Mythology & Folk Tales
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Perilous Times: A Novel
An immortal Knight of the Round Table faces his greatest challenge yet-saving the politically polarized, rapidly warming world from itself-in this slyly funny contemporary take on Arthurian legend.
"A brilliant collision of ancient mysticism with modern madness."-Robert Jackson Bennett, bestselling author of the Founders Trilogy
Legends don't always live up to reality.
Being reborn as an immortal defender of the realm gets awfully tiring over the years-or at least that's what Sir Kay's thinking as he claws his way up from beneath the earth yet again.
Kay once rode alongside his brother, King Arthur, as a Knight of the Round Table. Since then, he has fought at Hastings and at Waterloo and in both World Wars. But now he finds himself in a strange new world where oceans have risen, the army's been privatized, and half of Britain's been sold to foreign powers. The dragon that's running amok-that he can handle. The rest? He's not so sure.
Mariam's spent her life fighting what's wrong with her country. But she's just one ordinary person, up against a hopelessly broken system. So when she meets Kay, she dares to hope that the world has finally found the savior it needs.
Yet as the two travel through this bizarre and dangerous land, they discover that a magical plot of apocalyptic proportions is underway. And Kay's too busy hunting dragons-and exchanging blows with his old enemy Lancelot-to figure out what to do about it.
In perilous times like these, the realm doesn't just need a knight. It needs a true leader.
Luckily, Excalibur lies within reach.
But who will be fit to wield it?
With a cast that includes Merlin, Morgan le Fay, the Lady of the Lake, and King Arthur himself-all reimagined in joyous, wickedly subversive fashion-Perilous Times is an Arthurian retelling that looks forward as much as it looks back . . . and a rollicking, deadpan-funny, surprisingly touching fantasy adventure.
"A brilliant collision of ancient mysticism with modern madness."-Robert Jackson Bennett, bestselling author of the Founders Trilogy
Legends don't always live up to reality.
Being reborn as an immortal defender of the realm gets awfully tiring over the years-or at least that's what Sir Kay's thinking as he claws his way up from beneath the earth yet again.
Kay once rode alongside his brother, King Arthur, as a Knight of the Round Table. Since then, he has fought at Hastings and at Waterloo and in both World Wars. But now he finds himself in a strange new world where oceans have risen, the army's been privatized, and half of Britain's been sold to foreign powers. The dragon that's running amok-that he can handle. The rest? He's not so sure.
Mariam's spent her life fighting what's wrong with her country. But she's just one ordinary person, up against a hopelessly broken system. So when she meets Kay, she dares to hope that the world has finally found the savior it needs.
Yet as the two travel through this bizarre and dangerous land, they discover that a magical plot of apocalyptic proportions is underway. And Kay's too busy hunting dragons-and exchanging blows with his old enemy Lancelot-to figure out what to do about it.
In perilous times like these, the realm doesn't just need a knight. It needs a true leader.
Luckily, Excalibur lies within reach.
But who will be fit to wield it?
With a cast that includes Merlin, Morgan le Fay, the Lady of the Lake, and King Arthur himself-all reimagined in joyous, wickedly subversive fashion-Perilous Times is an Arthurian retelling that looks forward as much as it looks back . . . and a rollicking, deadpan-funny, surprisingly touching fantasy adventure.
Editorial Reviews
"[A] hugely entertaining yet thought-provoking cli-fi novel . . . The book [is] properly hilarious, that kind of whimsical and observational humor that Fforde and Pratchett fans are going to love. . . . Lee has brought Arthur's legends into these modern, perilous times."-The Fantasy Hive
"A breakneck pace and a compelling urgency that pulls readers along on a wild, glorious, and epic ride . . . Highly recommended for lovers of Arthurian reinterpretations and climate-disaster thrillers."-Library Journal (starred review)
"Full of dark humor and insights into the ills of the twenty-first century, [Lee] hits close to home by asking readers to reflect on how King Arthur would save modern-day England if it were plagued by rampant racism and political infighting as well as the devastating effects of climate change. . . . A fresh, irreverent perspective on the well-known myth."-Booklist
"It's rare to find a book so entertaining yet thematically juicy. Perilous Times has knights, mad science, corporate villainy, radicals from the far fringes of the left and right . . . and dragons ready to burn it all down. A delightful and poignant read for our times."-Kevin Hearne, author of The Iron Druid Chronicles
"[Lee] maintains a steady faith in humanity's ability to bring itself back from the brink; swords can do more than cleave if they become rallying symbols for folks who do not recognize their own heroism."-Publishers Weekly
"Wow, what a book. . . . Hilarious, heartwarming, and harrowing all at once, with such a fun, fresh twist on Arthurian legend . . . All great fantasy is escapist, but this one offers a hard-and quite necessary-dose of reality as well."-Nicholas Eames, author of Kings of the Wyld
"An angry, funny novel, grounded in a vital, urgent reality and soaring with joyous fantasy-a needful delight of a book."-Claire North, author of The First Fifteen Lives of Harry August
"Enormous fun, combining razor-sharp wit with savage political commentary, propulsive action, and near-endless Arthurian Easter Eggs, this is a brilliant collision of ...
"A breakneck pace and a compelling urgency that pulls readers along on a wild, glorious, and epic ride . . . Highly recommended for lovers of Arthurian reinterpretations and climate-disaster thrillers."-Library Journal (starred review)
"Full of dark humor and insights into the ills of the twenty-first century, [Lee] hits close to home by asking readers to reflect on how King Arthur would save modern-day England if it were plagued by rampant racism and political infighting as well as the devastating effects of climate change. . . . A fresh, irreverent perspective on the well-known myth."-Booklist
"It's rare to find a book so entertaining yet thematically juicy. Perilous Times has knights, mad science, corporate villainy, radicals from the far fringes of the left and right . . . and dragons ready to burn it all down. A delightful and poignant read for our times."-Kevin Hearne, author of The Iron Druid Chronicles
"[Lee] maintains a steady faith in humanity's ability to bring itself back from the brink; swords can do more than cleave if they become rallying symbols for folks who do not recognize their own heroism."-Publishers Weekly
"Wow, what a book. . . . Hilarious, heartwarming, and harrowing all at once, with such a fun, fresh twist on Arthurian legend . . . All great fantasy is escapist, but this one offers a hard-and quite necessary-dose of reality as well."-Nicholas Eames, author of Kings of the Wyld
"An angry, funny novel, grounded in a vital, urgent reality and soaring with joyous fantasy-a needful delight of a book."-Claire North, author of The First Fifteen Lives of Harry August
"Enormous fun, combining razor-sharp wit with savage political commentary, propulsive action, and near-endless Arthurian Easter Eggs, this is a brilliant collision of ...
Readers Top Reviews
William de Rham
“Perilous Times” by Thomas D. Lee begins with an interesting premise: Knights of the Round Table are reborn to come to England’s aid whenever she faces serious peril. Sir Kay has come back many times, most recently for World Wars I and II. The England he returns to this time is decidedly dystopian, severely impacted by global warming, population displacement, and political strife. Refugee camps abound and are places of filth and violence. Unfortunately, even though it’s well-written, “Perilous Times” just isn't for me. There’s a good deal of the fantastical here—knights, dragons, earth magic, powerful swords, etc.—and I’m not a huge fan of that genre. Also, the book deals with a lot of progressive issues: climate change, immigration, inequality, racism, sexism, etc.; and I kind of felt like I was being hit over the head. Finally, I found the future Mr. Lee envisions for us--the world he depicts--incredibly depressing. Nevertheless, “Perilous Times” is well-written, and even comical in places. Other reviewers have sung its praises and I can see many readers enjoying it. My thanks to NetGalley, the author, and the publisher for providing me with an ARC. The foregoing is my independent opinion.
This is one of the wildest spins on the Arthurian legend I can ever remember reading. Taking place in a dystopian future a Knight of the Round Table embarks on the wildest quest ever…combating climate change. Laced with humor the story also touches on such topics as politics, climate change (obviously), racism, addiction, and much more.While I thought it was a bit too long for its own good and the pacing could have been a little tighter, overall it’s entertaining. A unique/fun addition to the volumes of Arthurian lore already out there. 3.5 stars, rounded up. I’d like to thank Random House Publishing Group - Ballantine and NetGalley for the opportunity to read and review an eARC of Perilous Times.
Short Excerpt Teaser
1
Kay crawls up from under his hill, up through the claggy earth.
For the last thousand years, the land around his hill has been dry. Drainage and farming and modern miracles kept the water away. He remembers. Now the ground is waterlogged, as it was when he was first buried. Before the fens were drained. He starts to wonder why, but then he gets a worm in his eye, which is the sort of foul development that drives the thoughts from your head. He makes a small, disgusted sound and wipes the worm away.
This part's always disagreeable, the brute scramble up toward daylight. He burrows through clay, grabs at roots, until the earth falls away and he's looking up at a vaguely yellow sky. He gets his head out first, and then an elbow, before taking a break to catch his breath. The air doesn't taste particularly good. The sun is baking down on his face. It must be midsummer.
He has another go at getting free. The earth's pulling down on his legs, but the slippery mud slickens his chainmail and provides lubrication. Finally there's an almighty squelch, and he feels the earth let go. His leg comes free. His hips get past the roots. When he's out to his knees he almost slips, falls back into the strange hollow that he's climbed out of, but he manages to stop himself. He gets his shins above ground, and then he's up, kneeling in the sun, panting in the heat. Wearing a coat of mail and a green wool cloak, both rimed with muddy afterbirth. His dreadlocks are matted with earth.
Sure enough, his little burial hill is surrounded by bog. The waters have risen. This is how it was when he was buried, before the tree grew from his stomach.
He gulps down air, trying to fill his lungs, but the air feels heavier than it ought to feel. It doesn't look like there's anyone here to wake him up this time. In the old days there were bands of horsemen, sometimes even a king, in person, when the need was dire. Then it became army lorries, or circles of druids in white shifts, slightly surprised that their dancing had actually achieved something. More recently, a man in a raincoat, checking his wristwatch, with a flying machine roaring on the grass behind him. Nothing today. It must be one of the more organic ones, where the earth itself decides to shake his shoulder. Something shifting in the spirit of the realm. Or maybe the birds in the sky have held a parliament and voted to dig him up. He looks around. No sign of any birds, either.
"Bad, then," he mutters, to nobody.
Kay drags himself to his feet. First thing to do is to find his sword and shield. They usually get regurgitated somewhere nearby, though there's no exact science to it. He's not sure that the earth fully understands its obligations. The covenant with Merlin was fairly specific. Make this warrior whole again and surrender him back to the realm of the living, whenever Britain is in peril. Return him with his sword and shield and other tools of war, untarnished. When peril is bested, let him return to your bosom and sleep, until peril calls him forth again.
It couldn't have been much clearer. But mud is mud. Mud struggles with written instructions. There were bound to be some misunderstandings.
There's something new across the bog. He squints at it, because the sun is bright and reflecting off the metal parts. An ugly cluster of low buildings, with pipes running everywhere like a mass of serpents. In the center is a silver tower shaped like a bullet. A fortress? Bigger, though, than Arthur's fortress at Caer Moelydd ever was.
"Didn't used to be there," he says to himself.
It seems like a good place to start, if he's going to figure out why he's back.
He heads downhill, the earth squishing underfoot. His sword might be in the bog somewhere, hilt protruding from the wet earth. Hopefully he'll just stumble onto it. That's usually how this works, the various ancient forces of the realm conspiring to make things easier for him. That was always one of the perks of being in Arthur's warband. You'd blunder into the forest and you'd happen upon a talking raven who could tell you where to find what you were questing for. How else would idiots like Bors and Gawain have achieved anything, if they hadn't had assistance from white hinds and river spirits, guiding them on their way? Not that they ever showed any gratitude.
Across the bog, the mess of buildings glistens. Strange that whoever built this thing built it so close to his old hill. But it's no stranger than white hinds or talking ravens. Riding through the old forests, you could never shake the feeling that there was a quest around the corner, put there by some greater power, whether that power was the Christ King or the Saxon g...
Kay crawls up from under his hill, up through the claggy earth.
For the last thousand years, the land around his hill has been dry. Drainage and farming and modern miracles kept the water away. He remembers. Now the ground is waterlogged, as it was when he was first buried. Before the fens were drained. He starts to wonder why, but then he gets a worm in his eye, which is the sort of foul development that drives the thoughts from your head. He makes a small, disgusted sound and wipes the worm away.
This part's always disagreeable, the brute scramble up toward daylight. He burrows through clay, grabs at roots, until the earth falls away and he's looking up at a vaguely yellow sky. He gets his head out first, and then an elbow, before taking a break to catch his breath. The air doesn't taste particularly good. The sun is baking down on his face. It must be midsummer.
He has another go at getting free. The earth's pulling down on his legs, but the slippery mud slickens his chainmail and provides lubrication. Finally there's an almighty squelch, and he feels the earth let go. His leg comes free. His hips get past the roots. When he's out to his knees he almost slips, falls back into the strange hollow that he's climbed out of, but he manages to stop himself. He gets his shins above ground, and then he's up, kneeling in the sun, panting in the heat. Wearing a coat of mail and a green wool cloak, both rimed with muddy afterbirth. His dreadlocks are matted with earth.
Sure enough, his little burial hill is surrounded by bog. The waters have risen. This is how it was when he was buried, before the tree grew from his stomach.
He gulps down air, trying to fill his lungs, but the air feels heavier than it ought to feel. It doesn't look like there's anyone here to wake him up this time. In the old days there were bands of horsemen, sometimes even a king, in person, when the need was dire. Then it became army lorries, or circles of druids in white shifts, slightly surprised that their dancing had actually achieved something. More recently, a man in a raincoat, checking his wristwatch, with a flying machine roaring on the grass behind him. Nothing today. It must be one of the more organic ones, where the earth itself decides to shake his shoulder. Something shifting in the spirit of the realm. Or maybe the birds in the sky have held a parliament and voted to dig him up. He looks around. No sign of any birds, either.
"Bad, then," he mutters, to nobody.
Kay drags himself to his feet. First thing to do is to find his sword and shield. They usually get regurgitated somewhere nearby, though there's no exact science to it. He's not sure that the earth fully understands its obligations. The covenant with Merlin was fairly specific. Make this warrior whole again and surrender him back to the realm of the living, whenever Britain is in peril. Return him with his sword and shield and other tools of war, untarnished. When peril is bested, let him return to your bosom and sleep, until peril calls him forth again.
It couldn't have been much clearer. But mud is mud. Mud struggles with written instructions. There were bound to be some misunderstandings.
There's something new across the bog. He squints at it, because the sun is bright and reflecting off the metal parts. An ugly cluster of low buildings, with pipes running everywhere like a mass of serpents. In the center is a silver tower shaped like a bullet. A fortress? Bigger, though, than Arthur's fortress at Caer Moelydd ever was.
"Didn't used to be there," he says to himself.
It seems like a good place to start, if he's going to figure out why he's back.
He heads downhill, the earth squishing underfoot. His sword might be in the bog somewhere, hilt protruding from the wet earth. Hopefully he'll just stumble onto it. That's usually how this works, the various ancient forces of the realm conspiring to make things easier for him. That was always one of the perks of being in Arthur's warband. You'd blunder into the forest and you'd happen upon a talking raven who could tell you where to find what you were questing for. How else would idiots like Bors and Gawain have achieved anything, if they hadn't had assistance from white hinds and river spirits, guiding them on their way? Not that they ever showed any gratitude.
Across the bog, the mess of buildings glistens. Strange that whoever built this thing built it so close to his old hill. But it's no stranger than white hinds or talking ravens. Riding through the old forests, you could never shake the feeling that there was a quest around the corner, put there by some greater power, whether that power was the Christ King or the Saxon g...
