Page 125 of The Cradle of Ice
With a sour expression, Rami reached up and used a free finger to drop the drape of a byor-ga coif over his face. “Stay covered,” he warned them. “Though a lycheen’s frill can burn through fabric, it takes time. When possible, use your gloved fingers to peel them off. And be quick about it.”
“Can their frills damage our balloon?” Cassta asked, looking up.
“Possibly, but the lycheens notoriously avoid a ship’s gasbag. It’s believed they can smell and recognize the balloon’s lifting gasses. It’s theorized that they mistake our gasbags to be one of their own kind.”
“A gargantuan one,” Kanthe muttered. “No wonder they stay back.”
Rami cast him a withering look. “Enough questions. We go now or not at all.”
They all quickly covered their faces and slung dark lanterns across their backs.
The prince went down the line one last time, checking that leggings were tucked into boots and shirts under belts. Finally, he nodded. “Let’s proceed.”
They all crossed to a side hatch, where a thick-shouldered ruffian stood beside a steel crank. Another man held two torches of his own. At their approach, the one beside the crank grunted and started wheeling the door outward.
As soon as the hatch cracked open, a fringe of probing frills wafted and wormed inside. Rami and the other torchbearer waved flames across them and drove them back, burning several frills into charred curls.
“Be quick!” the man at the wheel hollered, cranking even faster. “I’m not holding this open longer than I have to.”
The hatch dropped quickly toward the ground. Even before it was halfway open, the group pounded across its planks, led by Rami. They waved torches overhead and jumped off the end of the door to the rocky clay.
As they crossed toward the cliffs, Kanthe breathed heavily, sucking the coif’s fabric into his mouth and spitting it out again. The air burned with each breath. The oppressive heat tried to hammer him to his knees. The stench cloyed and gagged his throat.
Kanthe held his torch aloft.
Lycheens fled from their combined flames, tucking in their frills.
Steps ahead, Frell stabbed his fiery brand into the air. One of the creatures had dropped toward his head, spinning its drape of poisonous threads. His torch struck the underside of its undulating bell.
The reaction was immediate and dramatic.
The lycheen caught the flames in its gullet, flashed brighter, then exploded.
Fiery bits flew everywhere. A few struck Kanthe. Gasping, he swatted and used the stump of his torch to knock the pieces off of him. A burn ignited at his shoulder, near his neck. He twisted, trying to identify the source.
“Hold still!” Cassta yelled. “I’ve got you.”
She rushed to his side, lifted a torch, and plucked a long frill from under the edge of his headgear and tossed it away.
Rami scolded Frell, “Be careful! Attempt to ward them off but not ignite them!”
Now he tells us.
As they forged ahead, Kanthe wondered if they shouldn’t have asked a few more questions before leaving the ship.
Or at least paid Rami more heed.
One of Llyra’s men, Rikard, flanked alongside on the left. He rounded a boulder, paying more attention to the skies than his feet. He ran into a lycheen sprawled behind the rock.
Frills exploded around him, enshrouding the man to the height of his shoulders. Tendrils smoked and writhed, burning through fabric. A few must have slithered up a trouser leg, where a hem had slipped free from its boot. Rikard bellowed in pain, flailing wildly. He dropped his torch. It landed atop the lycheen at his feet.
The creature blasted apart under him, throwing Rikard back. His clothes caught the erupting flames. Panicked, he rolled to smother them. Or maybe he was trying to escape the pain. He lost his other torch. His headgear got knocked loose.
Kanthe struggled to rush toward him, his feet slipping on the steam-slick clay.
Cassta tossed aside one of her torches and lunged at Kanthe. She grabbed his arm and yanked him back. “Too late.”
A score of lycheens fell out of the sky, dropping like a glimmering shroud over Rikard. One landed on his exposed face, muffling his scream. His body bucked and writhed within the frills’ fiery embrace.
