Title: Surrender
Author: Mir
Date: April 2021
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Note: As a reader, I have mixed feelings about Uprooted. But I outlined this story years ago and thought I might as well just give it a try. Some things just beg to be written. This will be two parts, both relatively short. Hope you enjoy.
Disclaimer: "Uprooted" and its characters belong to Naomi Novik. I do not write for profit and receive no compensation for this story.
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Prologue
No one remembers how he came to us, our Dragon. Though some might claim they'd heard the true story, passed from mother to daughter, whispered furtively in the darkness as the night's fires sank into ash. But these truths are just tales spun from rumors and imagination. For no one, save the Dragon himself, was there.
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Part One
I stormed from the Raven's tower into a night cold and hard with frost. For once, the courtiers were right. She was nothing but a doddering fool, an old crone who'd languished too long with nothing but herself and the wilds, a witch just a hairsbreadth away from inevitable corruption. And to think I'd hoped she'd cure the Count's affliction. What utter stupidity. Nonsense. Truly, a waste.
She kept no servants, so I untied the horse from where I'd left it waiting in the barren courtyard. The animal stiffened and sidestepped nervously as I tightened its girth. Annoying beast. But a simple spell calmed its mind, and soon we were flying down the empty road back toward the capital, back to civilization. Beneath the crescent moon, the wind spun through the forest branches and slapped hard against the frozen earth. And stars like chips of ice cut through the blackened sky.
I should have been warm, ensconced before Baron Mazur's enormous hearth. Drink in hand, pursuing his fine collection of magical texts. He himself was no wizard of note, though he was apt to boast of some minor talent. Greedy, conniving, shrewd. He was no friend, but I'd pilfered some of my best alchemy texts from his dusty shelves. His great uncle had been the true collector. A renowned wizard whose far ranging travels took him to lands well beyond our borders. And of his great nephew, the Baron? Well, it is easy to trick such a man into accepting a worthless volume in exchange for one of value when he has only the tiniest trickle of magical talent.
With a sudden jerk, the horse stumbled and skidded sideways across the path. Thrown hard against its back, I squeezed its flanks and grasped at reins, mane, saddle, anything within reach. My fingers cold and stiff slid down the muscular neck, and I tumbled to the ground, only instinct and a half-formed spell protecting me from harm.
Gasping frigid air that stung my throat as dust like powdered snow swirled overhead. The clatter of loose stones as that damned animal shuffled from foot to foot. But at least it was still standing. So I dragged myself upright and hunched hands on knees by the side of the road, breathing hard, staring down that empty path, alone in the darkness.
Stymied by night. When nobles bow low and wizards give way, witches withdraw, and even the king himself requests, not commands my time. That something so common, so mundane should bar my way -- No. With a hiss, I beat back the frost with incantations and wrapped myself in warmth. A spell, my own interpretation of Betka's third variation, cleared the darkness from my sight, and night's gloom retreated from my senses. For what use is power that's always held back in reserve?
But even I could not maintain the spells while riding through the dark. The horse, spooked, by my efforts, edged further down the path. And the magic swirled around us in ephemeral mists, held close by will alone, dissipating and coalescing, ever seeking to break free.
A low rumble from the path behind me. A traveler from the villages? What other idiot was out so late? Pounding, panting, closer and closer. My breath caught in my throat. Hands clenched, heart racing in time with the beating hoofs. Then a shadow streaked past, and I scrambled back. The spells slipped from my grasp, and the night closed back in.
Down the road, the horse skidded to a halt, lathered and heaving. Its rider slid to the ground and staggered one step, two. "A message," he gasped. A villager with wide, bloodshot eyes, draped in the fraying remnants of magic. The Raven's hand. Drenched in sweat and smeared with grime. "The Wood--" He sunk to his knees. "--It's taken Porosna. And the Raven." His head fell forward, then snapped back up as the last layer of the witch's spell took hold.
And when he spoke again, it was in the Raven's own hoarse rattle. "Sarkan, Porosna is lost. And so am I, for I cannot hold back this advance. You must stop the Wood at Zatockek. You must." The man inhaled sharply as he crumpled to the earth, the Raven's words still spilling from his mouth. "Kill the messenger. He is corrupted and beyond saving."
I froze, mind racing, torn by indecision. Were these words truly the Raven's command? Or was it another of the Wood's devious tricks? Had it taken the Raven in Porosna and sought to snare me as well? Was it better to investigate the situation now or let the King send troops and scouts from Kralia? Or maybe perhaps...
With a snarl, he surged from the ground and lunged into the air. Hands like claws swiped furiously at my belt, grasping blindly for the knife in its sheath. Instinctively I turned aside, and the man crashed to his hands and knees, mouth hanging open, wheezing, choking. I stumbled back with the naked blade held before me. He didn't move.
It was a clumsy attempt at murder, as a man so exhausted is a poor vessel for corruption. Unable to pull himself up, he glared with eyes both seeing and unseeing. A spell rested on my tongue. One rarely used, learned out of necessity in a kingdom torn by war and corruption. Words of death. And for an instant we measured each other, the Wood and I. Force against force. Power against power. Will against will.
Then, with a single step I closed the distance and buried my knife deep in his chest. He crumpled, rivulets of blood spilling and puddling in the dirt. From afar, two horses looked on, and the forest was silent.
I lugged the man into the underbrush where his body might go unnoticed. If the Raven's words were true, there was no one in Porosna to mourn his passing. His horse I left to find its own was back to a village or friendly farm. For if Porosna had indeed been taken, if the Raven had indeed been lost, there was no time to bury the dead, no magic to spare on organizing affairs.
The Wood had struck. I had killed the messenger. And I would halt its advance at Zatockek.
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Note: Sarkan in this chapter is arrogant, self-absorbed, somewhat cruel, and ruthless when needed. He ultimately resolves to return to the valley but does so out of arrogance, for he believes that only he has the power turn back the Wood.
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