Excellent! Just as the plan had been worked out two weeks before. He had moved forward the morning after his talk with Gar, advancing thirty kilometers eastward to the area where the Russians and Austrians were massing. Then he had turned, as if already beaten and retreated. They had taken the bait, sensing victory with their superior numbers, and pursued him. Next he had committed an act which he knew the enemy would view as a supreme folly, he had conceded the Pratzen Heights to them, pulling back to the Goldbach River. With that move they would believe he had committed the ultimate folly by giving away the high ground, thus allowing them to have a secure and apparently impregnable ridge to form their center on.
He then extended a weak screen to the right, making it look vulnerable. The right flank was an open invitation for an enemy attack. He knew they would see the weakness to the south and fall upon it, hoping to break through and then cut his line of retreat. As the battle continued, they would strip more and yet more out of their center to push the issue home. What they did not know was that during the night he had secretly reinforced the right with reserves forced marched up from Vienna.
There was a nervous cough behind him and he turned.
"Sire. You can tell by the sound that the right is hard pressed. Don't you think it is time to send the attack in?"
Napoleon angrily shook his head.
"What did I tell all of you two weeks ago?"
They looked at him nervously.
"Go on, what did I tell you when I came back from my walk on those heights?" and he pointed to the east where the shadow of the Pratzen could be dimly seen.
"You announced, my Emperor," one of them said, "that the war would be decided on those heights."
"Then have faith," Napoleon replied, and he reached over to the aide and pulled his ear playfully.
"Look at this fog," he announced, "that was in the plan as well, don't you remember. I told you that the ground below the heights was marshy, that a mist would rise up before dawn from there and out of the river and it would conceal our main advance until the time was right. Give it just a little more time to play to our advantage. Let them strip their center."
He went over to his field chair and sat down. Behind him the staff paced nervously, but he ignored them. He kept an ear cocked towards the battle, listening intently as a roaring volley rippled across the fields. Yes, they were committing more. The trick now was to make sure he didn't wait too long and lose his right flank even as he gained the center. To the north the battle had started as well, the sound increasing with every passing minute.
He looked straight up. He could see clouds now, patches of blue sky. The air was getting warmer. The sun climbing. Flashes of light flickered on the heights, reflections of swords, bayonet points, the fog down below starting to burn off.
Another minute.
He could almost sense, rather than see that the Russians and Austrians smelled victory, moving yet more into their attack.
Well I smell victory, too. The dragon and his clan were doing their part. He had to give them that. Their breath was bubbling out from their lairs into the river and ponds, turning them to vapor, cloaking the front of the heights as they had promised. Yet they could not do so forever.
"You will know when the time is right," Gar had said. "After all, you've won every other battle on your own till now."
Napoleon stood up, shading his eyes. Yes, the sun was about to break through.
"Now, you may send them in now," he finally announced, looking back at his staff.
With a wild shout couriers set off at the gallop, racing into the swirls of mist, and then minutes later he finally heard it, the sound sending a corkscrew shiver down his spine, the drums playing out the pas d'charge.
He could feel the vibration in the air as the divisions started forward, the mist giving the sound of a ghostlike quality. The rumble of fighting started to flare up ahead and to the left as the advance slammed into the north flank of the Austrian-Russian line, crashing into it, rolling it back.
The mist was breaking, the Pratzen Heights now standing out clear.
He extended his telescope and focused on the hill. The standards of the Russian guard studded the hill, their numbers not as many as before but still a strong force. It would be shock that would have to break them; if they held out long enough the enemy could still recall its commitment to the right.
"Send in the Imperial Guard," Napoleon announced, and yet more couriers galloped off.
"Just a couple of more minutes, Gar," he whispered softly.
The drum rolls of his Imperial Guard signalled the advance. To the southeast all was now clearly in view, his own line buckled, barely holding on, the bulk of the enemy moving in for what they thought would be the kill.
And then, from out of the mist, he saw his own divisions sweeping up the forward slope of the Pratzen, the Russian Guard deploying into line to meet them.
"Now, hit them now," he whispered, hands clenched behind his back, flexing nervously.
As if a curtain was drawn back, the fog in the valley started to melt away, the sun, a golden orb now shining clearly behind the heights. And up out of the mist, advancing at the double, emerged the Imperial Guard of the Empire, tricolors snapping in the early morning air as their bearers ran to the fore, the chanting of the troops rising up. . . .
"Vive l'Empereur, Vive l'Empereur!"
The Fog of Austerlitz disappeared to be replaced by the Sun of Austerlitz. The Russian guard wavered, breaking, a few heroic souls struggling to rally them and then they melted away beneath the morning sun, the lines buckling, breaking apart in panic as the feared troops which had carried a score of fields came upon them, rising up out of the mist.
He heard cheers around him as the tricolors gained the heights and then pivoted, turning south, splitting the allied army apart. His cuirassiers, the heavy cavalry of the guard, storming through the center to widen the breach, sowing panic into the rear while the infantry continued its turn, now racing south down the length of the heights, driving the panic-stricken enemy before them.
Within minutes all semblance of an enemy army south of the breakthrough disappeared. The panic grew, rippling down the line, for how could this be? But moments before the valley below was empty, filled with fog, and now even as it burned away the bulk of the French army had risen up out of the concealment to render into shreds the dream of victory.
He could see them running, throwing away their muskets, tearing off packs and cartridge boxes, fleeing in terror. But there was no place to go except the frozen ponds, where peasants and, before them, dragons had fished.
The mob broke out into the ice, running, and though the thought of it made him feel cold at heart still he gave the order, looking back at his staff.
"Have the artillery bombard the lake," he said, and then turned back to watch.
Within minutes his guns were turned sending their shot bounding and screaming across the frozen lakes. Sprays of ice showered up and then the lake started to fracture. He tried to tell himself that it was the weight of the panicked mob, but he knew that his enemies would call it callous brutality against an already beaten foe.
The ice cracked, shattering under the weight of the men and the hammer blows of shot. It seemed that within seconds what had once been solid was now liquid, thousands upon thousands falling into the freezing water. He watched in silence, it did not take long. The heavy wool coats soaked with water pulled their numbed bodies down into the depths. . . . Gar and his cousins would have good fishing on Russians and Austrians for weeks to come. It was at least a form of payment for services rendered.
The battle roared about him, cheers, screams of triumph and pain echoing, mingled with the rattle of musketry, the thunder of the guns, all of it a glorious ovation to what he already could see would be his greatest victory.
"There is still work to be done on the northern flank," he said, and he motioned for his staff to join him and ride.
December 3, 1805
&nbs
p; Even in the cold winter air, the stench of corruption hung heavily about him, yet he would not let it steal from him this moment. Less than a day ago, all Europe would have believed him defeated and now, now there was already the glory, the legend of Austerlitz. Already his old grumblers, the Imperial Guard, had built it to a myth, how he, the Emperor, had so clearly seen that here would be the place of victory weeks before the battle was joined. Already it was said in the camps that he had even foreseen the fog, and knew its beginnings and its endings. Upon such legends more victories would be built, for in war men were nothing, a man everything. If a man becomes legend, victory will follow victory. His old grumblers, and his foes, would believe the legend of Austerlitz, how out of the fog of war the Emperor had foreseen and seen all things clearly. Such beliefs would come to shape battles yet to be fought.
He walked along the base of the hill, around him now, nothing but the dead. At least for this moment his staff, at his orders, had withdrawn.
"My Emperor."
Napoleon turned and the shadow drew closer.
"You served me well today, Gar. If you were a man I would make you a marshal. The fog you and your clan made worked to perfection, a marvelous perfection!"
Gar bowed his head low in reply.
"Thank you for the dinner. I suspected you bombarded the lake to provide a little extra treat. Though Russians are greasy, a dipping in chilled water seems to help the taste. We try and fish out the Austrians first, however, their meat is softer."
Napoleon shuddered inwardly at the thought and Gar rumbled a laugh.
Gar drew closer.
"Though I did not serve you merely for meal," Gar said, "I expect the treaty to be honored."
"Oh, but of course, my friend. I came here to thank you for your service to me, and to assure you that it shall indeed be honored."
Gar looked at him, a thin smile creasing his jagged jaw.
"You know, it is said by some that we can read the souls of men."
Napoleon looked at him unblinking.
"I would like to think that your Republican sentiments of your youth still burn within, that you will link the rights of dragons to the rights of man."
"Once the wars are over, so it shall be as I agreed to in our treaty."
"Wars?"
Gar looked at him curiously.
"Yes, wars. That is exactly how it is written on both my copy and yours," and Napoleon reached into his breast pocket, pulled out the document and unfolded it.
Gar looked down at the paper, a brief flicker of flame fanning from his nostrils to provide light. He squinted at the paper intently, gazing at it with his one good eye.
"Wars. I don't recall it being phrased that way. You humans have fought wars from the beginning, one endless series of wars."
"It says right here, and I quote, 'upon the conclusion of the wars.' "
Gar looked down at the contract and nodded.
"Ah I see, the plural form of guerre is in writing. My reading of French was never the best, though I do suspect that you knew that."
Napoleon said nothing.
"So it shall be awhile," Gar said softly.
Napoleon looked at him the way he found he could now look at so many. If only the victory had not been so spectacular, so legendary in its proportion. To reveal now the truth about the Fog of Austerlitz and the already famous prediction of how it would be fought two weeks before it happened would steal from the legend, his legend.
"Upon this victory so many others will come," Napoleon said, "upon this moment we have been made all but invincible in the eyes of my own people and our enemies."
"And the story of a dragon might detract from the legend."
"My friend," Napoleon said with a smile, again coming up to pull on his ear, "I fight this war to create a new Europe. It will take years yet, perhaps a generation before the monarchies are laid into the dirt. Now take the English, if only you could get your cousins in England to do something useful. Say burn some of their ships, or blow up a storm, now there would be a real service to ensure the rights of dragons."
"I cannot speak for my kin over there. Perhaps they might feel partial to their Englishmen. No, I can't bind them to that in order to bring about a treaty already agreed upon between you and me which made no prior mention of a need for their services."
"Ah, you see," Napoleon said quickly. "So it will be some time yet. I must, if need be, march to Whitehall itself to force them to the table. And then there is Moscow as well and Madrid before much longer and even Constantinople."
Gar shook his head.
Napoleon looked at him, his features softening for a moment.
"Come, my friend, you have done well by me today and I shall do well by you in return. My army is already leaving here. The only Russians you will see here now are ones for your dining table. And when it is all done, I promise you the rights of dragons will be assured upon my final victory."
Napoleon looked up at him and as he spoke he actually believed in his heart what he said. He liked this creature; it's just that the foolish thing should have read the treaty a little more carefully. And besides there was the legend to maintain.
Gar drew away, forcing Napoleon to let go of his ear.
"When your troops are trapped upon the roads of Spain, cut apart by their peasants, do not look for us there. And if you should ever march to Moscow, and find the road of your return frozen, do not look for us to warm you with our breath. And do not cry for me to carry you on my wings if you find yourself, at last, chained like Prometheus to a rock. I am sorry, my Emperor. I will not eat you out of vengeance for, after all, we dragons at least do live by our code.
"Adieu."
Gar disappeared into the night, as if he was made of nothing more than mist.
Napoleon looked around, as if he had, indeed, been talking to nothing more than the fog. He looked down at the treaty still in his hand and for a moment he thought to call Gar back and to strike off the plural at the end of the word guerre.
But there was the legend now. The legend of Austerlitz. That was the thing of the moment. Moscow, Spain? They would fall with the legend alone riding before him. And then he would honor his word as he had promised to when he wrote it out. He folded the paper up, tucked it into his breast pocket and walked away. He would file it with all the other papers once he returned in triumph to Paris.
The moon rose, pale and crescent, its ghostly glow reflecting off the upturned faces of the dead that lay heaped around him.
IN THE HEAVENS AND ON THE EARTH
by Christopher Stasheff
The Dragon of China heard the bray of a trumpet from afar. It was harsher than those played by the people who were his bone and muscle—it was piercing, and seemed off-pitch. In irritation, he lifted his head from his claws—he had been uncommonly weary lately; his blood had seemed to grow thin. Those barbarians from the steppe had been spicy indeed, and had invigorated him long after he had digested them and spat them out—but after a century and a half, that surge of energy had dwindled, and he had become sleepy, very sleepy, scarcely able to waken to greet the sun each morning before he lapsed back into torpor. He had roused himself briefly so that his people could fight those wild men from the north, those Manchus, but he had fallen into lethargy again quite quickly, and began the work of digesting them, absorbing them into his bone and blood. "Conquerors" they called themselves; fodder, he found them.
But they lay like lead within him, scarcely invigorating him at all; there was too little of the new in their ideas, too much of the old. They made the Chinese who were his body wear pigtails as a sign of servitude, but other than that, they seemed to have very little to offer, and he absorbed them almost at once.
So, everything considered, he welcomed the notion of something new.
Looking up, he saw a man riding toward him with a long lance, one that flared out to guard his hand. Strange indeed he looked, clad all in metal that gleamed like silver in the sunlight, riding across the clouds with
a banner emblazoned with a cross. That shell would be a bother; the Dragon would have to peel it off him before he could dine.
The little man saw the Dragon and gave a shout, levelling his lance and kicking his horse into a gallop.
The Dragon stared in indignation. Could this insignificant insect dare to challenge the mighty cloud-rider? Negligently, he lifted a claw to flick the challenger away. . . .
The spear stabbed into his foot, and the dragon roared in pain and surprise. He flicked indeed, and the lance went spinning. Then he drew his talons back for a blow that would knock the temeritous barbarian tumbling—but the shiny little fellow raised his hand and cried, "Hold!"
Out of sheer surprise, the Dragon withheld his blow. Then the novelty of it caught his interest; anything that would alleviate the boredom of millennia was worth investigation. He lowered his vast head to the rider's level and demanded, in a voice that rattled his silver clothing, "Wherefore should I hold?"
"Because I am England!" the rider cried. "Know, decadent serpent, that I am Saint George, and the power of God resides in me!"
The arrogance of the creature, the sheer, overweening pride of him! But he was amusing, so much so that the Dragon ignored his bad manners and asked instead, "The power of god? What god is that?"
"The Lord Most High!" the little rider cried. "Jehovah of the Thunders! The One, the only God!"
"There are hundreds of gods." The Dragon was disgusted by the barbarians ignorance. "And the One is the Tao, the summation and whole of which all things are part. The Ch'an call it 'Buddha.' "
"Blasphemy!" Saint George cried, and drew a silver sword.
With a flick of his claw, the Dragon knocked it whirling from his hand. "You are rude indeed, barbarian. Know that it is you who blaspheme, by daring to challenge the Dragon of China!"
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