Prologue
Tirol Fortress
Old Maloria
In the age following the waltz of lions
Tirol Fortress
Old Maloria
In the age following the waltz of lions
It was the beginning of spring; the border lands hummed with newborn vitality as the world shrugged off the winter like a snake abandoning dead skin. The air was heavy with moisture, the echo of months of rain that had raked the plains beneath mount Tirol, the afternoon breeze carried a mélange of wet earth, lavender and moss as it flowed across the land.
Marshal Bergman stifled a pained grimace as he dismounted from his horse and passed the reins to a squire, at fifty he was a collection of aches and scars, a largely held together by duty and obstinacy. His leg was already burning as an axe wound, he had received whilst fighting Vikings protested his descent, his black armour had once been as a second skin, now after so many years it was finally beginning to feel more like a crushing weight.
In some ways the old warrior savoured his pain, it was a reminder that he yet lived when so many of his comrades had perished. He doubted he would see many more seasons; each new spring was a blessing and a reminder his time drew thin. He pushed the thoughts from his mind, this was no time for moribund reflections, today was a day of honour.
From summit of Mount Tirol, he was afforded a view of all creation for miles in all directions, it was precisely for this reason that the elderly general had chosen the ancient mountains as the site of his bastion. Prydania and Norsia loomed at his back, old enemies that eternally threatened to cross the border and resume the cycles of fire and plunder. Bergman had spent the majority of his life watching that horizon, oath sworn as he was to defend the lands of the Severyn kings unto death.
However, today his attention firmly rested upon the valley below and the vast host gathered amongst the bloom of lavender and blood rose. Even from upon high he could recognize the standards of his bannermen, the red kestrel of house Fel, the roaring bear of Esterhaszy and in the centre the resplendent black hawk of house Moravecs.
Four thousand men at arms stood at attention, mail and polished plate glinted in the glare of the ascendent sun and at the head of this mighty host stood the men and women who had bled at Bergmans side. Death could have the elder general, but it would have to wait its turn, today he would grant his retinue their justly earned homage, today the peace won at sword point would be exalted.
Bergman cleared his throat, already wishing he had a cup of wine as he fought down a fit of coughing. He glanced briefly at his own standard, the rampant blue lion of house Tirol looming over the valley in roaring defiance, he steadied himself and turned his attention back to the assembled army below. He nodded to his equerry and the horns sounded out, booming across the valley and announcing to every settlement for miles that today the great and valiant had gathered.
“My brothers and sisters, today we gather in the shadow of the mountain to give rightful honor to those noble persons that God has seen fit to exalt in the splendour of victory! For twenty years we have fought the enemies of our emperor, Vikings, Bayardi, Trien and an endless litany of other godforsaken swine! We bled, watched our fields burn and suffered the sight of our loved one’s bones bleaching beneath smoke clogged skies! But our oath has never broken! We have held these lands as our emperor commanded! We have faced every enemy this continent could muster, and we have beaten them all! Maloria is the strong back of this broken continent and shall ever endure!” Bergman declared his booming voice carrying for miles
Cheers rose from the mass of warriors in response, hafts of polearms and hilts of blades smacking against war battered shields as the men of the borderlands roared their approval. Bergman waited for the cheering to die down before continuing.
“Today let all who have bled in defence of our homes count themselves amongst the blessed few, elevated by their sacrifices, I call forth my loyal commanders to stand before me and to bring honour to their hosts!” Bergman declared in a commanding voice
At that three armoured figures ascended the hill to join Bergman, a woman in gilded mail with an ermine cloak draped across her shoulders, a bear of a man in red and white plate armour whose weatherbeaten face was a tapestry of scars and a tall man in worn scale mail, his face cropped in a tonsure and his black eyes narrow in a perpetual expression of disapproval. These three knights had stood with Bergman since the very beginning and today he would repay their loyalty.
“Ekaterina Fel, step forward!” Bergman commanded
The woman in the gilded mail strode forward and knelt before Bergman, in her early thirties the lady Fel was no less intimidating, he had personally seen her wade through lesser warriors her sabre flashing like lightning as she laid low foes many times her size.
“Your courage at the battle of the Reznov gap carried the day! and your timely intervention ensured I lived to see another! Ekaterina of house Fel! I bestow upon you the title of warden of the marches and bequeath you the village of Kuznow and all its rents and subjects, may they prosper under your stewardship!” Ekaterina rose and saluted her lord gratefully before stepping back
“Marius Esterhaszy step forward! “The bear of a man complied and knelt before his lord, still towering even on one knee
The champion of house Tirol wore the marks of his service upon his body to an extent greater than any other in Bergmans retinue. His right eye was milky white and the flesh above and below it marked by a long, jagged scar that charted the course of a Trien Sabre. His nose had been broken and reset so many times that it was near flat from the trauma, and his ears bore the telltale marks of frequent brawls.
Bergman had seen Marius crush a berserker’s skull with his bear hands and had witnessed him split a man down the middle with one swing of his halberd. He was every bit the ursine monstrosity his houses sigil suggested.
“Champion of house Tirol, you personally saved my life at the Tarthian fields, I award you the rank of Prefect and award you the estate and village of Trieste, may you bring honour and prosperity to the office!” Marius grunted in sincere approval one giant hand slamming into his breastplate in reverent salute. The giant rose, armour joints clanking as his gigantic frame stood, giving one last salute he stepped back.
“Bronislav Moravecs, step forward” Bergman intoned warmly
Of the three companions Bronislav was the least impressive, he bore no scars, could claim no superhuman feats in combat and his humble panoply was distinctly lacking in embellishments. And yet, despite his seemingly unimpressive visage, he was the greatest of the three. His counsel and genius having won untold battles before armies had even taken the field, he was the right hand of house Tirol and the most trusted of all Bergmans sworn retainers.
“Bronislav, you have served at my side for two decades, you came to my service at the behest of the emperor and have been my wisest council ever since, no reward is too great for such a trusted servant, therefore, I offer the hand of my daughter Petronella that we might join our houses eternally, blood of my blood let none divide the union we shall today form” Bergman declared proudly
“I am the sword in your hand and the shield at your side, in victory and defeat my loyalty shall remain ever true and undiminished!” Bronislav intoned in reverent reply
“Honour has been satisfied, now we feast!” Bergman roared his voice jovial
Cheers boomed across the valley below, Honour done and an alliance for the ages formed.