Here we are! Cover art for From the Hill of Megiddo, which I have to say makes this whole publishing lark feel that much more real. It's not too bad either, if I do say so myself.
It is the early hours of the morning, still dark. A strong fire fills the air of the roundhouse with thick smoke, as inside the mud walls and thatched straw roof a child is born. Caoimhé finishes pushing and almost immediately the child starts bawling, grasping at the air.
Myles Dáithín was early, because of course he was. It was an uncanny knack that he had when he was trying to turn up late, or at least not first, that everything would take far less time to do than normal. Even the buses, normally reliably late, would arrive not just on time but actually early or late enough to coincide with him reaching the bus stop.
The full moon shone the deep red of spilled blood high above the ruins of Tel Megiddo. Gaspar glanced at it only briefly, thinking it somewhat unusual, before his thoughts went elsewhere. There were more important matters to worry about than the colour of the moon, after all.