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Prologue

Wallace McGrory was sitting in his home, a home he had forged with his own two hands. When he had become laird after his father had withered due to illness, the clan was nothing but a joke to anyone else. With few holdings, they were nothing compared to the might of clans like the Monroes or the Calbraiths, whose strength had grown due to an alliance a number of years ago. McGrory remembered it as a wee lad. Upon the news, his father had groaned and grumbled, protesting that the world was against him and his kin, and that they never had any luck.

“Why should the Calbraiths get the marriage? They’re a bunch of upstarts, and they’ve been given their chance; they made a hash of it. We should hae the chance tae hitch our name tae a clan like the Monroes. Think of all the good we could dae, if only we haed the chance…”

But the McGrorys were never given a chance. Even at a young age, the words struck Wallace as mere whining. His father was far too ready to complain, in his opinion, rather than actually take action. People respected those who went out there and took the world by storm, but the laird seemed to think that everything would come to him if he sat on his fat backside and complained enough.

Wallace could never remember feeling love for his father, only shame, and shame for his name as well. The McGrory name was a joke to everyone. Children used to tease Wallace, and there were never any heroic stories about the clan, not like the others. Wallace used to sit and simmer as he heard all about the vaunted deeds of Highland heroes, knowing that his blood was as thin as water, and his kin were useless. He used to think that he had been cursed, but as he had grown older, he realized that he could be better than his father. He had few friends, so he spent most of his time running and training, becoming everything his father was not. Where his father was a glutton, Wallace restricted himself to eating only what was essential. He wore simple clothes and treated his body like a weapon, honing and forging it into something deadly. The older he grew, the more spiteful he felt towards his father because he could see all the mistakes the laird was making.

“Dae ye nae care that we are a joke tae the world?” Wallace had spat at him one day, finally confronting him. The laird had spluttered and spat out a mouthful of food, incredulous that his son would dare to speak to him in that way.

“If we are a joke, it is only because we hae never been given a chance tae be anything more!” the laird said incredulously.

Wallace narrowed his eyes. “How can ye sit there and blame everything else but yerself? Ye are the one who haes wasted all these years. Ye are the one who haes been sitting on yer rump getting bigger and bigger while ye let the world pass ye by. Hae ye never wanted tae take action? Hae ye never wanted tae be better?” Wallace thundered.

His father’s eyes went wide with rage. The laird pushed himself up, his flabby body struggling to maintain balance under his own weight. He thrust out a thick finger towards his son.

“How dare ye speak tae yer da like that! I hae a good mind tae flog ye!”

“I would like tae see ye try,” Wallace replied, his words as cold as his heart. The laird seemed stunned, and then his face twisted in fury. He was a proud man, but Wallace did not have time to mollify his ego.

“I’m still yer father, and I can still whip ye intae line. Ye are naething without me,” the laird said.

Wallace snarled. “Whatever I am, it is no thanks tae ye.”

The laird raised his hand to strike Wallace, but Wallace reacted instinctively. His burly arm rose up and blocked the backhanded blow, and he used his strength to push the laird back. The laird was already off-balance, so he teetered, his arms spinning around, and then he crashed to the floor with a loud thump. His face was flushed crimson as he struggled to pull himself up to his wide chair. He stammered and stuttered with embarrassment, but all Wallace could see was a fish struggling to get back into the water. Whatever sliver of respect had been lingering in Wallace’s heart had been eroded completely.

“Get out of here! Begone with ye!” the laird thundered.

Wallace turned without saying another word. He knew his father would never listen to reason, nor would he ever change. People were creatures of habit, and the clan took their lead from their laird. Things would only change until the laird was removed from power. In the meantime, Wallace did something that his father had never done: planned for the future. He spent his time riding across the lands, meeting all kinds of people, and planting seeds for the future. He fought against bandits and won favors from villagers and farmers. He came to be known as the phantom warrior, such was his ability to appear from nowhere and strike swiftly, ending threats before they could pose any danger. People thanked him profusely, and they offered him anything…anything at all.

Wallace rarely called in a favor unless he was desperate. He wanted to save them all for the right time…and then the right time came.

His father had fallen ill with a most troubling sickness. He suffered from palpitations and fevers. Wallace was called back to the clan and used to sit by his bedside. Everyone thought he was being a dutiful son, but really Wallace was just waiting for his father to die. It took all of the laird’s strength to hang on to every moment, every breath, and his strength could only hold out for so long. Eventually, it was a pitiful end to a pitiful man. As the laird took his last breath, Wallace rose up and closed the man’s eyes.

“I’m gaeing tae make this clan better than ye ever did. There is gaeing tae be no more whining or complaining that we are nae strong, or that we hae been cursed. The only curse on this clan was yer attitude. Yer time is over. Only now will the clan be great, because I shall make it so.”

There was no room for pity in his heart. As far as he was concerned, the old man had had his chance, and he had wasted it. Now it was up to Wallace to make up for the mistakes of the past, and he was not going to be like his father. He assumed power immediately and promised the people of his clan that they would know a better life than they had ever dreamed.

After this, he was quick to call in the favors he had accrued during his time as the phantom knight. Messengers were sent across the land. Suddenly, the humble and sparse McGrory lands were filled with an influx of traders and skilled laborers who were eager to make a new start. Wallace also arranged for a bridge to be sent to him, the lovely and demure Elaine, and with her, he wasted no time in beginning a family. She gave birth to a boy in quick succession, John, with the promise that more would follow, but none ever did. Wallace saw his holdings increase, and the McGrory name was suddenly married with purpose and prestige rather than as the punch line to a joke. No longer would Wallace stand by and hear his name ridiculed. No longer would he have to watch some fat old fool wasting the best years of his life and casting the clan into destitution. No, it was a new era, a new dynasty, and Wallace would ensure that his name would be etched into stone and passed down generations into the future, and that one day his clan’s name would be said in one breath alongside the Monroes and the Calbraiths.

The years that followed were filled with prosperity as the McGrory clan grew from strength to strength. Wallace had a reputation as a shrewd negotiator. He had never lost the habit of winning favors and then calling them in when it best suited him. His son grew up to be the spitting image of his father: tall and lean, living by the essentials. Wallace made sure to instill in him a stern discipline, as he didn’t want to risk John turning out like his grandfather. He commanded the clan, just as he commanded his own life, by making sure that John only took what was essential and then traded or sold everything else. In this way, Wallace made sure that the treasury was filled, and that the meager offerings of the land around them were stretched as far as they could go.

He looked upon his life with pride, glad that he had been able to make a difference.

Soon enough, it would be time for John to marry, and this was perhaps the most delicate moment in the clan’s history. Good marriages would form alliances and new dynasties that would stretch long into the future, far beyond when Wallace would shuffle away into the afterlife. He needed to ensure that he married his son off to the right clan. There was an art to this sort of thing, but he had spent his life making good deals, so he was confident that he would find the right wife for him.

At the moment, John was out. There had been stories of bandits in the area, and just like his father, John was not going to sit idly by while others were in need of help. Wallace had taught him the importance of helping others because that help would turn into favors, and those favors could be turned into glory. As soon as John returned, he would speak about the matter of marriage properly with him.

Elaine, as always, sat dutifully by his side. He knew that she would have preferred a life of soft comforts and luxury rather than the hard, ascetic existence that he promised, but she had never strayed from him, and she had never spoken out against him either. He loved her, in a way.

The door crashed open, and at first, Wallace thought it was John, but it was actually Wallace’s nephew Kevan who came staggering in, panting and gasping, flanked by other guards. Wallace’s stony heart clenched; he couldn’t fail to notice John’s absence.

“They…they got him,” Kevan said in a hoarse whisper.

“The bandits? Ye let the bandits dae this tae ye?” Wallace rose from his seat, an incredulous look upon his face.

“Nae bandits. It was the Calbraiths. They killed John.” His words were punctuated by a deep breath.