After the concrete and glass of the inner city, the leafier suburbs were a relief, with open streets and less goddam people everywhere. Although it was almost too quiet, with everyone at work. Still, it was easy enough to find the place – built atop a crossroads, black and white Tudor timbering with an inevitably ugly modern glass conservatory tacked on. The sign showed a circular wooden disk, presumably the eponymous table, pierced by swords, vaguely like a tarot card.

He entered. It was silent and deserted inside, except for a barman, squeakily scrubbing glasses. Brandon approached, settling on a cover story. He glanced up, seeing a framed certificate on the wall, the compass and set-square design of the mason’s mark. He resisted the urge to go all-in with the gestures and handshake.

‘What’ll it be, friend?’ The barman made it sound genuine, rather than a courtesy or a thinly veiled threat.

‘Pint of ale.’ They had a decent range of craft ales, so he picked one of those, the ominously named ‘Black Blade’. As it was poured, he spoke. ‘I’ve heard this place used to be a place for magicians to meet?’

‘Aye. A long time ago. Well, ‘cept for the magicians that meet every second Thursday, but they’re more of the card-fiddling type, not what you’re after, I except? So, you a seeker after truth?’

He made it sound like casual conversation, but it wasn’t particularly subtle. He turned to look at Brandon, who could see that his eyes were injured, scars and scratches around both, as though he’d been attacked and blinded at some point. But he moved with slow, unhurried grace, seemingly knowing where everything was.

‘I seek wisdom wherever it may be found, even in unexpected places.’

‘Like a pub not far off the M25?’ He smiled, finishing the pint, head perfect and smooth, handing it over. ‘Don’t know about ancient wisdom, but I’ll show you downstairs. Beats polishing clean glasses some more!’ He let himself out from behind the bar, still moving without any indication of his blindness. Brandon didn’t get any vibe of danger from him, but stayed at a cautious distance as he followed the man downstairs, the brick walls becoming bare stone.

It looked like a cave had been shaped into a basement, the stone cut into niches, holding all the usual tat and bric-a-brac of a magical society. Ridiculously ornate knives, metal bowls with Latin inscriptions, silver goblets set with (fake) gems. Worth a bit to a collector, and if he’d needed something to feed her, they’d probably make nice snacks. But in the centre of the room was a large circular table, dominating the room, twenty paces wide. There were still fragments of paint on it, cracked and worn, but too few to show what the pattern had been. The surface was pitted and scarred, holes gouged into the surface, a few holes stabbed clean through.

He reached out and touched it, feeling… nothing. Which was suspicious by itself. If she’d been here, he’d have asked her to take a chunk out of it.

‘I was wondering when someone would be along. Although I hear that there was a big change recently?’ His eyes didn’t open, but he stared at Brandon. ‘I’m sorry for your loss, for what little that’s worth.’ He smiled. ‘Sorry. If you want, you can pretend to be some fool asking about the templars or whatever, or we can get to the subject at hand.’

‘Who are you? And how do we not know about you?’

‘Oh, that’s easy. I don’t threaten or kill or do anything like that, all I am is a simple innkeeper. And there’s been quite enough other things to keep you busy, so what’s stories of a magical table in the suburbs? It’s not as though it’s King Arthur’s round table or anything like that.’

Brandon checked the table – the top was cut from a single piece of wood, the legs attached directly, without any sign of metal being used or even any notches, as though it had been carved from a single massive block. He tried to recognise the wood – the amount of polish and varnish applied over the years occluded most of the grain, but it looked like oak. ‘You sure? Don’t get many trees this large, not for a long, long time.’

‘True, but I assure you, this is not a table of kings and princes. Many have stood by it down the years, but no earthly kings. According to the tales I’ve gathered, at least.’

Brandon put his pint down, then squatted, checking the table more carefully. They were simple tubes, an ornamental curve partway down, more hack marks, but none of them severed. As an antique, it would probably be worth a decent sum for the curiosity factor, but it was simply enough made it was hard to age, without any obvious ornamentation.

‘That’s a very fine distinction to make. And what did you say your name was?’

‘I didn’t, Mr Brandon Argovieso.’ He chuckled. ‘Is it always this fun being cryptic and mysterious? If I’d known, I would have done it years ago!’

‘How many years, precisely?’

He laughed again. ‘Young enough to remember the hell-bitch Thatcher and her rise to power. I’m no immortal, lad, you can rest easy on that score.’

What wood was this? It looked like oak, but the grain was far too even and regular. And where it had been damaged, it had been… not repaired, but healed, almost, as though it was still growing, but in the neat lines of a crafted item. He looked underneath the table – it had been scored to make it look like planks nailed together but was actually a single piece. With the light from above, it was clear that some parts were thinner, light almost shining through. He laid a palm against it, trying to devour some part of whatever energy it contained. Nothing. It was utterly inert, apparently as meaningless and empty as a random stone.

He crawled back out, the old man watching him, seeming amused. ‘It’s clearly not a fake, but there’s something more than just a fancy old table.’ The man tilted his head up, as though looking at the ceiling, despite his blinded eyes. The stone had been painted deep, rich blue, speckled with shining dots; a night sky, although the constellations weren’t anything Brandon recognised. Carved around the central roundel were words, with all the standard care for punctuation and capitalisation: ‘As it is Above, So Shall It Be Below. As heaven Falls, so Shall We Arise.’

‘All original. Had the council round, try to declare it a special site or something. Managed to persuade them to leave, I’d rather not draw attention to it.’

‘So what is this place? And what do you want in order to be helpful?’

‘Couple ‘o grand in unmarked, non-sequential bills would be nice, give my pension fund a boost! But I’m not here to make a profit, least not from you. Guessing that you’ve had some people sniffing around, looking for your departed friend?’

‘Yeah, something like that.’ How he knew about her was another puzzle.

‘There’s a legend associated with this place. Because of course there is. I’m sure you, of all people, know the power of old legends.’

Brandon picked up his pint, sipping at it – at least it had a decent flavour, as it seemed like though this might take a while.

This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

‘Thirteen warriors of old, sat at a table, wishing to settle an issue of inheritance. Every blade equal, their forces an even match, no clear winner by strength.’

‘I thought you said no king had sat here?’

He waved a hand, dismissing the objection. ‘If they were never crowned, were they ever a king? Such a gesture, such a title, carries weight, even now, and back then… There’s a difference between a leader of an army, and a king, blooded and bound to the land. What was it to be? An age of blood and iron, kin against kin, the lands scorched black with war and kin-strife? Or a harmonious agreement, something between equals?’

‘Very Arthurian, little bit of the fisher king in there. Sure it wasn’t his round table? Looks like it wasn’t a peaceful meeting though.’

‘Well, there’s two different endings. One, where they drew their swords and sheathed them in the table, declaring peace and brotherhood, and that the damage was from a later oathbreaker, set on undoing their deeds. And, of course, the other version – that they fell to fighting amongst themselves, shattering any hope of peace.’

‘OK, very cryptic, anything useful?’

‘Two things – firstly, as you have no doubt surmised, the table is somewhat unusual, and I suspect resistant to what remains of your powers. And secondly, when I inherited this place, I also inherited a blade, said to have been one of those left in the table, and some annoyingly cryptic instructions that there would come a day when I would have to pass it on, as well as some notes on the various groups and politics your lot get up to. Not that there’s enough of you left to be “your lot” anymore, I suppose?’

‘An old guy at a pub handing out mysterious swords?’

He looked slightly embarrassed. ‘Yeah, I know. It came with a generous financial package, otherwise I’d have packed it in years ago. Nevertheless, I’ve seen enough, at least when I could see, to know that there’s some strange stuff out there, and I have my own reasons to…’ He paused, suddenly going still. Some white fluff had floated into the cellar, downy feathers borne upon a breeze. One of the drifted through the air, deceptively slow, rubbing against the man’s cheek. As it did so, it left a trail of blood, slicing his face open. He tried to draw back, but the other feathers turned, being pushed on an unfelt breeze.

Brandon tossed the rest of his pint, managing to catch some of them in the liquid, the stuff heavy enough to drag them down. He grabbed the old man by the scruff of the neck, trying to ignore the blood pouring down his face, pulling him towards the back of the room. More and more of the stuff was drifting into the room, like someone had torn open a down pillow upstairs, gathering into packs and clumps. The man groaned in pain, reaching to his slashed cheek and trying to pull the feather off his face, the thing slashing his hand as well.

‘Fuck! What the hell is it?’

Brandon reached and tried to grab it, feeling it slice at his fingers, like grabbing a razor. But he managed to pull it out, closing his fist around it. Fully enclosed, severed from a source of power, it reverted to soft fluff. But there was a whole cloud of the stuff now, sparkling in the light.

‘Don’t suppose there’s a back exit?’

‘That’s the other thing the council wanted to talk about…’

‘Shit!’ Brandon looked around – the feathers pinned to the ground by his beer were still fluttering slightly, trying to take flight again. ‘Any bright ideas?’

‘You need to get upstairs. Behind the bar, there’s the sword, Itheadair. You need it.’

‘I’m fine with getting the hell out of here, but we need to cut through that first!’

‘I can’t see, lad. Whatever that was, it was bloody sharp!’

‘Shit, sorry. Feathers, lots of them, razor sharp. And they’re spreading out.’

The haze of the things was spreading out, not far from them now. One brushed against a cardbox box, slashing it open from a gentle touch.

‘We’re going to have to run for it. Less you got any fancy bullshit you can do?’

‘Not against this many, and not without touching them!’ He kept his fist closed around the one he’d grabbed, using his flesh to sever it from any magical connection. Was there anything down here? Just some cardboard boxes filled with the usual garbage that accumulated, and a few crates of cans of drink. He grabbed one, shaking it, handing a few more over to the man. ‘Shake these up, when I say open, then spray them. Do you know the way to the entrance without being guided?’

‘I’ve worked here twenty damn years, I think I can manage.’

‘Good.’ He shook up several more cans. Several had brushed onto the table, but seemed unable to slice it, the ancient wood too tough, or somehow able to protect itself. ‘OK, ready?’

He ran forward, opening up a can, spraying liquid out, trying to catch as many of the feathers as possible in the spray. It opened up an area where the things were thinned out, and Brandon ran for it, pulling the old man along behind himself. They swirled faster now, trying to fill the gap, slicing anything they encountered, as Brandon plunged forward, desperately spraying another can. Several of them fell onto him, slicing his hand, another cutting a chunk of a sleeve. Behind him, the man wasn’t faring well, a cut across his face bleeding. Brandon unleashed another can, managing to get to the bottom of the stairs – the stairwell was filled with more of the stuff, a drifting, lethal haze.

There was no choice but to try and power through – he moved an arm to cover his eyes and ran up the stairs. As he charged through the cloud, he could feel his skin getting sliced and ripped, and then he slammed into the wall at the top of the stairs. He heard pained groans from below, before throwing himself to the ground as another cloud of the feathers drifted towards him.

One sliced into his arm, biting deep, blood swiftly flowing down to his fingers. He managed to get behind the bar, the cloth of his collar getting cut apart. The things were filtering downwards, getting closer and closer. Several of them fell against the plastic pipe of a drink dispenser, neatly severing it in two. He darted past, finding another one and starting to spray. It kept them back, but more and more of the things appeared.

He glanced over his shoulder, to see a sword there, looking like any other ornament. He kept one finger jammed onto the drinks button, as he reached for the sword with the other. He managed to get it off the wall, barely catching it, as pain blossomed along his leg, several of the things having gotten too close. He hosed himself down, the pain fading slightly, before grabbing the hilt of the sword and shaking, trying to get it out of the sheathe, but the damn thing didn’t budge.

As the feathers swarmed, he swung it, at least trying to create a breeze, something to push the feathers away. It brushed against a cluster of feathers, a long scratch appearing on the leather. And then it disintegrated, soft fluff blinking into black ash and falling to the floor. Pain burst along his leg again as more of the stuff swarmed, but he had something that could fight it off, somehow. Grunts of pain came from the stairwell, the old man staggering into sight, bleeding heavily, covered in a cloud of white.

‘Over here!’ Brandon didn’t dare move from his position, not wanting to move away from the drink dispenser. Between spraying them down and waving the sword, he was able to make a dent in the clouds. Wherever they were coming from, there didn’t seem to be an infinite amount, as more of them drifted closer in a thick cloud. Each swing of the sword reduced them to ashes, although some still got past, more lines of pain cutting against his body, requiring a quick spray of coke to dislodge.

The man staggered closer, Brandon trying to hose him down and stop the things burrowing in, all while waving the sheathed sword around.

By the time the feathers were thinned out, he was exhausted and wounded, the old man collapsed against the bar, blood and coke pooling around him.

‘Still alive?’

He groaned.

‘I’m going to call an ambulance, I hope you’ve got a good story for this.’

‘Fuck me, you don’t ask much, do you? Can’t you do anything magical for this?’

‘Healing’s not my thing, sorry, and I don’t want to burn the place down. Can you stand?’

‘Maybe, don’t want to try!’ He was bleeding heavily, countless scratches and gashes all along his arms, chest and head - one of his arms was hanging strangely, some key muscle probably now slashed apart.

‘OK, I’m going to carry you outside. Hopefully whoever is doing this won’t be that overt to be hanging around.’ He sprayed the drink around more, the pressure starting to drop as the supply ran low, then hooked an arm under the man’s shoulders, thankful at least he was light. He could feel blood, hot and fresh, sticking between them. Another wave of the sword turned a cluster into ash, and he started to move, dragging the man with him.

Several more attacks scored lines into his flesh, but the remnant were too diffuse to have much impact, as he shouldered into the door, staggering into the car park. He looked around, checking there were none of the things following them, or if they had any source. There was no-one around though, except a dogwalker, and a few cars scudding past.

He laid the man onto one of the pub benches, then dialled for an ambulance. He pretended panic, that there was a man, covered in blood, that needed care. He waited until he heard sirens, then fled, not wanting to get caught up, hoping that the attackers wouldn’t try again.