkled like stars here and there. The ship's name was painted on its side. The Rusty Blade.
Stanley told Daisy to steer right up to the underside of the ship. It wasn't easy, by any
means, but somehow she managed it.
“Perfect,” said Stanley. “Hang on here.” He pulled himself up onto the side of the boat with the aid of the anchor chain that speared downward through the water. He had the Ibis tucked neatly into his inside pocket.
There was no one on deck. That was a stroke of luck. Stanley crept across the boards to the main mast and clambered up toward the yellow flag. Then when he could grasp hold of it, he tore it hastily from the ropes and shoved it inside his shirt.
“Now where on earth are you going?” whispered Daisy as loud as she dared.
“Just making a little delivery,” he said, waving the Ibis at her with a spare hand.
Daisy was confused, but she trusted his judgment and knew that if she did her job and kept the boat right there waiting for him,
everything would be all right.
She sat and watched him lurch down the barnacled side of the rotting ship. He wasn't far from the water before he stopped and dug his hand into a rotted hole. He tore at it fiercely until it was big
enough for him to sneak through. Bits of splintered wood plopped into the waves.
Daisy cringed, clenching her sweating hands into fists. She did not know what she would do if someone appeared. She watched until the soles of Stanley's shoes were the last thing to drop through the hole.
Inside, Stanley crept around in the dark. He had stumbled into the crew's quarters, and knew that he had to scramble his way down to the stores at the bottom of the ship without being found by any of the spirits that lurked on board.
He felt his way along the slime and grease that seemed to coat the ship's sides. Voices grew nearer. Too near.
Stanley hurried as much as he could. He had decided to place the Ibis in the ballast at the bottom of the ship. Here it would be
concealed, and no one would stumble on it. He was sure that we would be able to make it back to the ship to reclaim it when this was all over.
Something opened up to reveal a lower level. He stepped down carefully and felt for the floor beneath him. A layer of cold hard stones. This was it, the ballast. The stones were used as a weight to stabilize the frame of the ship.
In the far corner, he found a memorable spot. Bilge rats scurried over his hands and around his feet as he burrowed his fingers through the hard rugged surface that cut at his knuckles. He buried the Ibis right there, wrapped in its cloth protection.
And then he made his way back through the blackness the way he had come.
“What's that?” asked Scribbles Flanaghan, pricking up an ear, and his dreadful figure stepped into the light of the oil lamp. A cascade of endless tattoos was illuminated in the dark, and his two yellowy eyes opened wider.
“I can'ear somethin'. Down in the stores. Ain't no one down in the stores, is there? Mister Smiff, will you be so kind as to investigate and while you're at it, take Mister Doyle with yer in case someone needs a reminder that we ain't'ere to be messed with!”
“Aye, aye, Mister Flanaghan, sir. Seafood Smiff at your service.” He got to his feet, swallowing a handful of cockles, and was followed by Doyle into the damp darkness of the hold.
Stanley was still feeling his way back and he cringed as he creaked on the floorboards.
“There's someone'ere, or that's a huge rat I can'ear,” said Doyle. “And when I get my'ands on'em I'm gonna do'em some damage.”
Abruptly and unintentionally, Stanley's outstretched hand landed in Doyle's grizzly face.
“Agghhhh!” They both screamed, but Doyle held on to Stanley's arm and twisted it as he gripped.
“Who goes there? Friend or foe?” said Doyle as he squeezed tightly.
Stanley felt the cold slimy grip of death.
Whatever or whoever it was that held him stunk to high heaven. He held his free hand over his mouth.
“Nothing … nobody … I mean …” struggled Stanley as he tried to think of the right thing to say. Doyle's gruesome face came closer through the dark. He was holding up a pair of pliers.
“Over'ere, Mister Smiff,” grunted Doyle to his companion. “We got a customer for the dentist's chair.”
Stanley really didn't like the sound of that.
The foul-smelling twosome leered at him through the dim light. Their yellowy eyes came far too close.
“It's a boy! An ugly little feller'e is an' all,” exclaimed Doyle. “Shall we kill'im now?”
“O′ course we will,” Smith croaked. “We'll do it with this.” He shoved a cutlass under Stanley's nose.
Stanley panicked. But he was now only an arm's length from the hole where he had squeezed in. He lunged for the escape route
with his free hand and began pulling himself out. Doyle held on to him tightly, but his arm was forced through the hole along with Stanley.
Smith lunged at him through the dark, swinging his blade, but he just kept hacking at the side of the ship. Chips and splinters of rotten wood fell to the floor as he swore in frustration.
Daisy looked up at Stanley in panic; she could see he was in trouble. But before she could act, he was out. He had shoved the weight of his body through the hole, and now he was dropping headlong into the boat. Daisy let out a piercing scream. As Stanley sat up he realized why: Doyle's bony, skeletal arm had ripped out of its socket and had held on to him as he fell into the boat. The fingers were still moving. Stanley ripped it off his
shirt and threw it into the water.
“Row, Daisy, row!” he cried.
Inside, Doyle and Smith snarled in despair, but their anger was overtaken by the onset of a strange sickness. Beads of black sweat began to form on their brows.
On the way back Stanley and Daisy did not speak. They just kept rowing. At one point Stanley swapped with Daisy to give her a rest, but he was sloppy and unfocused and Daisy was forced to resume rowing by herself.
In the distance, the ships of the Black
Swarm veered to the north side of the island. Somehow they could sense the Ibis, resting in the ballast of the Rusty Blade.
The deadliest villains of the pirate world were about to collide.
“Are you all right, Daisy?” asked Stanley.
“Yeah, I'm fine,” she replied. “Just fine. But tell me something. Did that go according to plan, or do I just not understand what's going on?”
“Don't worry. Like I said, it will work. The Ibis is on board the ship, and though she draws the pirates near, she is protected.”
“By what?”
“Well, by the illness. Those villains are suffering, Daisy. They smelled awful, and they are on the brink of death. The power of the Ibis will speed up the sickness. All will be drawn to the ship, and all will die,” explained Stanley. It was a plan made in heaven. “When
they are all gone, we can return and retrieve the Ibis.
Back on board the
Rusty Blade
, it was mayhem. Doyle and Seafood were fighting. Their knives were drawn and they danced around each other warily, stabbing the air.
“Stop this nonsense!” shouted Flanaghan. “What's goin' on?”
“It's'im,” cried Doyle. “I lost me arm and he's laughin' at me!”
“How on earth did you manage that, Doyle? I only asked you two to see what the bloomin' noise was.”
And then something distracted Flanaghan. He turned and looked around, holding the lamp up inside the cabin.
“Something's different,” he began. “I can feel it.”
“Feel what, sir?” asked Doyle.
“The Ibis. It's near. Somehow, closer than it was.” Flanaghan wanted to search, but the illness was making all of them sicker. Their skin grew more yellow and their fever boiled harder by the minute. It was only a matter of time before it had them firmly in its grip. They would take the Ibis first if they could, but they were all struggling.

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