Ink Mage 1

he always treated me like a son. I thought of him as a father, and he thought of me as his son. Gregory died only weeks ago. A cough took him, and his end was swift and merciless.
We lived in Lowvale, a village on the edges of the vast, worked farmlands that surrounded the southern city of Aranor. Slave trader caravans regularly passed through our village on their way north from the great markets of Aranor. When Boris and his companions had driven their empty wagons through my village a week after Gregory’s sudden end, I realized just how much my foster-father’s presence had sheltered me. It turned out that some of my neighbors knew about my Elemental Sensitivity and only kept quiet about it for fear of Gregory’s wrath. I was worth a lot of money, and Boris’s gang had paid my neighbors well for me. My neighbors were apologetic, and I couldn’t really blame them; slavery was an accepted part of life, and they were all very poor.
“It’s a pity we can’t sell you damaged,” Boris said to the blonde woman. I looked up. The tone of his voice was ugly. These trollmen may not have been wholly human, but they certainly retained some of the baser instincts of men. I could see that my pretty companion was trying to look unconcerned, but there was fear in her eyes.
Boris gave a grunting laugh and moved a bit closer to the woman. He had put my knife down, leaving it on the wooden seat at the far end of the wagon. The trollman’s stubby tongue came out to lick his flat lips, and he looked at me to make sure I was watching.
In my mind, I almost heard my foster-father’s voice speaking words from long ago. “You may be just a simple farmer, William, but you’re a man, and it’s the duty of any man to treat women well, and to defend them if they are threatened.”
Those were words which I had taken to heart. Fury boiled in my stomach, and I was ready to pounce on the trollman and tear into him with my teeth if he looked like he was going to molest the woman. For the moment, however, he simply contented himself with leering.
As much as I hated to admit it, I couldn’t see any way out of this predicament. I’d always been able to get out of scrapes when I was running rough with the young thieves in Aranor, but this time it looked like there’d be no escape. During the earlier parts of my journey, I had been overcome with lethargy and hopelessness at my situation, but now, looking at the woman across from me, my desire to escape became stronger.
I wanted to escape, and I wanted to escape with her. She didn’t deserve to be mixed up in all of this.
I felt rage building up inside me. Here I was, helplessly forced to watch as the slavers abducted and sold this poor woman who simply happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. I could feel the heat of my anger actually making my palms sweaty.
“Maybe I could just have a taste,” Boris muttered. He was salivating, and there was a bit of a bulge in his grubby leather pants.
Boris glanced slyly at the driver, as if to make sure he wasn’t looking, but we had hit a smoother bit of road which wound back and forth up a slope, and the driver seemed to be dozing over the oxen’s reins. Then Boris glanced behind us. The other wagon was some distance off, and a sharp bend in the road hid it from view.
Satisfied that none of his companions were watching him, Boris came to sit alongside the woman. She struggled to put some distance between herself and him, but there was nowhere for her to go. He laughed and extended one grubby hand toward her chest.
I could feel my body getting hotter and my hands getting sweatier. Out of nowhere, I smelled an acrid scent, almost like hair burning. My back was starting to get really hot where it was leaning against my tied-up hands. I turned my head and looked back as far as I could. In the cold, clear air, there was a trickle of smoke. It was coming from my hands. Huh? What the fuck was going on? I felt lightheaded. Was it just dehydration and lack of food? The slavers were not exactly generous with the rations.
I reached my fingers back to touch the ropes. The smell of burning was stronger, and I could hear a crackling sound. As the sensation of heat grew more intense, I spread my hands and felt the ropes give. My head was spinning; I felt almost drunk with it. What was this? Whatever it was, it felt right. I pushed again and felt the ropes fall away.
At the same moment, Boris reached his grubby hands out to grab a fistful of my fellow prisoner’s ample breasts. She let out a small cry of disgust and fear and tried unsuccessfully to pull away. My anger bubbled over.
My feet were tied together, but my hands were free. I glanced about. My pointed dagger was lying unattended on the wooden bench at the far end of the wagon where Boris had been sitting. The wagon driver dozed over the reins, and for the moment Boris was still intent upon forcing himself on the woman.
I lunged toward the dagger, swiped it up in my left hand, then launched myself at Boris. The feeling of lightheadedness was gone, leaving in its wake a sense of extreme clarity. I could see every detail of the scene, and my movements felt amazingly accurate. Boris turned his face to me, and I had a chance to see his startled eyes up close as I punched the brutal steel tip of the dagger twice into the side of his neck.
My first blow punctured his windpipe, and my second