Jory Taylor

The crowd crane their necks for a sight of their sovereign: the man who, seven years ago at Stonehenge, took on the Pendragon device and thereby became the rightful High King of Britain, in the process ending the catastrophic War of the Devices and saving these same citizens from the internecine struggle between their increasingly out-of-control and savage mythologies.

No British monarch in recorded history – none, perhaps, since the days of Arthur himself – has been as well-loved by the populace as High King Jordan.

The man who steps from the car is at the tail-end of his thirties, blond, well-built, physically still fit despite his radical change in lifestyle, wearing an unfussy but extremely expensive Savile Row suit in sober blue, with a gold tie.  The slim gold band encircling his head – created by the Alexander McQueen design house to convey a sense of restrained, modestly regal dignity – is the only outward sign of his status.

You don’t really need outward signs, though, when you’re inhabited by the semi-autonomous culturally-inflected archetypal memeplex of Arthur Pendragon, King of the Britons, the Once and Present King.

– Trojans, p11

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Smart, contemporary political thrillers. A new kind of urban fantasy,

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