“Millions.” Much as he liked the taste of crab, Simna found he was not hungry. He remembered all too clearly what Ehomba had told him the night before about the crustaceans’ traditional taste for the flesh of drowned men. “There must be millions of them!”
“Tens of millions,” the herdsman agreed. Beneath the bowsprit the clacking of claws and scrape of shell on shell was almost deafening.
“How does this help us?” In her years at sea Stanager Rose had seen many strange things, but nothing to quite match the crustaceal armada presently assembling beneath the bow of her ship. “What do we do?”
“I know!” Never one to hesitate at venturing expertise in matters where he had none, Simna spoke up enthusiastically. “Etjole’s going to magick them so that they carry us on their backs. As soon as enough have congregated, hoy?”
Ehomba eyed his friend dolefully. “There is no magic in this, Simna.” Looking past him, he smiled encouragingly at Stanager. “When a hundred million crabs present themselves at the ready, Captain, I think it might be advisable to throw them a line.”
“Throw them a … ?” For the barest of instants she gazed back uncomprehendingly. Then she turned and barked orders to Terious and the rest of the waiting crew.
The strongest cord on board was made fast around a fore capstan. When the mate was convinced it could be knotted no better, the unsecured end was heaved over the bow. It landed with a convincing splash just to the right of the line of floating crabs.
Immediately, those forming the end of the line nearest the ship swarmed over the rope. At any other time and in any other place they might well have tried to eat it, but not this morning. Sharp claws dug deep into the thick hemp, legs burying themselves into the folds of the triple weave.