CHAPTER 44: THE EAGLE OF AUSTERLITZ (PART 2)

If Harry had hoped to sleep as much as his comrades to be in top shape for the battle, circumstances had other plans. Just three hours later, he had to admit that the mobilization was entering its final stage. Tired, numb from the cold and the nap he had just taken, quite exhausted since Pajol's sermon on the time it took him to get out of his camp bed and the state of his uniform that he had partially forgotten to remove to sleep, all this no longer mattered since he had been sent on a mission by his superior. The wait had been long, testing his patience and nerves, but now, Harry had reason to smile for the first time since leaving his native France. Not a second passed without him internally rejoicing at finally being able to show what he was capable of.

However, for the adrenaline, he still had to wait, even though the enemies had never been so close to him at this moment. With a dagger in hand, he was currently busy tracing another cross on the bark of a tree chosen at random, just like all those that had previously fallen victim to his blade. At first glance, his seemingly trivial gesture, which anyone could attribute to boredom, had a completely different meaning than just making X's on wood. After making two strokes with his blade, he deliberately opened the palm of his hand deep enough to let his blood flow freely, dropping it in regular drops onto the carpet of dead leaves under his feet. He then placed the same palm on the symbol he had just traced. With his other hand, Harry pointed his wand at the first and gently pressed it onto the palm. His companions watched him in silence, some scanning the surroundings for potential enemies, but others seemed captivated by what he was doing, their eyes never leaving his every move, and for some, widening when, once again, a bluish light escaped from his wand to illuminate the clearing for a brief moment.

"Is the beacon ready?" Vanhoeven inquired, observing, like the others, the actions of his young companion.

"Almost," Harry simply replied, concentrating on his work, his eyes now closed.

Perhaps he had performed this gesture fifty times or more for over an hour, but he still marveled at being one of the few who knew how to do it. His detection rune, into which he infused a small amount of magic sufficient to alert him to the passage of someone nearby, was not complicated, but it required absolute control of his raw magic and constant concentration—two things that the average person generally couldn't achieve together. Its only flaw was that it didn't reveal the identity of the person or thing passing through the invisible magic screen created by the connection between one of these runes and the nearest one. Therefore, it had to be compensated for by engraving it on the bark of a tree at human or even horse height.

At first glance, this mission seemed ridiculously simple, involving only reconnaissance work to alert the high command of any suspicious enemy movements so they could take appropriate measures. But in truth, it was simple only on paper and terribly dangerous. Vanhoeven had to get as close as possible to enemy lines without endangering the lives of his men. However, in the still nearly complete darkness of this late evening, it was always difficult to distinguish the silhouette of a rider or infantry unit from a bush or the trunk of a tree—a task made even more challenging by the total absence of any lighting. A torch could have effectively illuminated their path, but it could just as easily have made them perfect targets for enemy muskets.

Nevertheless, every ten minutes, Vanhoeven sent a report on the progress of their work to their superiors. He wrote it himself on a sheet of parchment using his wand, providing an overview of what they had accomplished and the situation in which Prince Bagration's regiments seemed to be plunged, ignoring the fact that his squadron was dwindling. So far, these reports had revealed nothing alarming, even though cannon shots and rapid gunfire could already be heard much further south, evidence of the first movements of the coalition forces against the least protected flank of the French position.

Suddenly, the rune began to glow very briefly as Harry removed his hand from the bark, content with the result. His still-bleeding wound was quickly cleaned and treated. Stepping back a few paces, he could watch with satisfaction the accomplishment of his work, a thin smile on his lips. Almost the entire forest masking the coalition camp was now secured, the rest not having been done due to lack of time, but also because part of this wooded area was constantly monitored by the army's scouts.

Turning to the dozen men who had made the journey with him, he nodded towards Vanhoeven, then mounted his horse and patiently waited for his superior's orders.

"With this, the Russians can come, and we'll be ready for them!" Vanhoeven declared in a low voice, aware that they had long crossed the security limit of their own camp.

A few nods of approval affirmed his words, while one of the soldiers, carried away by enthusiasm, gave Harry a few pats on the back. Harry wasn't sure whether to ask him to stop or desperately try not to fall off his horse under the force of his companion's blows.

"You're quite something!" he said with a little laugh. "I never thought a blue-blooded guy would have the fate of an emperor's regiment in his little hands! We trust you, kid, so don't let us down!"

"That's enough, Duchamps," Vanhoeven replied, turning around. "If our enemies didn't suspect our presence yet, I think with you, they'll be warned much earlier than we would like, and all this operation would have been for nothing! Now, let's return to the camp."

At a trot despite the thick vegetation surrounding them, Vanhoeven led his small company westward, trying to navigate through the trees. Harry accompanied him a few meters behind, but although he tried not to show it, tension was now gripping him. Duchamps' words surprisingly struck a chord in him and made him realize that the lives of the men he was with were truly in his hands. The numerous barriers he had scattered in the surroundings reassured him that he had done things correctly, but it only took one mistake, a poorly placed magical barrier or forgetting to remotely restore his runes through the fragile link he had created with each of them, for the enemies to breach them and catch them by surprise. In that case, every death would be directly caused by that flaw, and inevitably, the blame would fall on him. At least, that's what he believed. This factor, this variable in Pajol's plan and probably above that, in the plans of Marshals Lannes and Murat who controlled the northern part of the French position, facing the infantry of Russian Prince Bagration, this possibility hadn't even crossed his mind. It took a dissolute soldier, still recovering from his wine, to remind him of it and make him finally aware of it. To say that the weight on his shoulders suddenly gained several dozen kilograms after that would be an understatement.

To avoid alerting the enemy to their presence, their journey continued in oppressive silence. However, the tension was such that no one considered making the slightest sound. The mere idea of being caught by an entire regiment of enemy cavalry was enough to make more than one person swallow hard, especially since rumors had it that the Russians did not treat their prisoners well. With senses alert and hearts pounding, everyone observed their surroundings, ready to spot the slightest scout who might have crossed their detection barrier, and jumping when, unfortunately, a wild animal stirred the leaves beneath its feet. The squadron suppressed the urge to laugh out loud when, surprised by the crackling of the dead leaves, Duchamps almost fell off his horse while the culprit, a poor little squirrel terrified by the imposing mass of the horses, fled for its life.

Soon, the forest they were traversing began to thin out, the trees to open up, and the faint light of the sky to pierce through the bare branches, guiding them back to their camp. Like a signal, the pressure they felt within themselves eased somewhat. However, at the same moment, Harry felt a slight jolt in his magical core, like a small shock that, if brief, would have reassured him only moderately, but at this moment was continuous and without the slightest interruption.

"M-Mon lieutenant," Harry stammered as he caught up with Vanhoeven.

"Someone crossed your force field?" he immediately asked.

"He wouldn't be alone then," Harry nervously replied. "My signal has been continuous for a few seconds now, and it's no longer just one barrier but several that are alerting me to the passage of troops!"

"Then let's not linger!" his superior said firmly. "Gentlemen, we need to return to the camp as quickly as possible. Circumstances dictate that we report troop movements as quickly as possible!"

Increasing their speed, the small cavalry group tried to make its way through the surrounding bush, while Harry continued to feel the constant deployment of enemy regiments crossing his barrier. How many were they? 1,000? 2,000? 5,000? 10,000? Impossible to know for sure, but he was certain that they were very numerous. As for whether they were infantry units, cavalry, or even artillery, it took a fortune teller to know, but he hoped that, alongside this, the French troops would know how to handle it.

Suddenly, just as Harry began to think that their galloping would at least allow them to distance themselves enough from their pursuers to return safely to their camp, shouts from cavalrymen were heard to his right. White-uniformed soldiers were now charging towards them through the woods, shouting in German, sabers raised, and for some, pistols in hand.

"It's an ambush!" one of Harry's companions cried out.

As one man, part of their group split and rushed towards the enemy, yelling just as loudly and ready to fight at the risk of their lives. Harry was tempted to imitate them, but as soon as he started to steer his horse towards the enemy group, Vanhoeven appeared on his right flank, blocking his way.

"You have a mission, Bourbon!" he shouted as they continued their journey through the woods, mud, and ferns. "Stick to it! This information will be crucial for the high command, so don't mess it up! Remember what I told you earlier!"

"Your mistakes should not harm the entire regiment." Relentlessly, like a golden rule never to be forgotten, Harry repeated these words to himself as he urged his horse to accelerate. Behind him, the shouts continued, now accompanied by gunfire from an unknown source, but he hoped it was from his regimental comrades. Unadmittedly, he also hoped they would manage to hold them off long enough to distance themselves from their pursuers and safely report their information to the high command; the outcome of the battle depended on it. For several minutes, Harry and the others raced their horses at full speed, each aware of the situation they were now in but also of the fact that, despite their precautions, enemy soldiers might have caught them from behind and threatened the success of their actions.

"Did you sense their presence or that someone had managed to cross your barriers even before we turned back, Bourbon?" Vanhoeven asked after a while, as if to confirm his own suspicions.

"No!" Harry swore as they continued their race through the woods, mud, and ferns. "I've kept my connections with the barriers at maximum all the time!"

Although he didn't see it, Vanhoeven responded with a nod, choosing to opt for trust in him rather than questioning the talents of Pajol's young protege.

"So, that would mean that all this time, those soldiers were probably outside their camp," he continued after some time. "Perhaps they were scouting in ours, or were they simply monitoring the area... In any case, we need to get back as soon as possible!"

Without having to repeat it, everyone accelerated their pace, at least if their mounts were willing to allow it. Harry could clearly hear the labored breath of his own horse, exhausted from galloping in thick mud and zigzagging between tree trunks, while he himself began to have a really sore bottom from being shaken by his steed. Soon, the forest began to become much more sparse, wide enough to create semblances of paths, then disappeared completely, giving way to the vast grassy expanse separating the two woods. This area was terribly large, suitable for a melee where a significant number of men could confront each other without having to step on each other. It was an ideal terrain for battle. Luckily, it was completely deserted at the moment, a stroke of luck that could almost turn into a miracle given the current circumstances. However, the downside was that they could also be seen from afar and were not safe from bombardment orchestrated by a cannon well concealed in the ferns or on the nearby heights.

Harry and the others had not covered half of this vast plain when new screams were heard behind them. Despite the still total darkness of this early morning, several tall silhouettes could be distinguished coming out of the woods, charging towards them like cannonballs.

"Here comes the cavalry!" Duchamps exclaimed with surprising joy. "The others are nice: they left us a few!"

Ignoring the fact that the others might not have survived their attack or were now in the hands of the Austrians, Duchamps continued to rejoice in the arrival of their adversaries. He didn't hesitate to taunt them by intentionally firing his pistol into the air. Even when they returned to their woods, he persisted in his provocations, ignoring Vanhoeven's reproaches about drawing enemy riders into their camp. Luck also seemed to be abandoning them, unless the Eastern horses turned out to be faster and more vigorous than theirs. But the distance between them was dwindling as time passed, and soon, there were only a few dozen meters between them.

"They won't let us go," Vanhoeven protested, noticing that even as they approached their camp, the riders persisted in chasing them. "They must rightly assume that we know they are about to attack..."

"Shouldn't we fight, then?" Harry asked him as he turned his head slightly to look behind him. He noticed that their pursuers were now just a few steps away.

"As a last resort," his lieutenant replied. "Even if we die, the noise we make will alert our comrades."

One person seemed to have no awareness of the situation they were in: Duchamps. He persisted on his side in taunting the enemy soldiers and did not hesitate to show his legendary vulgarity to provoke men who probably didn't even understand him:

"Come closer, my beauties, so I can skewer a Cossack! Filth! Scum! Sons of..."

Duchamps stopped, surprised by the sudden burning sensation he could feel on his back. At the same time, his uniform took on a reddish hue, widening as time passed, and as his vision blurred and breath began to fail, he allowed himself the distinguished honor of a final provocation. He slowed his pace, drew his saber, and slashed the arm of the one who was about to skewer him before seeing his head leave the rest of his body when the next one, taking over from his amputated comrade, beheaded him with a swing of his curved sword. Harry didn't need to turn to understand this; the sudden stop of his drunken comrade's curses was enough to inform him. Instead, he increased his speed, now determined to avenge his fallen comrades by successfully completing their mission, unaware that he had just come close to death for the first time.

The pursuit continued without giving the impression of having been interrupted at any moment, and taking a quick inventory, Harry saw that there were now only four of them trying to return to the camp safely when the Austrians were no less than five trying to prevent them.

"If you have an idea to get us out of here, Bourbon, now's the time!" Vanhoeven called to him.

"I have one," he said with a slight hesitation, "but it requires, you know what."

"As long as it's not too visible, anything will do for me!"

Satisfied with this answer, Harry then took out his magic wand from the holster on his forearm. Pointing it at the surrounding forest, he made a few furtive gestures while concentrating on his spell:

"Radix mobilis!" he whispered, pointing his wand at some random trees.

Fortunately, all his spells worked, despite the fact that he was almost unable to control his movements due to the gallop of his horse. The targeted trees immediately began to tremble, as if suddenly alive, but he passed so quickly in front of them that he couldn't observe any further. Their pursuers didn't even pay attention to it, focused on their target who was still trying to escape them, just as they didn't notice the sudden and thick roots that were now moving on the ground like snakes. The first two riders passed the obstacle unscathed, but their three comrades, slightly behind, paid the price for Harry's spell when those same roots discreetly crossed the path of their horse's hooves. One horse got its hooves stuck in one of them and clumsily fell to the ground, accidentally crushing its rider underneath, while the second was abruptly struck by another root on its flank, throwing its rider to the ground. The third, perhaps the least lucky, had its front left leg wrapped in a root that broke it instantly and unseated its rider once again.

"Finite incantatem," Harry muttered once he was convinced that his spell could no longer be of any use.

Turning his head once again to look behind him, he was satisfied to see that there were only two pursuers left, while they were still four heading back to their camp. Vanhoeven seemed to be making the same observation that now occupied his mind because he immediately began to slow down, ordering the others to do the same. Changing direction, he decided to confront the two enemy riders, blocking their path with a drawn saber. Surprised by this sudden change, the Austrians also stopped their charge. It was when they realized they were now outnumbered that they understood the tide had turned against them.

"Are you going to continue chasing us, gentlemen?" Vanhoeven asked them amusingly as he approached a few steps.

One of them replied, but his German dialect was only understandable to Harry, who didn't hesitate to report it to his superior.

"If I'm not mistaken, sir, this charming gentleman just insulted us as French dogs at the service of a little corporal," he informed him with a mocking grin.

"Swords drawn!" Vanhoeven immediately ordered them, and a concert of iron blades being drawn from their scabbards could be heard.

Their gesture immediately made the Austrians turn back under the joyful cheers of the two soldiers still accompanying Harry and their lieutenant. Once far enough to be definitively safe, all four of them turned back towards their final destination. Vanhoeven argued that their little escapade had already cost them precious time in preparing the entire French deployment. Their exhausted horses had to endure once again a long and exhausting run that made them pant so loudly that Harry thought at any moment his mount would collapse to the ground without ever being able to get up.

"Bourbon, what was that spell you used?" his superior asked him as they continued their way, the tension decreasing in the process. "I don't know what happened, but it served us damn well!"

"It's a spell my mother taught me before I joined the academy," he replied. "It follows the same principle of the devil's snare defense, except that it extends to plants that are not supposedly magical. The roots of these plants suddenly start moving and obey the will of the spellcaster; they can simply move the tree, which is very useful for gardening and beautifying a space, or as here, to obstruct a danger or even to seize the said object to crush it."

"Interesting," commented Vanhoeven. "For close combat in the heart of a forest, it could be terribly effective! Remind me to mention it to Pajol when we have the opportunity."

"Very well, sir!"

The opportunity presented itself to them a few minutes later, accompanied by the beating of drums and the sound of boots marching on muddy ground. Finally back at their camp, the four survivors could finally breathe a sigh of relief after the ordeal they had just been through. Thousands of men were bustling around them, perhaps a sign that the missives Vanhoeven had sent seemed ambiguous enough to the high command to launch an offensive against an enemy camp that seemed calm.

"It is said that the Russians launched an assault on Marshal Davout's corps in the south, and the Emperor would like to counterbalance it by attacking them from the north," a soldier said to his friend as they passed by.

... Or simply that circumstances had led Marshals Lannes and Murat not to wait for the reports sent by Vanhoeven as a scout to act and mobilize their troops. Disheartened, Harry couldn't help but think that everything they had done for over an hour now, all the work done on the outskirts of the enemy camp, and the losses they had suffered so far had ultimately been in vain and pointless. Was this war? A succession of hazardous and dangerous ventures for an uncertain goal that only engaged those who established it so that, in the end, its success depended only on the whims of fate and a plan that could change at any moment? He almost felt like screaming with anger, but with composure, he merely expressed his annoyance with a slight furrowing of his eyebrows. Vanhoeven did not seem particularly upset by the news, having made the same observation as his young companion, in whom he could nevertheless perceive a hint of disappointment.

"Come on, Bourbon, you'll experience more, believe me!" he said, putting an arm around his shoulders as they headed towards the officers' tent. "But... aren't you sad to see that the death of our comrades will have served for nothing?" Harry protested, surprised by his superior's attitude. "Death is the fate of all soldiers, Bourbon," Vanhoeven replied. "Duchamps, Peletier, and the others knew the risks they were taking in participating in this mission, and they didn't back down. Take it as a positive experience. After all, it's the first time you've been sent into the field. As for the success or failure of our mission, consider it like a battle whose outcome is ultimately unfavorable but does not condemn us to resounding failure. I'm sure the high command will be delighted to hear your observations on the progress of Bagration and Liechtenstein's troops." Seen from this angle, Harry had nothing to complain about, but still, he did not share the lack of emotion at the idea that several comrades had died or been captured and that he, by chance or thanks to his lucky star, had just escaped the same unenviable fate. With this thought, he continued on his way through the camp in the footsteps of his superior. However, when he thought their path would lead them to Marshal Murat's tent, Vanhoeven opted for another destination: Pajol's tent. There too, soldiers were busy finishing their preparations and adjusting their equipment on the backs of their horses, some slightly hesitating due to the alcohol still flowing in their bodies. As he passed by, Harry also noted with resignation that the campfire had long been extinguished, a sign that he was decidedly the only one concerned or simply on duty. The embers no longer emitted even the slightest burst of smoke, while the wood, dampened long ago by the persistent mist of this December morning, would not be useful for anything other than warming the freezing atmosphere of a December night for a long time to come. Pajol was already there, standing as straight as an I at the entrance of his tent as he watched them approach slowly on horses that, if they could speak, would probably cry out for a small hour of rest, while he himself sipped a cup of coffee.

"I wasn't expecting you so quickly," he declared, casually stirring his spoon as Harry and the other three dismounted. "I also didn't expect you to be so few... Any problems on the road, Vanhoeven?"

"My colonel," the concerned one began, taking off his hat, "we did what you asked us the moment I judged we were close enough to the enemy camp to get to work, and I vouch for Soldier Bourbon on the success of your plan."

Pajol glanced at Harry, but refrained from making any comment.

"Only?" he finally replied after a few seconds.

"The deployment had barely been put in place when Soldier Bourbon felt the presence of hundreds of individuals crossing him," Vanhoeven continued.

Pajol, who continued to stir his coffee, immediately stopped in his gesture, and for the first time since their arrival, Harry felt that the calm attitude in which their superior had immersed himself had suddenly shattered.

"What are you saying?!" he said sharply, his eyes now shooting daggers at his subordinate.

"Bourbon is convinced that Prince Bagration's troops and his Austrian counterpart are on the move and heading towards us..." Vanhoeven hadn't even finished when Pajol abruptly threw his cup to the ground. Rushing into his tent, he emerged a few moments later with his bicorn hat on his head, feverishly trying to put on his gloves.

"Your reports made no mention of any troop movements until now," he indicated to his lieutenant almost accusingly. "As for the possibility that the troops facing us are moving in our direction, I hope for your sake, Bourbon, that it's true. Otherwise, I dare not imagine what punishment the command would decide for you. Are you sure you sensed people crossing your barriers in large numbers?"

"Absolutely sure," Harry replied somewhat sullenly, offended that his abilities were being questioned. "I could feel it until the moment we crossed the plain separating the two parts of the forest. I then severed the connection between my barriers and myself to avoid wasting more of my magic reserves."

"Very well," he said. "I would feel terribly ashamed if you couldn't use this system correctly, especially since I took the time and a lot of patience to teach it to you. I suppose you must have encountered some difficulties on the road to explain the absence of your other comrades, Vanhoeven."

"We... unfortunately encountered a group of Austrian cavalry on our way," he explained in a remorseful voice. "The group split in two to allow the one where Bourbon and I were to return to camp and warn you of the enemy's movement, but some enemy riders chased us just a few miles from our position. Bourbon got rid of most of them; the last two managed to escape, however."

"No one saw you, I hope?" he asked Harry in a stern tone, suspecting that, in the absence of fencing skills, his apprentice had other equally effective cards to play.

"No, Colonel," Harry immediately swore.

"I will go inform the headquarters immediately and learn their decision on what we will do next," Pajol declared, moving away from them. "You, inform your comrades of what you know and the other regiments so that they are ready as soon as possible. As you can see, everyone is already on the warpath since we learned that the Russians attacked Davout; we were only waiting for an order from the Emperor. I think with your information, we should soon confront our little allied friends. Good work, Bourbon." And without waiting, Pajol disappeared, Apparating to a destination not precisely known to them. Harry refrained from asking Vanhoeven whether the entire headquarters was aware of the wizards or if their lieutenant colonel would risk appearing directly in the Emperor's tent, Murat's tent, or nearby. Even when their colonel returned twenty minutes later, looking somewhat nervous and irritated, Harry felt that the time for questions had not yet come; his misplaced curiosity could still wait.

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