Author's Note: Just a somewhat fantastical story concept that's been rolling around in my head since I finished reading Black Powder War. I haven't written in ages and wanted to contribute to the Temeraire fanfics on this site, so here it is. Posted on the 202nd anniversary of the Battle of Trafalgar! Oh, and the usual "I do not own the work on which this is based except for original characters" disclaimer applies... you know the drill.

December 2, 1805
Pratzen Heights – East of Brunn, Moravia

"One sharp blow and the war is over."
Napoleon I Bonaparte, Battle of Austerlitz

The Sun of Austerlitz had risen, and with it the wrath of the Grande Armée.

Mikhail Stavinsky's teeth were clenched as tight as was the saber in his gloved hand as he spurred his horse on up the slope, toward the milling mass of waiting French. They were close now, so close he could almost make out the battle-drawn faces beneath the bearskins on the blue-coated horsemen. At his side, dozens of his fellow cavalrymen rode in the awful, frozen rage that dominates the moments before a clash, sabers glinting overhead as they urged their mounts on.

French Imperial Guard. The very best of Napoleon's. He knew them. As they knew him and his comrades – Russian Imperial Guard. The very best of the Tsar's. They had ridden down the line men like dogs; had driven them off the heights in what Stavinsky saw as nothing more than an unfair slaughter. Cavalry, elites no less, against mere infantry and green Austrians. The atrocity of it filled his blood with fire. Now, it was time to pay the bastard French back in full. Guard against Guard. Chevalier against Grenadier. They would settle the score – as equals.

The French up on the slope loomed ever closer. Some broke away from the main body and began descending the slope at full gallop. Stavinsky whirled his saber in fierce excitement and dug his booted feet deeper into the stirrups. They were coming to him. Good. It would be a fine start to trample these animals into the dirt before the real fighting began.

They struck the French at almost the same time a thunderous roar rent the air of the battlefield – not cannon, but the dragons battling in the skies above. The noise made little impression on Stavinsky's mind as, with a vicious blow of his heavy steel blade, he sheared the arm off a French horseman who hurtled past screaming. All around cries of man and horse and the ring and clatter of steel on steel drowned out all coherent thought. There was only room for more rage, more frenzy; more desire to kill. He rode on in the grip of a crushing fury; saber trailing crimson, swinging to the left and right, parry gliding into slash and counter-slash and back into swiping parry. Only the sight of one of his comrades' familiar colors stayed his hand.

When he at last looked about him, the scene was glorious. Frenchmen in the mud under Russian horse-hooves, dead or dying, with their floundering mounts; his fellows circling the carnage crying out in triumph, exhorting each other onward. His already white-knuckled grip on his sword tightened still further. Now they would take the fight to the rest of the French, and avenge their lesser comrades cut down like so much cattle up there. Afire with exultation, the wind on his face and blood pounding hard in his ears, Stavinsky looked up the slope.

And stared.

A dragon was ascending from behind the gently arcing summit of the heights. Not even the flap of its great wings could blot out the terrible sun. Stavinsky had seen its like before; its ivory, marbled hide identified it as a Chanson-de-Guerre, one of the French heavyweights. Probably one of those that had wreaked such havoc on the Russian lines earlier in the day, at Sokolnitz. Its baleful eyes were windows into hell as it rose above the field, a vast angel of death, and the Russian horsemen balked beneath its gaze as a mighty roar, draconic and French combined, shook the very earth.

Stavinsky's horse whinnied in terror, as did many of the others around him, and he pulled hard on the reins, cursing. Fear pushed aside hot-blooded frenzy. They were hopelessly exposed. Where was their aerial support? He looked wildly up into the sky, seeking out an Ironwing or any of the Austrian dragons. But there was only clear sky, and against it a ferocious tableau of fighting dragons – the beasts swerving in and out of furious combat like so many birds at play. Their plight was completely unnoticed by the aviators. Now the horror of the situation hit him like an ocean wave, and he felt like he would fall from his saddle, so strong was the revulsion.

The French charge had been a trick. A buffering attack, designed to break their momentum early, to dampen their assault before it could crush into the French main body. Now they had lost the initiative; having slowed, they were helpless in the face of a full cavalry counter-charge, and were at the mercy of the Chanson besides.

"Mikhail."

He forced himself to look up, into the eyes of Viktor Illyanovich, his long-time brother in arms.

"We've come a long way, Mikhail. We've fought a good fight. Let's go. We'll walk in the streets of Moscow again."

Stavinsky reached out and clasped the proffered hand, choking back a sudden, hysterical sob in his throat. The other man's face was so taut with emotion, it looked like it would crack at the slightest twitch of muscle.

Their gloved hands came apart as the shadow fell upon them.

"Ware! Ware!"

The Devil had come for him. Stavinsky tore his gaze to the sky and took a firm grasp on his saber, cold determination filling his heart as he watched his doom fall from above. The Chanson descended, talons reaching out, and the Russian cavalrymen scattered in abject terror as the massive dragon roared close by overhead, raking dozens in one bloody swoop. The sheer thundering noise of the beast's passage threw Stavinsky from his horse, and the world swirled all around as he hit the churned-up earth on his back, all breath knocked from him.

In the first, dazed seconds, he felt the earth rumbling. Instinct cut its way through the pain.

He scrambled to find his feet. His sword was gone. His horse was missing. All around him, the survivors were left shattered and bloodied in the wake of the dragon's attack. And the French were coming. Full gallop. He had but a few more seconds to act.

Illyanovich's horse was struggling to its feet nearby. Of its rider there was, too, no sign. Stavinsky ran over to it and, taking it by the reins, swung himself up into the saddle, looking about for his friend even as he cried for a retreat at the top of his lungs. The Pratzen Heights was lost. Their cause was lost. All that remained was an ignoble withdrawal, which they might not even survive. The French cavalrymen were upon them. And high above, the dreadful instrument of their destruction, the Chanson, was turning about to come around for another deadly pass.

Stavinsky whipped his commandeered mount, reaching for his flintlock with his other hand. Those of his comrades still on horseback were following hard on his heels, looking as ragged and dazed as he felt, while a stone's throw behind rode the charging French, their dragon looming large as it gained on them from the skies.

He did not know why he had been spared its attack. He knew only that he was to make his last stand with his back to the enemy. And that galled him above all else. Pistol in hand, he turned in the saddle, preparing to take aim. His finger curled around the trigger.

Then he heard it.

It was like nothing he had ever heard. Where it came from he could not say. A piercing crack, akin to the report of a rifle, but different somehow; it was so loud it split the noise of battle like a thunderclap – a sharp, deep crack, reverberating in his ears like the toll of a church bell, echoes cannonading across the field for a heartbeat before fading out.

Then he saw it.

The Chanson swerved violently to one side in mid-air, a terrible, ululating bellow escaping its great maw as it plunged earthward in a wild, uncontrolled dive. Stavinsky caught a fleeting glimpse of the looks of shock on the upturned faces of the Frenchmen as the dragon plummeted toward them, landing with crushing force upon their body like a boulder hurled from an ancient mangonel. The earth shook as a vast explosion of dirt and mud was thrown skyward, and he saw no more of his pursuers.

The Russians, not understanding, cried out to God and rode on furiously, bent on reaching safety with what was left of their number. In stunned awe at what he had witnessed, Stavinsky quickly returned his attention to the front and tried to keep up with his battle-shocked fellows. It was a minute more before the feeling of firmly grasping something in his hand got to him, and he glanced down at his flintlock pistol – still loaded.

Satschan Pond – South of Pratzen, Moravia

The road to Vienna lay across the ice, and Stavinsky knew he had to cross it.

He bled from his wounds, and was unarmed. His horse – poor Viktor's horse – was on the verge of collapse. As was he. But he could not stop yet. He, and the many others around him fleeing south to Vienna, was far from being out of danger. Already he could hear the French in the near distance, closing in on them; field guns, and perhaps a dragon or two. They could spare those, and more. Napoleon had won. They had won.

He kicked his exhausted steed onto the ice. The fire that had burned in him earlier was long blown out, leaving embers as cold and lifeless as the frozen ground underfoot. His hurts stung. Blood was spreading, a thick red shadow, through his tattered Guard uniform. All he wanted to do was get away – a thought that knifed into him relentlessly, mocking his inculcated patriotic morals. Where is your love of the motherland? Your pledge to serve the Tsar? He shook his head sharply. The battle was lost. They had to regroup, and cut their losses. A dead man served no one.

He prayed the ice would hold as he set off at a fast canter in the wake of a small column of Russian infantrymen, many already hatless and staggering from injuries and weariness. Alongside pounded those cannon that the gun crews had managed to drag off the field before the advancing French. A good deal of good artillery. God forbid that it should fall into the hands of the...

"French! Behind us!"

Stavinsky's head jerked around in surprise. As the shout faded on the biting wind, he caught sight of the French gunners pulling up far behind, beyond the edge of the frozen pond; those in the van were already rushing to deploy their pieces as others arrived from the rear. His hand closed, spasmodically, about the grip of his pistol. It was only too clear what they intended. He pictured artillery fire raining from above, smashing the ice, sinking the entire body of retreating men into icy, watery oblivion. None would survive water this cold. Brutal. And highly effective.

In that instant, Stavinsky knew a true hatred for the monster that these dogs of France called emperor.

But the French guns remained silent. Fully deployed and unlimbered, they remained still and silent on the horizon, as though they were there to merely observe the Russian withdrawal. Why did they not fire? Stavinsky ground his teeth as he drew to a halt, glaring while dozens of soldiers ran past, wide-eyed, cursing and swearing. Why did they not fire?

In a moment, the answer literally fell upon him.

Another dragon appeared out of the clouds above, swooping down toward them with a deep-throated cry that drove the men about him into a wild panic. Another Chanson? Stavinsky could not say for sure, nor did he care. He all but snatched his flintlock from its holster, ready to fire his last shot at the beast before the Satschan claimed him. Eyes narrowed, a figure of unearthly stillness atop his panting horse amidst the chaos all around, he swiftly took aim in both gloved hands as the dragon's great bulk grew larger and larger above. If this was to be the one to break the ice, with its prodigious weight or explosives perhaps, then it was to be his killer, and he would go down fighting it.

The huge dragon's shadow eclipsed all else. With a parting, bitter profanity upon his lips, Stavinsky pulled the trigger.

The sound he heard next was not the report of his weapon. It was the same as he had heard, earlier, during the frenzied retreat from Pratzen. That same incredible crack, like thunder, resonating over the frozen Satschan, a hammer blow to his senses. Even as it died out, the dragon's neck twisted, violently, its vast wings madly beating in its death throes as it soared past above him. The flintlock pistol, still smoking, fell forgotten to the ice as he stared agape, shielding his eyes against the sun, at the great beast's fall to earth not far off.

The world shook to its very foundations. There was a dreadful boom and crashing noise as the ice heaved and cracked. Russian soldiers cried out in terror, throwing down muskets and veering away from where the dragon had fallen, where massive fissures were already clawing their way out across the pond. Half buried in the broken ice, the dead French dragon was an awesome sight as it slowly began to sink into the freezing water.

Stavinsky felt a sudden, unbridled surge of emotion. The ice would hold. It had to hold. The weight of the dragon was not enough to shatter it completely. Hope. There was still hope. They had to get away, out of the range of the French artillery. Now.

"Now!" he roared out, loud and hoarse, unaware even of his own voice. "Now! To the bank!"

Men around him took heed, and redoubled their efforts. Yelling, Stavinsky drove his boots into the flanks of his horse, so weary it had paid no attention to the dragon's passage, exhorting it on to one final desperate charge. Amid masses of frantically fleeing comrades, he hurtled across the glittering surface of the frozen Satschan Pond.

Time seemed to slow to a crawl. He felt nothing but an all-consuming drive to live as he leaned low in the saddle. Twice he had survived death this day. Surely this was a sign from God. Surely it was His will. He had to survive this battle.

As the bank inexorably neared, the horizon behind Stavinsky burst into the flames of a hundred firing French cannon.