Prologue

The one who would soon be king ran naked through the woods. Night birds, night creatures and night insects traveled with him through the vein-dark maze. Smells were sharp, the air was thin. The moon was a blade meant for cutting.

Tree roots thrust like fists through the soil. Tree branches cracked like whips as he passed. Everything - the faraway stars, the night-tainted clouds, the rain-moistened earth and the beasts in the shadows - were his for the taking this night.

Five weeks before kingship. Five weeks before the start. Five weeks to prepare himself to do what must be done.

So much power in the number five, so much ancient and terrible magic.

The one who would soon be king turned his gaze to the west. The Vorce Mountains were spikes in his mind's eye. The last vestige of snow on their peaks was a virgin's colors meant to taunt him. He would enjoy bloodying the mountain passes; thrusting through the time-worn gorges to the fertile land beyond.

Garizon had been too long without a salt water port, too long without a shore to call its own. But then it had been too long without so much more as well. Crushed, defeated, subjugated then forgotten, Garizon had survived on blood and dirt and bile.

Fifty years had passed since it last had a king. More than enough time for those to the west to die, or forget, or lose their minds to syphilis. More than enough time for Garizon to be styled "our grainfield in the east" and "our friend in times of need."

Garizon would soon be no one's friend in need. Garizon had needs of its own now. Pride had to be restored. Land had to be reclaimed. A king had to be crowned with the Barbed Coil of gold.

Fifty years of subjugation versus five hundred years of conflict. The one who would soon be king smiled to himself as he ran through the trees. The west had a short memory, and those who failed to remember were destined to a fate far worse than repeating their mistakes.