The Far Wild

1 - Wealth Beyond Measure, Fame Beyond Reason

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Senesio

People say the Far Wild is where you go to die. You’ll drown on the voyage there. You’ll waste away from the bleeding fever. You’ll get eaten by some monstrous beast. But what else can you expect from the masses? Their ambition stops with what’s for supper. The Far Wild’s where you go to die? Ha. The Far Wild’s where I came to live.

I don’t want much, just wealth beyond measure, fame beyond reason, and maybe a small kingdom somewhere warm. And as the quickest blade this side of the empire—with a devilish charm and the looks to match, I might add—it’s only a matter of time before the masses are singing songs of my glory. Singing songs of Senesio Suleiman Nicolaou.

But I’ve never been one for waiting. So of course I’d hired a biographer.

A gentleman adventurer like myself requires someone to record his adventures. Someone skilled in wordplay, someone studied in the works of the great historians, and someone who, on occasion, makes for excellent bait.

“You know, the title ‘biographer’ is starting to feel a lot like a polite way of saying ‘dead man’,” Leon said bitterly.

“You’ve nothing to worry about,” I told him from my perch in the leafy canopy. I flashed my most encouraging smile, then a thumbs-up a moment later for good measure. “You’re doing wonderfully!”

“That’s exactly what I’m worried about.”

The humid heat of the afternoon meant Leon’s forehead was beaded with sweat. Or maybe it was discomfort at being so close to the hog’s corpse we’d strung up. The beast we were hunting, named “the impaler” by locals, had been mostly targeting drunks and loners on the outskirts of town. No one knew what sort of creature it was exactly, and that made it difficult to bait a trap. Best to cover all the bases, then. Live meat and dead.

Leon drew in a breath—preparing to complain again, no doubt—when, off to his right, a twig snapped in the brush. He stumbled backwards, tripping over his own feet in fright. He fumbled at the sword on his belt, then collapsed onto his rear. Not exactly a proud display, but I had hired a biographer, not a warrior.

When he finally had the sword drawn, he pointed it toward the bushes.

“Show yourself, you big brute!”

Had he actually found some courage? He’d been a questionable hire, but lettered individuals were in short supply this side of nowhere and, well, I liked to try to see the best in people.

“Or maybe stay hidden and just go hunt something else,” Leon added. And just like that, the illusion of bravery he’d stumbled into shattered and fell away.

The bushes rustled again and an armadillo plodded out, nose to the ground as it sniffed about. It bumped into Leon’s boot, paused a moment as if confused, then continued rooting through the leaves.

The canopy around me filled with a collective snigger from the others. The dockhands and fishermen I’d scrounged up from the drink hall didn’t have much respect for Leon, nor his profession. Probably I should have used one of them for bait.

“Ancestors above! I thought you were the impaler,” Leon said shaking his head in relief. “Near gave me a heart attack, you little—”

The impaler came from the left, a lunging shadow of chitin, claws, and one massive, stinger-topped tail. The monster had come quick and silent, but it’d come neither quick nor silent enough to surprise me. Few things did.

I leapt from the canopy and lashed out with my sword before my feet even hit the ground. The blade met the impaler’s striking stinger with a clang and turned it aside so it missed Leon by a hand’s width—and stabbed right into the hog’s corpse. The stinger punctured deep, hitting with the force of a lance, then ripped back out. As it did, it flung a collection of dead meat and fluids that splattered across Leon’s face. And his chest. And, well, all over him, really.

Leon kicked furiously, eyes closed and screaming as he pulled himself away from the impaler.

Standing closer to it now, I could properly assess the thing. Contrary to the tale the fishermen had been spreading, the monster that’d been stalking the outskirts of town these past weeks was hardly a vengeful spirit. It was just flesh and bone. Or, well, flesh and chitin, I suppose. Still, it was the largest damned scorpion I’d ever seen. Rumor said the beasties could grow to the size of a horse out in the Far Wild, but this one wasn’t much bigger than an adult boar. Child’s play, really.

The impaler hissed as it sized me up, claws clicking open and shut. Its segmented tail reared back, twitching as if ready to strike again at any moment. A bit of oily something from the hog’s insides glistened on the chitinous meat hook that was the stinger. The massive scorpion hissed again and the mandibles in front of its mouth worked in a chittering frenzy.

“I’ve gotten worse looks from better women, big guy.”

From so close I could smell the thing all too well. The musk of its exoskeleton mixed with the strong, blunt stink of blood. Then there was its breath too, rancid with the scraps of past victims.

“Make ready the ropes,” I called up to the laborers. A rustling above told me where they were, but there wasn’t time to focus on that.

The impaler lunged, its claws reaching out to tear chunks from my thigh. I much preferred my thigh in one piece, however, so I spun to the side—and right into the oncoming stinger. A lesser man would’ve died right there, but I was too fast. I dipped a shoulder and slipped under the blow. It whizzed past, slicing through the air.

Dodging the beast was as easy as dodging raindrops in a tropical storm. Which was to say, impossible. But I thrived on doing the impossible. It was why everyone loved me, after all.

The impaler looked confused for a moment, staring at the space where I’d been previously. Its eight legs stamped into the ground nervously, each sharp as a spearhead. And then its eyes focused on Leon.

“Oh no you don’t.” Even as the beast surged forward, I dropped my sword and caught its tail, wrapping it in a smothering hug and pinning it to my chest. I threw my weight backward and dragged the tail out to its full length. The stinger worked up and down, trying to stick anything it could, but with the tail held to my chest, all it could do was flounder around in the air.

The impaler screeched and fought. Leon was all it could see in front of it and it scrabbled after him, legs churning up the soil as it pulled forward with its full strength. I dug my heels in and used all of my weight to hold the beast in place.

The impaler’s tail flexed and curled in my grasp as it fought to break free, but I only squeezed tighter. The exoskeleton was covered in little spiked ridges like those that bite at your fingers when prying open a well-cooked lobster. Only problem was, if this lobster got free, it’d be making a meal of us instead of the other way around.

“You’re getting all of this, right, Leon? For the next book?” I shouted, nodding to the thrashing stinger just above my face.

Leon scowled. “You get off on this, don’t you?”

I winked at him, then turned my attention back to the situation at hand. It’d be irresponsible to let it go on too long.

“Alright, boys. Time for the ropes! Pin its claws and keep clear of the stingy bits, yeah?” I shouted up to the canopy. There was a too-long pause as the laborers no doubt reconsidered exactly why they’d agreed to this job, but then one of them jumped—or maybe fell? It was hard to tell—and the rest followed.

They came at the impaler from both sides. They threw their weight on top of the claws, pinning them down, then tied them shut with tightly knotted ropes. One man got too close to the mandibles and lost his boot to their hissing bite.

“He got my shoe!” the man cried, but before long the impaler was restrained. It still hissed and fought, but with its claws and legs bound there wasn’t much it could do. The tail came last. While I held it, two men pulled a rope against the curve of the stinger, then tied it back against the tail, staying its ability to stab and impale. A piece of cork jabbed on to the point of the stinger further reduced its lethality.

When the work was finally done, I released the tail and stepped back, hands on my hips.

“Ha,” I said, taking in our struggling prize. “Looks like... ” I trailed off. Shoot, I’d had something for this, I swear. What good was a victory if the deciding blow wasn’t delivered with an equally crippling insult?

The impaler hissed again, eyes turning toward me with bestial menace. No, really. I’d had something for this. What had I wanted to say? Blast. Oh well.

“Alright, load him into the wagon,” I said eventually. “It’s time to get paid.”

A general cheer went up at that. It died quickly enough, though, when the laborers began to tackle the problem of how exactly to lift the impaler and carry it to the wagon. I let them handle the specifics as I turned toward Leon.

“That’ll make a fine story for the next book, don’t you think?”

“You’re insane,” he said, standing as far away as possible. His eyes were focused on the still-twitching scorpion.

I retrieved my blade from where I’d so unceremoniously dropped it, then cleaned its length with a scrap of fabric. When it shone like new—or close enough—I looked sideways at my biographer.

“No man is without his flaws, my friend, and I fully acknowledge mine. I’ve been cursed, after all.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Cursed?”

“Oh, indeed.” I slid my sword back into its sheath with a click. “Cursed with greatness.”