Perilous Times

The Welsh are here in huge numbers, wearing dragon armbands, with leeks and daffodils pinned to their uniforms. They look like a proper army. One that he might not mind fighting for, if they have their wits about them. It’s funny how it still lines up, how the mardier parts of Britain are still the same as they were two thousand years ago. Wild and

Maybe he has friends in high places. Wyn’s been up there long enough to have endeared herself to the right people. She’s probably been baking treats for Saint Peter, who has provenance over this sort of thing. Walking down to the gates of heaven once a week with a wicker basket full of warm honey cakes. Talking idly about her heathen husband and ho

It sometimes feels like Regan’s the only one here who actually does any good in the world, making people feel better. She was an old-school peace warrior before the climate war, sneaking onto airfields and disarming fighter jets. Now she’s here helping refugees.

He climbs upward, reluctantly. Lethargically. Only motivated by the off chance of a cigarette and some decent Scotch. Maybe he’ll have time to visit a day spa, this time. Get some sort of deep pore cleanse. Sleeping in the London soil does nothing for his complexion. He wishes he could stay dead for longer stretches of time without anybody botherin

And before Kay can think about how he’s going to kill it, the dragon leaps upwards, beating the smoke down with its wings. With a few good strokes it’s high in the air, trailing its long body behind it, rising on the column of heat from the burning tower. And then it’s gone, high above the smoke. Far too high for him to see where it is going. ‘What

‘If we put anyone on trial for ecocide,’ says Regan, ‘it will be the oil barons and politicians and corporate warlords. Not our own sisters.’ ‘I’m sorry,’ says Bronte. ‘But like, I still think maybe there should be some consequences for Mariam, here? She can’t just cause an ecological disaster and then rejoin the movement as if nothing happened.’

Now he knows how to kill a god. You don’t kill them with a magic spear or a legendary sword. You just wait. You chop down trees. You burn wood, and let the fumes into the sky. You poison the oceans. You have to be patient. But eventually you do away with them.

He smiles at her. ‘Be a lot easier if we had a river goddess on our side.’ She pulls a face. ‘Oh, you know me. I try not to get involved. Affairs of mortal men are nowt to do with me.’ ‘Bollocks.’ ‘Bah.’ ‘What was that business at Nantwich, then? In Cromwell’s war?’ Nimue tries to look innocent. ‘Don’t know what you mean.’ ‘Yes you do.’ ‘Sometimes

She wants to bathe in asses’ milk, or the blood of a basilisk, or something else extravagant. A deep cleanse. Sleeping with Arthur again is awaking some very old impulses. It would have to be almond milk, nowadays. But even almonds are bad for the planet. She read that in the New Yorker.

Teoni runs a hand down her face. ‘Mar, honey, I think you need to take a break between blowing up oil rigs. You shouldn’t blow up one oil rig and then immediately go looking for the next one to blow up. It’s not sustainable.’