A time of warriors. A time of heroes. Or not. Because, when you're charged with keeping a so-called magic sword by a plainly lunatic druid, when you're told you have to go and make a treaty with those savages at the other end of the country knowing they'll kill you on sight, when you've been chased by wolves, or bandits, or bears, or (worse) evangelical Christians, or when you find yourself in the middle of a huge great battle and you're not strong enough to lift your armour, let alone your weapon, when the love of your life's being married off to some professionally handsome king in the north and when all you really want to do is try and keep warm ... Well, you don't feel like you're either - warrior or hero - as it happens. And Llew's problem is that he isn't. Really, he isn't. He's just a scribe. So, this is going to be hard for him, because he's been put right in the middle of a prophecy. A prophecy by a powerful seer called Merlin. A prophecy foretelling a great warrior hero. A king that is to come. A king called... Arth. 'Arth'? Really?