The Ink Dragon

Prologue

The instant his flames caught the slip of paper, he knew something had gone horribly awry. A violent convulsion pulsed through his body, strumming every sinew and rattling every bone. The scene unfolding before him dimmed, coming back partially darkened at the edges. He shook his head and focused on the burning paper, willing it to hold back from ash, but knowing that at best he may be able to slow its denigration. He was already feeling thin and flimsy, less substantial. He spotted the face of his friend, his ally, just beyond the paper.

“What did you write?” Even his voice was burning, little flakes of black fluttering from his chapping mouth.

Before the writer could reply, the terrifyingly familiar form of the monster, Leonora, slithered out of the shadows.

“Don’t get too cozy where you’re going,” Leonora warned. She had a deep, thick voice that cut through the senses, like cold syrup riddled with shards of glass. “We’ll be right along to finish you off.”

The stone walls of the castle blurred, flickering. He didn’t know now if it was the fire of the paper, the torches, or his own vision starting to fail him. Every inch of his body was searing, inside and out. He could no longer speak and his lungs felt as though they had swelled and burst. It was almost over, he could hardly hold his own shape any longer, the incinerating paper now a mere pinch of parchment surrounded by briefly tangible ash. And then he saw it: the pen. The pen dangled from unsuspecting fingers and those fingers were just within the range of his swipe. The molten fury dripping down his disappearing body gave him just enough motivation to force what was left of him to move. The paper turned black, a final wisp of existence, but he snatched that pen and the enraged howl of Leonora was a small satisfaction as he lost his sense of being.

He landed on his back with a thud, unable to contain a pitiful groan. Everything hurt. He felt like he’d been baked in the sun for days on end as his skin was taught and tender. His throat stuck to itself and his head throbbed. He wheezed, gradually regaining his senses only to become aware of things he didn’t want to know: It was raining. He was on the edge of a muddy road. It was morning or evening, he couldn’t tell which. But the worst of it? The thing that really ruined his day of burning, betrayal, and banishment? It was discovering that he was most definitely not himself. He was most definitely human.

Not used to the indulgence of wallowing, he rolled himself up, inspecting the hands of a body that was not his own. He was mercifully clothed, as he knew how strange humans could be about nakedness. He scooted off to lean up against a pile of stones and rest, trying to wrap his head around what had just happened and what in the world he was going to do about it. He closed his eyes against the rolling green hills of his reality and the steady drizzle of defeat, and closed his fingers with a modicum of pleasure around the precious pen. Quill was more accurate. The feathery plume was sorry and sad, wilting in the wet environment, and the nib was dull with dirt. But all that mattered was that Pete and Leonora would have a hell of a time coming after him here without that little writing utensil.

It wasn’t too long into his repose when the sound of wooden wheels creaking and sloshing through the wet ruts towards him caused him to open his eyes.

“Hullo there,” a friendly male voice with a heavy accent called down from the cart. “You’ve either had a lot of fun last night or a lot of trouble this morning, by the looks of ye,” the man laughed.

He rose with a wince. “Trouble,” he clarified. He rubbed his still aching head, annoyed to find he had hair. “Where am I, exactly?”

The man laughed heartily, slapping his thigh and transferring the heavy leather reins to one hand. “Hoo! Trouble is right! You aren’t too far from Kerry, lad. Fancy a lift?”

With a grateful nod, he clambered up to where the driver scooted across the buckboard. The man struck a match and his passenger watched curiously as a cigarette sparked to life. Taking his watching as an inquiry, the man offered a smoke to him and that first puff gave such a sweet sense of the familiar that the cigarette was down to his fingertips in no time. His benefactor handed him several more.

“Seems you could use them more than I,” the man explained with a wink.

“Safe bet.” He took a long drag. He’d been forced from his world, double-crossed by his writer, and forced into a body that wasn’t his own. At least he could have this sense of fire from the cigarette. He watched the smoke curl up through the misting wet and swiped irritably at the soggy swath of steely gray hair that drooped into his face.