Without warning, a spiny orange shell threw itself upon Trapper from the ceiling. Shrieking like a tormented teakettle, it let loose a flurry of salivating fangs and sharp, venomous pincers on the man’s back.

“They’re here!” Trapper shouted. “Save yourselves!” Horace and Fysch exchanged glances.

“What in the blazes is that thing?” cried the barkeep. The crab was wriggling, slicing, gnawing through Trapper’s tunic, thwarting his desperate attempts to shake it off. Trapper screamed as it pierced his skin with surgical precision.

“It’s the swarm! Did I tell you or did I tell you?” Fysch was already out the door.

“Not in MY pub!” The enraged barkeep ducked below the counter and emerged with a rifle. He trained the sights on the mollusk and pulled the trigger.

Trapper hit the floor and the crab hit the wall. Unfazed, it scurried back toward its target. “Its shell is impenetrable,” said Trapper, “without one of these.” He produced a cat o’ nine tails beaded with crab shells and turned to confront the creature.