Duncan Harper

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Here grew willows and alders, their trunks twisted like giants’ sinews. Around them bark lichen bloomed blue-white in the darkness. It felt like a good place, where there was old magic

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Colm was a good sleeper. But if there was one sound at night that should wake him, and any sensible man who loved his family, it was the barking of dogs. The noise was coming from the village. It was not just one or two dogs, but surely every mangy cur and mongrel that lived there. Something was abroad, and in this time of the dying of the year, when fell creatures roamed the countryside as hunger began to bite, it was not likely to be anything good

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The wyvern swooped, but it was not to rend and tear but rather to bank and stare with one curious beady eye at the bodies of the minds that had touched hers in a way that no human had dared to do for hundreds of years. Such a slender and delicate creature, the wyvern thought, and so young, only a child in her reckoning, and yet with so much power

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I don’t think I would be very good at killing,