Page 245 of The Cradle of Ice
Finally, a hatch opened ahead, and sunlight blinded him. He winced at the glare and at the louder sounds of battle. The two knights dragged him from the stifling interior and out onto the Hyperium’s main deck. The fresh air helped clear his head, but only stoked his fear. He had expected to be secured in some dark cell, waiting to be hauled back to Azantiia to face his father’s wrath.
But it was not King Toranth that he should have been worried about.
“Hello, brother!” Prince Mikaen called over. “Well met!”
* * *
FRELL WANTED TO look everywhere at once as they flew through the shadowy forest. Their vessel—which Tykhan called a lampree—was unlike any design he had ever seen or read about. Outwardly, it looked like a flat-bellied beetle with a domed top and two tapered balloons, like the wings of the same insect. Beneath it, and curled tight to its flat keel, were six jointed draft-iron legs.
The interior, though, was far more astounding. It was one undivided hold, nearly as wide as it was long. It easily held the four Rhysians, including Cassta, who was strapped down next to him. Saekl and Tykhan manned the two seats in front. The Rhysian captain gripped the wheel, while Tykhan assisted with secondary controls, trying to explain some of the arcane mechanics.
“I have the feel for it well enough,” Saekl scolded. “Let me focus before I slam us into a tree.”
“Don’t forget to keep the level—”
Saekl’s scowl shut him up.
Frell stared at the apparatus that surrounded the wheel. It was a convoluted network of copper tubing and crystal tanks, bubbling with a golden elixir. Tykhan twisted a metal valve overhead that triggered a harsh hissing and one of the tiny tanks along the roof emptied with a furious swirling.
Frell stared overhead, picturing those gasbags. He had thought the slim pair were too small to lift the squat beetle, but they had—proving that whatever alchymy fueled this strange craft must produce a far stronger lifting gas.
Tykhan noted his attention. “Ta’wyn ingenuity paired with Klashean design,” he explained. “Like the other two ships I crafted.”
Frell pictured their trek through the treacherous Nysee Bog north of X’or. Tykhan had led their party via a tortuous route through the deadly and poisonous fenland, all steeped in thick mists. Their guide had cleared the path ahead of them, casting aside vipers with his impervious bronze hands or warning them where to set foot to avoid sinking sands or mud that could trap a leg. They finally reached a nest of chokevines that climbed twice his height and had thorns longer than Frell’s forearm. In the center, hidden by the mists and protected all around, three ships rested, each stranger than the next.
Tykhan had directed them to one—the lampree—explaining the three ships’ origins as he inflated the twin gasbags. Over the passing millennia, Tykhan had constructed fourteen of these wyndships, all of varying designs, and hidden them throughout the Klashe and elsewhere.
Built for emergency, he had told them. And somewhat out of boredom.
According to Tykhan, a Root’s primary imperative was to construct. Apparently, even Tykhan could not resist the urge to tinker, fabricate, and assemble, especially over such a long span of endless years. He even admitted to sharing some of his creations with the Crown, stirring advancements along the way.
“Hold tight!” Saekl called from the front.
Frell shifted as the Rhysian captain goosed the forge to a louder roar. The lampree rolled through the air, while dodging around trees and crashing through bushes. Frell clutched his seat, understanding now why they had been told to strap tight. Their dizzying path finally leveled out.
Tykhan had suggested this route—to travel through Tithyn Woods rather than over it. They could not risk being seen. The echoes of cannon fire and sharper blasts reminded them of the danger above. Not that his path was much safer.
“Grab tight again!” Saekl warned.
Despite the wonders within, Frell squeezed his eyes closed.
Let’s hope we’re not too late.
* * *
DESPITE THE SHIPBOARD welcome, it took Kanthe an extra breath to identify the silver-masked figure striding toward him as his twin brother.
Still, Mikaen struck a shining figure, a prince sculpted of sunlight.
As his brother approached, he shed his heavy armor, piece by piece, helped by an escort of the same tattooed Vyrllian knights. Apparently, they must be a personal guard to the prince. Kanthe now recognized where the idea for those black tattoos had come from. They mirrored the sigil of Mikaen’s mask.
By the time Mikaen reached him, the only armor remaining on his body was that mask. His brother stood only in his leathers now. His lips—at least the halves that were visible—twisted into a sneer, one hard enough to draw forth some of the scarring hidden behind the silver.
“This reunion is long overdue,” Mikaen said.
By now, his crimson-faced guardsmen had closed around them, forming an armored wall. One of them sliced Kanthe’s wrists free and removed the chains from his ankles. Another broke ranks and stepped forward, carrying a broadsword across his gloved palms.
Kanthe recognized the hulking man from half a year ago, from the Shrouds of Dalalæða. Captain Thoryn. Kanthe pictured the roof atop a cluster of stone homes, where he had been ambushed by Mikaen and this giant knight.
