Six months later, on August 13, 871 AD, the continent of Europe was forever changed, though few of its primitive inhabitants could comprehend the magnitude of the shifting tides...
In the heart of the Frankish Empire, Emperor Louis laid in his opulent bedchamber, his face pale and contorted in agony.
It had been six months since his grand army of 38,000 men was utterly pulverized on the borders of Norway by the terrifying, smoke-belching ironclads of the Iron Kingdom.
The crushing defeat had broken the Emperor's spirit, but it was not despair that was currently rotting his insides... it was nightshade.
Standing over the dying monarch was his cousin, Zwentibold, a man whose ambition vastly outstripped his tactical competence.
Zwentibold gazed down at the pathetic figure of the Emperor with a cold, mocking smirk. While Louis gasped for his final breaths, Zwentibold swirled a chalice of fine wine, taking a leisurely sip.
