The sword isn’t anywhere on her person, that he can see. But then this sickly form beside him is just one aspect of what Nimue actually is. She’s every river in the realm, every stream or limpid pool. The sword could be anywhere or everywhere. Hidden in an underwater cave. Spread finely in the morning mist. Raining down on the mountains in the old

‘They’re not real in the same way that me and you are real. Or a horse, or a cow, or any other beast. But when you get some spare magic released into the world, then the magic doesn’t like being idle, so it takes the form of something. If it’s only a little bit of magic then it’ll just be a gnome or gremlin or something. If it’s a lot of magic, you

It might make things easier if he went down to London again and found Marlowe. Report in, like a good soldier. But he swore he wouldn’t work for Marlowe again. Not after Malaya.

The people are starving. The people are angry. New enemies have to be found, to put in front of their anger.

Strange things can happen, with mines and caves and tunnels. Especially if they’re left abandoned. A crack can form between this world and the Otherworld. Smaller monstrosities can squeeze their way through. But he’s never known a big queen dragon to slither through a faerie hole like that. They’re proud creatures; it would be beneath their

Didn’t Merlin used to talk about something like that, every now and again? One of his half-baked prognostications, casting chicken bones and licking moss and staring strangely at cave walls. Men of great wealth will burn oil and tarnish the sky, until the seas rise and drown us all. Everyone thought it was more of his usual bollocks. Look out,

It’s not a great kingly sword like Caliburn, with garnets cloisonned into the pommel; the blade is not emblazoned with the word of God; the crossguard isn’t inlaid with silver or fashioned like the True Cross. It’s just a well-balanced sword in the Roman style, good for spilling guts; a bit weighty in the hilt because he likes to be able to turn it

He can’t imagine what could have caused this, except the wrath of some angry sea god. But it wouldn’t surprise him in the slightest to learn that Britain had angered a sea god since the last time he was up and about.

‘Don’t start. What do you want?’ ‘England’s in peril.’ Lancelot levels a muddy finger across the park. ‘It’s not the Falklands again, is it? I should have thought I was perfectly clear about that last time. The Falklands aren’t part of England, and they never have been. They’re well outside my purview.’