Galhan’s father had been a great man. The Cragmoor Clans followed him for long years, trusting to his masterful leadership. His father had been the unmovable anchor when the storm of battle came, and the rock on which prosperity and peace had been built. But Galhan’s father was not immortal. Now that he was dead the clans were looking to his son.

Galhan knew their hopes were vain. He was cut from different cloth. Leadership and all its woes could weigh its stifling mantle on other shoulders as far as Galhann was concerned. He had his own plans. Good plans for a quiet life with the girl he was about to wed. Last thing on his mind was being a Warchief.

To the east the Vangal tribes are celebrating the passing of the great man and casting a covetous eye over the Cragmoor lands. Galhan’s reluctance can only play to their advantage. Time is short. Cometh the hour, cometh the man?