Wondrous, page 2
Time seemed to be crawling by. What was only three hours at the camp felt more like three days.
Mortimer had informed Miles that the scorpion creatures were a race called the Skyr. Miles had been able to surmise that Jericho was the leader of this pack, and Vinzent was his right-hand man.
Miles asked Mortimer, “Why are you here? Why did Jericho lock you up?” He had begun to feel less tense around him; there was a sort of warmth to the Rompun.
Mortimer laughed. It was a deep, guttural sound. “I was just in the wrong place at the wrong time, I suppose.”
“Are you a spy?”
“What gave you that impression?” Mortimer asked, amused.
Miles shrugged. “That’s what Jericho asked me when he found me. He asked if I was Queen Alys’ spy. Why would a queen spy on him?”
Mortimer’s eyebrows drooped, his face scrunched up in thought. “Well,” he began, “the queen and the king aren’t really…fond of each other right now. And Queen Alys is a Rompun, so naturally the Rompuns sided with her, and…well, can you guess what the king is?”
Miles shook his head.
“Oh. The king is a Skyr. So they sided with him.” Mortimer tossed his plate through the iron bars and the two watched it skid toward the bonfire, where three Skyr sat chatting. As the plate slid to a halt, they shot glares at the Rompun. “Most of them, anyway,” he went on. “Some stayed loyal to the queen. They weren’t really buyin’ in to what the king was saying.”
“So everyone’s fighting?”
Mortimer nodded. “It’s a civil war. You know what a civil war is?”
Miles had heard his grandfather refer to a civil war before, but he had never quite understood what it was. He knew that the United States had one a long time ago, but he wasn’t sure why. He simply nodded in response to Mortimer’s question.
The Rompun grinned. “Pretty smart kid, aren’t you?”
One of the Skyr had stood and snatched up Mortimer’s discarded plate. “Rompun!” he yelled, clutching the ceramic disc in his hand. His other arm was a fairly diminutive pincer, compared to Jericho’s. “Done with dinner, are ya?”
“Yep. That’s why I threw the plate.”
Moving so swiftly that Miles could barely comprehend his motions, the Skyr let the plate fly like a frisbee. It shattered against the iron bars, bits exploding in every direction. Miles let out a short shriek as lightning flashed above their heads.
“Stop scaring the kid!” Mortimer placed his gigantic green hand on Miles’ shoulder. Thunder rumbled in the clouds.
The Skyr grimaced. “Why’s it been raining so much lately?” he wondered aloud. A light drizzle snuck through openings in their leafy ceiling. He approached the cage, licking rain from his curled lips.
As the Skyr grew closer, Miles took awkward steps back, nearly tripping over himself in Mortimer’s large flip-flops.
“C’mere,” the Skyr smiled, exposing jagged teeth. Miles noticed a long scar streaking across the creature’s arm; with his runt of a pincer, he probably wasn’t nearly as adept at combat as the others.
Mortimer stepped in front of Miles and firmly planted his hands on his hips. “Leave him alone.”
The Skyr clenched his gut with laughter. “Look at the Rompun!” he called over to his comrades, doubling over. “Posing like a sassy housewife. A fat, blubberin’ housewife.”
In another motion that was too fast for Miles to register, Mortimer’s bulky hand somehow shot between the cage’s bars and wrapped its meaty fingers around the Skyr’s neck. Mortimer yanked his arm back, slamming the man’s head against the unflinching metal. His grip loosened and the Skyr collapsed on the forest floor. Miles’ body began to tremble.
The others raced to their comrade’s side, roaring that they were going to rip Mortimer to shreds. Miles didn’t doubt they could do it, though Mortimer would put up a tough fight.
“Who do you think you are, Rompun?” one of them sneered.
Mortimer returned his hands to his hips. “I’m having a bit of an identity crisis at the moment,” he said nonchalantly. “Why not open this cage up and we can figure it out?”
Miles did not want them to figure it out.
He wanted everybody to stop yelling and for everyone to just be quiet and happy. He rapped his toes against the wooden sandals, the raindrops pelting down harder and splashing against his face.
Vinzent stumbled out of his tent on Miles’ right, looking quite irritated. “What in the world is going on out here?” he asked. “What’s all this commotion?” It was then he noticed his ally lying motionless on the ground. Miles wondered where Jericho and the other two Skyr had gone.
“The tubby Rompun knocked Hale out,” one of the remaining men explained. “Smacked his head straight into the metal. Lemme kill him, Vinzent. We don’t need him, not really.”
Vinzent shook his head adamantly. “Jericho has strict orders not to kill this one. We can’t defy His Majesty.”
The Skyr let out a menacing growl. “We can just say he escaped…”
“And make it seem like we’re incompetent? Are you an idiot? Just back up. I need to bring the little one over to my tent.”
Miles felt like he was shrinking in the corner of the cage. His arms began to shake more erratically. He wanted to be brave like his father always told him to be, but he couldn’t muster up any courage.
“What you need him for?” Mortimer asked defensively, slinking toward the boy.
“I just need to ask him a few things,” Vinzent said. “What’re you gonna do, Mortimer? Bash my head in too? Stand aside. Make this easier on all of us.”
Vinzent reached into his pocket, extracting the ring of keys. They swung on the thin silver circle.
The gray sky lit up with a fierce brightness that surged through the clouds and connected with one of the winding trees hanging over the camp. The dark brown of the branches gave way to vibrant orange that engulfed its purple leaves and bark. Thick branches snapped with a noise like a panicked shriek. They crashed into the glade only a few feet from Vinzent and the incapacitated Hale.
Vinzent was thrown off-balance by the impact, slipping on the slick grass. His head slammed into the cage just like Hale’s had.
Rain was coming down in sheets now, breaking through the canopy, but it didn’t quell the flames.
Vinzent didn’t move.
The fire began to spread.
Miles closed his eyes and screamed. He began to cry. He tried to imagine his mother’s voice, but it was overpowered by the frantic shouting of the two Skyr that were still conscious.
“Snap out of it!”
It was Mortimer.
“Kid, you gotta stay with me!”
Miles opened his right eye, his entire body shaking with fear. Mortimer was on his hands and knees, reaching between the iron bars for Vinzent’s limp body. In the distance, the flames were creeping toward Jericho and Vinzent’s tent. It wouldn’t be long before it was nothing but ash.
Mortimer looked back at the child. “Miles,” he said. “You gotta stay with me, yeah? Don’t be scared. You gonna be alright. Mortimer’s here.”
The boy nodded. He had to be brave. He thought about his mother telling him, “There’s nothing to be worried about.” The lavender scent of her hair.
He had to be brave.
He wiped the tears from his eyes. They were replaced by more tears.
Mortimer strained to reach Vinzent, his fingers grazing the Skyr’s tattered pants. He struggled to push his arm further, just half an inch, and he was able to grasp a pant leg. A look of relief washed over his face as he pulled Vinzent’s body closer and plucked the key ring out of his hand.
“Okay,” Mortimer said, facing Miles. “We gonna get outta here. Okay? First I gotta get something out of Vinzent’s tent, then we run. Just stay close. You’ll be fine. Nothing to be worried about. Yeah?”
Miles nodded. He watched the tent catch fire like a marshmallow over a campfire. Smoke billowed into the air, smothering them all as if it were a heavy blanket.
“Good. I need you to unlock the cage, though. I can fit my arm through, but I can’t angle it right. I’m too fat.” He smiled encouragingly. “Can you do that?”
“I don’t know,” Miles said, his voice hardly a whisper.
Somehow Mortimer was able to hear him. “You’ll do great. Don’t worry.” He handed Miles the keys, singling out the large silver one. “No time to waste.”
Miles stepped forward, the huge flat sandals slapping against the muck, sinking into it. The tips of his pajama pants grazed the mud and torn-up grass. Every step was a challenge. He stuck his thin arm through the cage, reaching to insert the key into its hole. He turned it and could feel the satisfying click of the lock shifting. The door opened with a push.
“Here we go,” said Mortimer, rushing past Miles. The Rompun made a beeline for the tent to their right, which had not yet succumbed to the raging fires.
One of the remaining Skyr jumped through a cloud of smoke and landed a powerful blow on Mortimer, nearly knocking him over, but Mortimer landed an equally powerful punch on the Skyr’s face.
The creature fell onto his back. His own stinger pierced the back of his head, emerging through his cheek. Miles screamed, but Mortimer said to him, “C’mon, kid! We gotta hurry!”
Miles couldn’t spot the other Skyr anywhere. His dizziness was beginning to subside, but Mortimer’s flip-flops were making it near impossible to move. They were too large and unwieldy to run in. He knew he would surely die if he didn’t get moving.
He had to be brave.
He shut his eyes, tried to block out the sound of the fire burning away blades of grass and eating up the coarse bark of the trees.
He had to be brave.
He tried to not think about the beautiful bluish-purple flowers erupting in flame, the mud covering the ground.
He had to be brave.
He kicked his feet out of the sandals and ran.
Up ahead, Mortimer was already scrounging through the tent. Miles joined him inside, still wondering where the remaining Skyr had scurried off to.
Mortimer was in a frenzy, thrashing about, knocking over cabinets and scanning through loose sheets of paper. It was obvious he was searching for something specific, but Miles had no idea what. At last, under one of the two cots, hidden beneath a pile of ragged monochrome clothes, Mortimer found it: a large, locked chest of a deep red color.
“Hey!” came a gravelly voice.
In unison, Miles turned his head and Mortimer swung his arm, still holding on to the chest. His hand soared over the boy’s head, crashing the chest into the Skyr’s face.
The Skyr clutched his bloody mess of a face and fell over, his mouth agape. Blood dripped from his gums.
“I need the keys,” Mortimer said, ignoring the Skyr’s bloodied face. Miles stared at the unconscious Skyr, wondering if the man was going to die. “Miles. I need the keys. We have to hurry.”
Miles snapped out of his daze and glanced up at Mortimer. “They’re in the door,” he said. His cheeks flushed, burning with embarrassment.
Without even a momentary thought, he took off toward the cage.
All he could see were the keys sticking out of the door that hung open, beating against the side of the cage with gusts of wind. Everything else blurred together, blue into green into orange into yellow into brown into red into black. He grabbed the keys. Ran. Vision nothing but black.
“Open your eyes, kid. Need you to be able to see me.”
The world popped back into existence all at once. Miles realized that he was once again standing in front of Mortimer, who was inserting the tiny golden key into the chest’s keyhole.
Its top popped open and Mortimer’s shaky hands spilled its contents out all over the damp ground. Mortimer unfolded every scrap of paper, crumpling each one and tossing them over his shoulder until finally he found one that made him stop and smile. He folded it and stuffed it into his pocket, then fished through the chest and took all the coins inside as well.
“You ready?”
Miles nodded, so they ran.
Flames whipped at them from both sides, creating a bright tunnel that they shot through with haste. Mortimer’s stride was much longer than Miles’, but the boy made up for it in speed and trailed only a short distance behind the Rompun.
The boy pictured Vinzent’s body idle and charred. A sudden, immense feeling of remorse enveloped him.
As they ran, tree branches and leaves fell from above. Some of the leaves were green, some were a muted purple, and many were burnt.
Mortimer zig-zagged through tree trunks, splashing through puddles and hopping over decayed logs. Miles wondered if his companion knew at all where they were going or if this was just some mad dash to freedom. He wondered if Vinzent had a son or daughter. Wondered if anyone was going to miss him.
“Just keep running!” Mortimer yelled up ahead.
A second later, the Rompun disappeared.
Miles wanted to stop but he had to be brave. He shouted after Mortimer, but the only response he received was the sound of a far-off splash.
And then there was no ground at his feet.
Three thoughts went through Miles’ head as he careened through the air.
The first was: Am I going to die?
The second was: How will Mom and Dad know what happened to me?
The third was: I’m going to die.
He was only in the air for six seconds before breaking the surface of a spring below.
His entire body screamed out in agony. His bones were mashed potatoes. It took a few moments of floating underwater for Miles to understand what had transpired. He swam upward, joining the world again, and saw Mortimer treading water a few feet away.
“You alright?”
Kicking his feet underneath him, Miles moved his arms through the clear water and concluded he hadn’t broken anything. “Yeah,” he said.
The dark clouds began to give way to the moon, a luminous crescent. Mortimer swam to the spring’s edge and pulled himself out. Miles followed suit, gliding jerkily through the water with each pained kick. Even aching all over, he was still a pretty good swimmer. His grandmother had always praised his swimming ability. He joined Mortimer on solid ground and the Rompun looked him over.
“Hey, where are my sandals?”
CHAPTER TWO
THE SPIRIT OF THE FLAMES
At the edge of the Violet Woods were the Screaming Crags, a mountain range that covered most of the northern kingdom of Ruhig and extended down into Rompu, where they currently were, as Mortimer had explained to Miles. They were traveling to Windheit, the capital city of Ruhig.
On the outskirts of the forest, Miles looked up at the purple leaves covering the tops of the trees. He wondered what the Violet Woods looked like from a bird’s perspective.
After a day of hiking, the two had stopped to rest where the Crags met the treeline, at a waterfall that cascaded into a dingy lake filled with lily pads and mossy rocks. Long, orange fish slithered underneath the water’s surface. Miles watched them glide through his reflection in the swaying mirror.
“I’m hungry,” Miles said, peering into the lake.
Mortimer waded into it, wearing nothing but his undergarments. Tiny yellow berries speckled with orange were the only thing the two had eaten on their journey through the woods. Mortimer had called them fennberries.
The Rompun splashed about in the cool water with each step. His head rotated back and forth until suddenly he shot his hand forward, spraying water onto Miles. When the ripples settled, he was clutching one of the eel-like fish. He tossed it onto the shore, where it flopped helplessly at Miles’ feet, gasping for water.
“There you go!”
Miles’ brow furrowed as he hung his mouth open in disgust. “I can’t eat that!”
“Why not?” Mortimer snatched another fish out of the water and shoved its head into his mouth. His chomp induced a yelp from Miles.
“That was alive! This is alive!” He pointed to the fish at his feet. “It has germs! You have to cook food before you eat it!”
Mortimer was too busy slurping the rest of the fish into his mouth to pay the boy any attention. “Gotta do the best with what you got,” he said, “and what we got is raw fish. Just eat it, you’ll be fine.”
Miles kicked the fish back into its home. Mortimer shrugged.
A day later, the two were delving deeper into the Crags, moving closer to the Rompu-Ruhig border.
The mountains reached so high past the clouds above that Miles couldn’t even see their peaks. They were taller than any skyscraper he had ever seen walking through downtown Austin. He almost asked Mortimer if the Frost Bank Tower was as tall as the mountains, but he realized it would be a stupid question.
They had not encountered any other Rompuns or Skyr. Near the middle of the day, though, Mortimer leapt behind a jagged rock twice his size and told Miles to “Shush, kid!” The boy did as he was told, ducking next to his guardian. His stomach gurgled.
With their own footsteps and conversation no longer filling Miles’ ears, he was able to hear what Mortimer had picked up on: three voices. Low, gruff. Not far off. Miles’ heart started to pound.
“We near a Skyr outpost,” Mortimer said. “We must be close to the border crossing. Gonna have to go around.”
“Where are we going?” Miles whispered back.
“There’s a shortcut through the border. An underground passage. Don’t worry, it’s safe.”
“But where are we going?”
“Back to Queen Alys.”
“She lives in Ruhig?”
The question made Miles feel like a child. He was indeed a child, but it made him feel even younger asking so many questions. In school, he prided himself on almost always understanding what his teachers were explaining, and very rarely had to ask for clarification, unlike his classmates. In Rompu, nothing was familiar.
Mortimer held up his hand and waited a moment, listening for the voices. “No,” he then answered quietly. “She lives in western Rompu. We in the east right now. We can’t just cross Rompu, though. Not on our own. Takes too long and too many camps full of Skyr that’re looking to give Rompuns a good pounding. The king of Ruhig is a pal; he’ll help us get back.”
