Perilous Times

‘We voted it down, in a meeting!’ says Willow. ‘When a vote doesn’t go the way you want it to go, you can’t just ignore it. That’s not how votes work.’ Mariam squeezes her eyes closed. ‘Meetings aren’t going to save the planet.’ Willow holds up her hand. ‘Look at the bloody sky, Mariam. Is that going to save the planet?’

‘Look, comrades,’ says Tarquin. ‘It’s mostly targeting the forces of capitalist oppression. Perhaps the dragon is an ally of the revolution?’ Leo shakes their head. ‘Dragons are inherently bourgeois. The whole concept of dragons was invented to justify the existence of the land-owning warrior elite.’ ‘Ah,’ says Tarquin. ‘Yes, comrade. It must be de

From her bunk she can see the barometer on the wall which measures air quality up above them. Designed for nuclear war, not for climate breakdown, but it still does the same job. Yesterday it said CONTAMINATED. Now it’s moved up to SEVERELY CONTAMINATED

The vaults at Wessex Place used to be a repository of sorts. Artefacts of Empire, ransacked from across the world, or from other worlds altogether. Most of the articles have been sold to private collectors. The spear of Longinus. The keys to Xanadu and Shambala. Old display cases stand empty and undusted. There are a handful of legendary swords lef

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.

Lancelot frowns. ‘We’re not going to the Department?’ ‘Ah, no,’ says Marlowe. He clears his throat. ‘As I said, there have been one or two changes.’ ‘Such as?’ ‘Well, the whole sector’s been privatised. Musty old intelligence agencies broken up and sold to US private equity firms. That sort of thing. The services previously provided by the Departme

A shield is not just for protection. It’s also for drawing attention. The face of Herne is painted white, and the iron boss will gleam in this bright sun. It’s not much of a plan, but it’s better than doing nothing. He plants the shield at the top of the stairs, driving the rim down between two bands of the metal walkway. Then he kneels behind it,

There’s not much he can do with just his shield. Even his sword wouldn’t help enormously. Ancient warriors risen from the very ground with their arms untarnished are less useful than they used to be, when there are men doing wicked things with automatic rifles. If Merlin foresaw everything that would come to pass, why didn’t he account for guns? It

This part’s always disagreeable, the brute scramble up towards daylight. He burrows through clay, grabs at roots, until the earth falls away and he’s looking up at a vaguely yellow sky.