The Master of Dalarna did not hear the rest. Battle-even again, up or down, live or die, and more on the issue of this contest than anything of himself, yet in it all he could feel but little engaged, as though it were an old tale told at a fireside about people long dead, in which his only interest was to know the end. Argyra, he thought, and thought of how he might have held and cherished her with better manners, yet could not find himself at fault for having raised that dismissal spell to penetrate to the room where his father lay dead. Where had lain his fault, then?—that his father had given him a clerk's instruction when he was a lad?—that he had taken the companionship of Meliboe the enchanter, when his own fortune and that of Dalarna lay at their lowest ebb, that night in the marshes? Perhaps there, and perhaps then; it would seem to have cost him the love that was only the shadow of a love and now this great one that filled his life, so that it had become no difference whether the battle tomorrow were won or lost. But how? Must he suffer forever for one fault? Too deep for his thinking, he thought, and so thinking, shook off all thoughts, ducked into his helm and went below to walk the order of his battle and see that all was arranged, for if the Vulkings had camped betimes yesterday, they were the more likely to attack early in the morn.
Without, the street was full of smoky cooking-fires, with men around them, here and there a bottle passed and floating converse. They saluted him jubilantly at the door when he was seen; from the lower end of the street, where the road bent to enter the town, came shouts, and down there Airar throught he saw something that moved like marchers, and heard sounds not the ordinary ruffle of camp. He paused; the march moved nearer in the fading light, and it was indeed a march of armed men, with three on horseback and a banner at their head, hanging so limp in the still evening air that its style could not be made out. The men behind were all in order; they halted clanging at a word of command and the three came forward to where Airar stood at the door. One young, with a surcoat bearing a red rose, leaped nimbly down.
"Gentles," he said, and swept off a hat from which a pheasant-feather dangled, "I seek the most worshipful Airar of Trangsted, leader of Dalarna's war."
"I am he."
The big man behind had dismounted more slowly. Pheasant-feather turned: "This is the Baron Ioventinian, of Scroby and the Empire."
The baron accepted the touch of hand and jerked forward a sword-hilt in obeisance. "I am commanded by The Council and Regents of the Empire," said he, "to lead a force in war against the false traitor and magician, Count Vulk of Briella—to wit, four hundred men-at-arms of Scroby. Provided only that no magic, witchcraft, or gramary be employed in this service, for such is clearly counter to the ordinance of the Well, as established by His Majesty 6f glorious memory, the Emperor Aureolus."
"No magics," said Airar, heartily taking the Baron's hand in his. "And you come very appropriately. We fight Count Vulk in person on this ground tomorrow and it is exactly in men-at-arms we are most lacking. Will you greet Mikalegon, sometime Earl of Os Erigu, but now of our free Dalarna?"
Ioventinian hesitated, throwing back his head a little, for the sound of that name had no sweet ring to Imperial ears; but he touched hands. "Will you have meat?" said Mikalegon. "You have had a long and hard travel to come so fast with men afoot and armor; for it was but a day since the Carrhoenes came, and they expertly horsed."
The Baron let himself be drawn to talk. "Not so very hard, neither. We came through Naaros port, where we found the Spadarion Pleiander, whose sister is wed to our gracious prince, and he said that though he had engines of war to speed hither, we were of more need, therefore rode us all finely in a great collection of carts he had made. . . . Touching which," he turned to Airar, "our gracious princess and lady, the Princess Argyra, waits your attendance in one of the same carts, Lord Airar. I sought to—"
Lines of Scroby men in their tall spiky helmets and flaring shoulder-plates stared as he ran like a wild man past them. It was true. Though her smile was kind he dared not quite take her in his arms as he helped her from the cart, and could only speak of the coming battle and her peril in riding up to it, whereat as he led her to the house of his quartering a certain constraint came on them both. There were many things for him to do— places in the camp to find for this unexpected increment of Scroby; where they should stand in the line of battle (the more part with Mikalegon, but one strong body to the right, where the spearmen were) food for all. It was already late, the campfires dying and only the night guards still abroad with their watchwords, when Airar could assuage his impatience to go to his wife.
"Why have you come then?"
"Do you not wish me, my lord? I have come to share your fate, whatever it may be, knowing the chances of battle. I will not have Sthenophon; and, my lord, take mine apology. I wronged you. I have it from his own lips that it was Sir Ludomir, in the face of his oath as a councillor, that set the magician working his arts on your father."
He felt face-muscles working. "Sir Ludomir, whom I had thought a high man! . . . But had you thought me so base? It was true, then, when you said that you—you said—you do not—and I am still a clerk."
Argyra: "Will you make me confess? I have thought on it all alone there in Naaros. I cannot change you, nor would. Be a clerk if you will, but let me say that I love, and am like to lose you in fighting against these very mighty men tomorrow."
Facing him, she undid her own girdle and shamelessly slipped down her gown.
39 The Whiteriverdales: No End
AFTER THEY had satisfied themselves and lay, lip to lip, he said: "Tell me, you who know so much of people— why did I hold to him, the old enchanter?"
"Oh, that is a light matter, my lord. Because he gave you something new, day to day. Even at the ultimate you did not let slay him because his answers still were new. I am new to you now, but the day will come when you will weary of me, Lord Airar."
"Not ever; never," said he, and buried her words with kisses. "I have you; naught else lives. But then I have banished the man that was best to me, my other father, but for whom you and I had never met."
She curled and purred against him. "Not so. It is at every turn evil, his magic. All fails by it. Had your enchanter never been, you were still of the revolt against Vulk and his Sthenophons, and you had found your way to Os Erigu somehow, where I was. There's a magic in love that is better than all your spells."
But as to this, which he doubted, Airar lying happy replied only by a sound of comfort and the next they both knew the door was being beaten, with word that the Vulking troops were stirring.
Outside, Airar Alvarson learned at the first taste of air why he had before lacked interest in what would pass, for now it was blood and death and everything, with his sweetheart back among the buildings. He set a guard over her of Hestingerne, who should see her safe if there were disaster. A hasty cup and sup and he was riding down the lines, full armed but with his helmet in hand— "for this mightily encourages men at the edge of battle, to see a leader"—and Nene of Busk bearing' his cat-head before. Not much time for this; Airar had barely reached the rightmost point of the line when shouts and a metal clang from across the valley leftward told that the gentours were already falling on along the opposite side, among the trees across the Naar. He hoped Rogai would have skill enough to use some of his archers against the mounted men, and said as much to Alsander, whereat the latter:
"No one will ever do a thing as well as one's self, which is why we hope in Heaven instead of making our own paradise here with others' help; yet Master Rogai will do as well as another. Ha!"
He pointed; beyond the rise of the road a low film of dust arose, and it was the Vulking array, in order, spread wide from side to side of the lawns to drive straight through Torgsted, shield on shoulder, flutes piping, red triangles high. Airar wheeled his mount, hoping to reach the opposite flank before rash Rogai should let his arrows go too soon; but he was late for that. He had barely reached the town when Skogalang whistles began to blow, the archers behind th
e Naar rose to their feet, and loosed, wholly together. Down went Vulkings by the half-dozen and score under that level storm from their unshielded wing, which nailed the helmet to the head, the armor to the arm, and the arm to the ribs, so that the leading ranks of terciaries were driven to their own left, toward the twistspear men among the trees.
There were good captains in those Vulking bands. When they saw how it fared with the first tercia, the second did not press straight on, but wheeled toward the source of the arrow-hail, opened ranks, and, shield in front, charged toward it. Many went down; the rest came right on, and when the broad stream checked them, bunched toward the light bridges Airar had let build for the convenience of his own, to force a passage. Now the remains of the first ranks, and no few of them, were into the barrier of trees under the cliff, hacking and pulling, disregarding the thrown spears, chopping off the heads of the thrusters, and as this action closed on both wings, the third Vulking line of battle trotted right on down to break through at the village. Airar heard an enemy trumpet sound signal; from his left wing a desperate messenger to say: "They break through at the second bridge, and we lack force." Half a tagoi of Carrhoene must be sent to make a rescue and fight, sword in hand.
No time to see what happened there, or even himself to go; for all along the line the battle closed dark and heavy, Vulkings in against the stockade, their short swords stabbing at the axemen of Mikalegon's band. Skogalang arrows still came from the wing, lightlier now, they were so close engaged in hand-strokes at the bridges; yet enough so the tide of Vulking battle veered more and more toward the other wing. Many died among the tangles there, but they died cutting through; presently there was a small band within the barrier, then a larger, and a whole line, against whom the spears of Mariola could not hold, and it was seen as often that by itself devotion wins few victories. The Vulking shout rose lustier; Airar saw one or two of his own people false enough to drop weapons and go running from the fray.
"Where's Ioventinian?" he cried, and the baron being found (who was fortunately man of war enough not to handle weapons himself till urgency required): "My lord, we're lost unless we halt these on our right. Disengage what you can, and come." He swung in the saddle. "Bid Evimenes charge by the road as soon as ever he can. It is not time, but we may no longer stay."
Airar had his banner borne with Ioventinian and the Scrobies. Many of them were weary and few had faced the skillful Vulking weapon-handlers before this day; but they were full armed in proof, the short spears of the Vulkings tinkled and fell from their breast-plates like rain from a turtle's back, and when it came to hand-strokes, their heavy swords at cut beat down both shield and thrusting arm alike. Airar of Trangsted's horse went down somehow, he found himself afoot, but from the corner of his eye as he fenced he caught always a glimpse of the same green bush and knew the advance was stayed, the decision of the battle turned elsewhere.
That elsewhere would be at the center, along the road. The stockade was pierced in two-three places, when the Carrhoenes laid lance in rest and charged. They caught Briella at the loose, fighting in little hand-to-hand groups, bore all before them, treading some down, transfixing others with their spears. Airar in his whirlwind of fighting heard Vulking battle-cries turn to pain; the man he was engaged with dropped sword and raised shield in surrender, and he looked forth in time to see the iron mass of Carrhoene pour out across the lawns, taking all in the rear to the uttermost limits of the Vulking bands. He was astounded to see the sun already westering.
By night there were prisoners, feasting and joy among the dead and wounded, .while the wild Carrhoenes were wrangling with Hestinga and Skogalang for the plunder of the Vulking camp, and austere Scroby men-at-arms stood guard where Airar sat with his lady. She touched a laming wound he had not noted till the battle was done; he had kept her from seeing it when Earl Mikalegon brought in the head of Count Vulk the Fourteenth with a fine air of achievement; or from knowing it that Mariola-Rogai had lopped off Baron Vanette-Millepigue's fingers before he slew him, the Marshal being prisoner at the time. So now it was victory and Dalarna free, Evides the Carrhoene released from durance, and glory everlasting, and one might think the tale ended there. No so; it ends some time farther on, with the red leaves of autumn blowing and a messenger in the house of the city of Naaros, where the Master of Dalarna drinks sweet wine.
"Lord Airar, there is a great invasion of heathen ships from Dzik into the Gentebbi Isles, with magics that make our men afraid, and they swear that you not having the peace of the Well, they are not in treaty with you." Argyra: "My dear lord and love, will you not drink of the Well with me and them and put all this down?"
Said Airar: "We will summon the levy of Mariola and Vastmanstad. There is no peace but that interior in us"— and wondered why she wept.
Fletcher Pratt
According to L. Sprague de Camp, Pratt was born near Tonawanda (town), New York, and attended Hobart College for one year. During the 1920s he worked for the Buffalo Courier-Express and on a Staten Island newspaper. In 1926, he married Inga Stephens Pratt, an artist. In the late 1920s he began selling stories to pulp magazines. Again, according to de Camp's memoir, when a fire gutted his apartment in the 1930s he used the insurance money to study at the Sorbonne for a year. After that he began writing histories.
Wargamers know Pratt as the inventor of a set of rules for civilian naval wargaming before the Second World War. This was known as the "Naval War Game" and was based on a wargame developed by Fred T. Jane involving dozens of tiny wooden ships, built on a scale of one inch to 50 feet. These were spread over the floor of Pratt's apartment and their maneuvers were calculated via a complex mathematical formula. Noted author and artist Jack Coggins was a frequent participant in Pratt's Navy Game, and De Camp met him through his wargaming group.
Pratt established the literary dining club known as the Trap Door Spiders in 1944. The name is a reference to the exclusive habits of the trapdoor spider, which when it enters its burrow pulls the hatch shut behind it. The club was later fictionalized as the Black Widowers in a series of mystery stories by Isaac Asimov. Pratt himself was fictionalized in one story, "To the Barest", as the Widowers’ founder, Ralph Ottur.
He was also a charter member of The Civil War Round Table of New York, organized in 1951, and served as its president from 1953-1954. In 1956, after his death, the Round Table's board of directors established the Fletcher Pratt Award in his honor, which is presented every May to the author or editor of the best non-fiction book on the Civil War published during the preceding calendar year.
Aside from his historical writings, Pratt is best known for his fantasy collaborations with de Camp, the most famous of which is the humorous Harold Shea series, was eventually published in full as The Complete Compleat Enchanter (1989, ISBN 0-671-69809-5). His solo fantasy novels The Well of the Unicorn and The Blue Star are also highly regarded.
Pratt wrote in a markedly identifiable prose style, reminiscent of the style of Bernard DeVoto. One of his books is dedicated "To Benny DeVoto, who taught me to write."
Several of Pratt's books were illustrated by Inga Stephens Pratt, his wife.
Table of Contents
The Well of the Unicorn
Contents
Introduction
Author's Note Before the Tale Begins:
1 Taxed Out
2 The Cot: There Is a Song
3 Naaros: A New Friend at the Old Sword
4 Naaros: Men Meet at Night
5 The Road: Change and Unchange
6 The Iulia: First Tale of the Well
7 The Iulia Once More: Gifts Are Given
8 The Isles of Genfebbi: "It Is Not Fair"
9 Ships Come to Salmonessa
10 Salmonessa: Now We Have an Allegiance
11 Salmonessa: The Duke Plans
12 A Night in Salmonessa
13 The Causeway: Baffle
14 A Night in Mariola
15 Hestinga: It Is Another Day
16 A Judgmen
t in Hestinga
17 The Count's Pillow: Second Tale of the Well
18 Issue of the Pass: Captains Gather
19 The Whiteriverdales: Spear and Shield
20 The Whiteriverdales: Debate of the Deserion
21 The High Hills of Froy: They Ride
22 Shalland: Evil at the Inn
23 Shalland: Debate of Meliboe the Enchanter
24 The Northern Sea: A Bond Broken
25 The Northern Sea: Third Tale of the Well
26 Os Erigu: The Cup of War
27 Os Erigu: Generosity Rejected
28 Os Erigu: Ramp of the Cat
29 Os Erigu: Treason
30 Bear Fjord: The Brand Is Aloft
31 Farewell to Os Erigu
32 Hrakra Mouth: Great Tidings
33 The Coast of Skogalang: Fourth Tale of the Well
34 Return from Sea
35 Naaros: "I Am Free"
36 Naaros: Duty
37 Naaros: Wedding Day
38 The Whiteriverdales: Wedding Night
39 The Whiteriverdales: No End
Fletcher Pratt
Well of the Unicorn Page 37