Goldorran lounged moodily on his throne, a cup of wine forgotten in his paw. His crown felt heavy and cumbersome, and his brass chainmail tunic was itchy and hot. Idiot pirate! Yes, he was nothing more than a pirate! Emperor, ha! Goldorran didn’t like stoats, foul beasts. “Narrack! Gildfirth!” Narrack and Gildfirth were his personal aides, a pair of polecat brothers. They hurried into his thorne-room, and knelt swiftly. “Get up, y’ crigngin’ wretches! I need you on yer feet!” They stood up swiftly, standing to attention. Goldorran watched them with contempt. Draining the last of his wine, he said to Narrack, “Refill this.” Narrack hurried off to do his bidding. “Get my chariot ready, wreathe it with ribbons and gold and silver and bronze plate and gems and glass and all manner of things. And make sure that the pullers are good and fresh. The pair of wolf treason-doers should work. What did they do again?” Gildfirth thought for a moment, then said, “Sire, I believe that it was a plot to kill you with a poisoned knife, and then myself and my brother would be forced to go along with them to pronounce them kings. But then one devised a plot to kill the other, so that he alone could take the kingship.” “Ah yes,” answered Goldorran, “I remember.”