Paul Kearney was born in rural County Antrim, Ireland, in 1967. His father was a butcher, and his mother was a nurse. He rode horses, had lots of cousins, and cut turf and baled hay. He often smelled of cowshit. He grew up through the worst of the 'Troubles' in Northern Ireland, a time when bombs and gunfire were part of every healthy young boy's adolescence. He developed an unhealthy interest in firearms and Blowing Things Up - but what growing boy hasn't? By some fluke of fate he managed to get to Oxford University, and studied Old Norse, Anglo-Saxon and Middle English. He began writing books because he had no other choice. His first, written at aged sixteen, was a magnificent epic, influenced heavily by James Joyce, Samuel Beckett, Robert E Howard, and Playboy. It was enormous, colourful, purple-prosed, and featured a lot of Very Large Swords. His second was rather better, and was published by Victor Gollancz over a very boozy lunch with a very shrewd editor. Luckily, in those days editors met authors face to face, and Kearney's Irish charm wangled him a long series of contracts with Gollancz, and other publishers. He still thinks he can't write for toffee, but others have, insanely, begged to differ. Kearney has been writing full-time for twenty-eight years now, and can't imagine doing anything else. Though he has often tried.