New Feet on Old Stones

Winter was not far off, and although the streets of Vannar were largely empty, a single pair of feet still marched upon its stones. Chisel and hammer in hand, Damien’s copper shackles clinked and rattled as he moved to and fro. Long white hair traced its way down his back, as well as sprouted from his face. Both would reach to his knees, had he not braided and knotted them in such a way as to only reach his chest in between his work. Despite not having seen another living soul for far too many years to count, his work was as endless as when he had companions other than ghosts. Tapping a wall with his hammer, he leant close to listen to the sound it made.

‘More fractures. Not enough cement to last me another year either. I told them to use stacked blocks as opposed to this rubbish, but no one ever listened to the caretaker, did they?’ This one was a storefront, not as essential as some of the other buildings but troubling regardless. ‘I’m getting too old for this.’ He mumbled. That is before he remembered there was no one to hear his complaints. Before too long, each motion and swing was accompanied by a guttural swear. When he ran out of swears in one tongue, he moved on to another. When he was feeling particularly adventurous he would mix different languages, fitting words together like the bricks in his hands. Sooner or later, he would have to shift his tools to a new location, or fetch more supplies from one of the cities many ancient store rooms. And so it continued like clockwork. Decades of labour without a single wrench in the works.

‘What’d tha’ wall ever do t’you?’ Mid swing, Damien’s eyes rolled sideways in their sockets and five feet away a young boy sat on a loose block of stone. Damien furrowed his brow and returned to work. ‘What was tha’ last ‘un you used? Heard me Ma shout it at me Da once, she wouldn’t tell me what it meant.’ Carefully putting down the tools he held in either hand, Damien turned to the boy and sighed.

‘Thought I was done with you…you apparitions last time you started mocking me, leave me be and let me return to my work.’ Hands on hips, Damien stood with what could only be described as what a school master might. If not for the chains and rough scars covering his hands of course.

‘What’s arperition? Is tha’ like a monster?’

‘Listen you little fiend…’ Reaching out and attempting to pass the palm of his hand through the boys head, Damien stood still. It had not, as he had hypothesized passed through the beastly little thing’s cranium, instead fell flatly on its head. ‘Oh dear.’ His lip twitched, eyes widened and with a thump, Damien fell to the floor rather like a sack of potatoes.

Light pulsed through the thin membranes of Damien’s eyelids, stinging the vulnerable organs beneath and jolting him into consciousness. Unlike the section of the city that had been under his care for the past while, this house looked quite a bit more lived in. Still dressed in his tattered coat and pants, along with his copper chains nothing seemed to be particularly off. Even his tools had been placed alongside the bed. What was truly surprising to his old ear was the collective sound of voices echoing up from a set of stairs. Clinking as he moved, Damien padded down the stone staircase. Clustered around a single table in the centre of the room a small family sat. Causing an abrupt end to conversation, he poked his head around the corner of the wall separating the stairs from the small room adjacent to them. All four with bright auburn hair, the mother sat with her two daughters and son. Their guest was a stark contrast, looking significantly less tidy. The oldest daughter couldn’t have been a day older than twelve. Eyes wide and bushy eyebrows furrowed, Damien silently took a seat at the far end of the table and coughed.

‘Hungry?’ The mother asked after a moment of silence. Damien shook his head. ‘Thirsty?’

‘Water would be lovely.’ Voice more a croak than anything else, he took the offered mug with both hands and bowed his head before drinking.

‘What’re you doing out here alone? It can’t be good for someone your age.’ Swatting at the hand off her youngest who was reaching over to stick her hand into the pot of honey in the centre of the table, the woman squinted at him. ‘Don’t you have any family?’

‘Only one left.’

‘You’ve been on your own for all this time? You must be what, seventy, eighty?’

‘I managed.’ Tugging at his beard, Damien strolled over to the second story window and ducked his head outwards and looked down towards Northgate. On the street below he could see some five or six clumps of people working on various projects. Some more important than others, whether it be repairing wells or removing rubbish that had accumulated in the six or so years since Damien had last set foot in the Northern Burrows.

‘How long have you been here?’

‘Well, us and the rest of our little community packed up and came settled it a couple weeks back, no one else for a hundred or so miles.’ Chest puffing up with pride, she moved to check on the tiny little stove off in the corner. ‘Can’t believe no one else moved in. All the villages were deserted too.’ Glancing down at her charges as if his answer might somehow be more awful that one might expect, she opened her mouth to speak. ‘What happened to the people?’

‘Plague. After half the province died, the trickle of those fleeing turned into a flood. Probably still people out there but I’ve not seen them.’

‘That’s awful.’ Waving her off, Damien dug around beneath his coat and finding when a copper key had sat for far too long, he removed it from the chain beneath his beard. Unlocking the chains that had long decorated his arms, Damien let them fall to the ground.

‘But not the end. For the city at least.’ Turning around and raising a bushy eyebrow at the woman by the stove, he placed the key on the table. ‘Article sixteen, chapter four. In the interests of protecting the civilian population of the city and the cultural preservation of Vannar, I am hereby authorised as a custodian of government to secede control to the occupying force. Please deliver that key to the relevant authorities as a sign of unilateral surrender.’ Completely straight faced, Damien retrieved the copper chains from where they rested on the floor and gave a polite bow. Ignoring the bewildered expression of the woman and her children, Damien marched outwards onto the streets below. Not quite sure on what to do with herself, the woman bustled very to the window to watch him depart.

‘How odd.’ Slipping the key into the pocket of her blouse, she simply shook her head and went about her business, confident that that was that.

With the weight of the manacles spread evenly over his shoulders as opposed to the length of his arms, Damien’s gait was less laboured. Deciding to take the longer route, towards the ancient gates of the city towards his home in the market district he observed the new population’s labours. While the adults worked, children darted in and out of their shadows and filled the street with young laughter. The first time that the city stones must have heard it in an age. Even the birds that frequented the city seemed livelier, drawn to the presence of humans just as much as dogs. As Damien reached the end of the street he felt a queer feeling welled up in his chest.

‘There is yet work to be done you old fool, time enough to rest later.’ Steeling himself against the empty, lifeless streets he returned to whence he knew what awaited him past the long lonely road home. Accompanied only by voices long past and faces long since passed.

Toiling away in a nigh sleepless fervour, Damien picked through maps, notes and technical documents. Many of them crumbling from years of use or haphazardly sorted for his own personal use, the caretaker set about archiving decades of work. Locked away in a room without any windows, he slept fitfully and ate or drank irregularly. His work was all that mattered, to deliver the knowledge of the past to those who would need it in the times to come. His back ached, mind numbed and is grasp on sanity growing weaker, each book; each document seemed a mountain. Fighting off sleep and spending only the briefest periods above the seas that was his work, Damien laboured in silence. Gritting his teeth against the strain he gripped his quill harder. If he was to leave something for them, it would be a functioning city.

Almost tripping over his own beard, Damien emerged from the room in which he had spent the vast bulk of his time. The sun was bright, flooding in through the parlour of his modest home and the day seemed pleasant enough. It now occurred to him that he had, over the course of what he assumed was many weeks he had very rarely changed his clothes. Glancing backwards towards his now orderly library Damien scowled.

‘Still so much to do.’ Walking past the chains that he had worn with an almost religious passion, the world seemed fresh. Sneezing through a cloud of pollen, Damien made his way through the streets towards the Northern Burrows once again. In the time that had passed, the occupied area had spread rapidly. By the time that he reached the edge of what was once the market district, thin crowds had begun to sprout like new growth in a burnt forest. Waving off offers for help from people young enough to be his children, Damien eventually found his way to what could only be the new bureaucratic centre of the city. Flanked on either side by armed men, a pair of double doors stood larger than life in the stonework.

‘I remember when this was first built, almost broke the backs of the noble who commissioned this grand house.’

‘Of course you do friend.’ One of the guards said with a snigger, ‘Bet you’re emperor of Vaisil too, but if you’re looking for the council you’ve come to the right place.’ Although Damien did not care of the young man’s tone, he did hold the door open. So perhaps his parents had gifted him some form of decency.

Having told half a dozen clerks that he had a matter of most importance to discuss with whoever was in charge, the grandfatherly looking man was eventually guided into a small room. Three podiums were erected at the far end and Damien was instructed to take a seat at one of the two tables before them. When he did so, an irritated man of middling years took up the left, a similar looking woman took up the centre and a much younger man wearing a basic hauberk the right.

‘My name is Vas, the other two are Cassandra and Drass.’ Pointing at each member in turn, Vas turned his attention back to Damien. ‘Name, title and issue to be raised with the council?’

‘I’d watch your tone, I was serving this city before you settlers were out of your britches.’ Positively bristling with indignation, Damien brought himself to his feet. ‘Damien Lavive, high caretaker of city Varrun, bearer of the last chain and the only man that remembers what this city was like before you arrived.’ Glancing at the other two in turn, he grimaced. ‘Also the man who spent the last indeterminate amount of time archiving all known knowledge of the city outside of the old library. Which would have been far too much for one set of hands.’ He added with a brief smile.

‘Frankly, I thought you were mad, caused quite a stir with my children. I still have the key as well, if you want that back.’ Leaning in on her elbows with Cassandra gave him a cat like smile. ‘What do you have for us?’ Giving her an appraising look, Damien ran a single hand through his beard.

‘Since my last foray from my home I’ve categorised decades of manuscripts, maps and technical documents. Pretty much anything you need to keep this place running. There’s a reason it took so long.’

‘And what’s your price?’ Asked Vas. ‘We’ve not even fully explored half the city, as you can probably tell. If you have what you claim, we might be able to turn this place into a proper home.’

‘All I ask is that you respect what my people left behind. We are not some long dead civilisation to pick clean. There are descendants of those who chose to leave out there, and they will return in time. To that end, in exchange for my help, I want a position on the council and to oversee the establishment of a modern academia. To make something that matters.’

‘That’s too much.’ Thumping a fist against the top of his podium, Drass looked fit to burst. ‘Look at him, he’s mad. He looks like a beggar off the streets of Greis and you’re happy to put him on the council?’ Looking at the other two members for support, only to be greeted with vague irritation. ‘Nothing good will come of this.’ Turning their attention back to Damien, Vas and Cassandra returned to the matter at hand.

‘We’ll need a sample of your work beforehand you understand?’

‘That won’t be an issue. I’ll return tomorrow with a few documents and trinkets.’ The council watched him as he left, a veritable wall of silence as the door shut. They would argue, as all politicians are sure to do even if it’s just to secure their position. Some flocks may be harder to manage than others, but if he was to pass on his stewardship, they needed to be ready.

The day dawned bright and cheery. Bringing with him maps, a select few of his schematics, maps and other assorted odds and ends, it was only a sliver of his accumulated knowledge. Perhaps not enough in the grand scheme of things to change the city, but enough to secure his place. Instead of meeting within the council chambers as they had the previous day, Damien was directed towards the house along the road to North Gate. Now, a few prime spots beneath the shade of awnings and trees had been allocated for market stalls, a handful of houses converted into stores with crude signs adorning the doors. The old gates were manned by guards and had been given rudimentary repairs to allow for them to be closed. Along with the influx of new blood into the initially small population, it was a start.

‘But not enough.’ Standing at the far end of the table, now armed and flanked by two militiamen, Drass thumped his hand on the map, tearing a small hole.

‘We need maps are you dimwit.’ Cried Cassandra, snatching the parchment away from him and giving Damien an apologetic look. ‘Just because you thought you could strong arm us with your friends doesn’t mean you can to destroy his work.’

‘Should you expect me to bring you my entire library? Would you like me to bring my house as well? What about the mushrooms I’ve grown out of my cellar?’ Placing a hand on one of his prized ledgers, Damien held up a fist. ‘You’ll get the rest of what I know when get what I asked for, then I can re-establish my library staff and rebuild the academic infrastructure. Giving you everything without the proper protocols would be like giving an infant a carving knife, wasting years of work.’

‘Are you calling us incompetent?’ Snarling, Drass drew his blade. Stepping forwards, his militiamen followed his lead.

‘Drass, what’re you doing, this was never part of the plan. There doesn’t need to be blood.’ Hefting a hand axe Vas inched closer to the door. Three young men, all in light mercenary leathers circled around the table towards him.

‘Can’t you see? He’s manipulating us, even in an advisory position this old man would put his needs before us. We need only take what is ours, make the right decision Vas. Do you really think he can be one of us Vas?’ Edging further to the side of Vas, Drass gave a wolfish smile. Drawing from the reserves of his strength, Damien through all of his weight against the corner of the table, flipping it up and over and onto one of the militiamen. In the confusion, Cassandra brought a hardened wine bottle against the temple of the second, knocking him out cold. At the same time, Drass ran his sword through the ribs of Vas before dodging backwards as the shorter hand axe swung through the air, its arc missing him by a large margin. Bloodied and roaring in pain, Vas threw himself at Drass, bringing him crashing to the floor, pinning his sword arm to his side while forcing his fingers into his Vas’ eye sockets. The first militiaman rose to his feet and upon seeing his captain pinned under the larger and older man, began to swing downwards onto Vas’ back. With a final surge of effort Damien thrust himself forward and into the stomach of the militiaman, winding him as they both fell to the floor. While they tumbled on the floor, the wet squelch of axe and skull announced the end of a young man’s life. Bleeding from a cut on his head, Damien collapsed backwards onto the nearby wall while Vas dealt with the remaining militiaman who had by this point thrown him off. Blood cascading down the left side of his face, Damien once again passed out rather like a sack of potatoes.

Leaning hard on a walking cane, a man of vast age stumped through the halls of the Varrun library hefting a short stack of books while he walked. His snow white hair and beard were close cropped, face deeply lined and with a lazy left eye he had certainly seen better days. Approaching the end of the hallway he sighed.

‘Merrill, could you give me a hand with this?’ Bustling out of an office to the right, a short mousy woman with short auburn hair took the stack from him.

‘You’re going to kill yourself if you don’t slow down.’ She chastised him as they walked side by side into his office. ‘Damien, you’ve already done enough, let someone else take over.’

‘I’m not finished yet.’ He said, sitting down at his desk with a huff.

‘You’ve been on the council for years, let someone else handle the responsibility.’

‘I’ll think about it.’ Waving her towards the door Damien removed a tiny coper chain from around his neck and placed it on the table. Nudging the tiny key hanging from one of the links, he glanced up at Merrill. ‘The memorial festival starts soon, you should go. Say hello to your mother for me. I’ll be leaving shortly.’ Giving her a tired grin, he removed a soft sheet of vellum from a draw at his desk. Scratching out a long note, he gave another hefty sigh and glanced towards a small figurine of a lamb sitting perilously close to the edge of his workspace. The room was Spartan, nothing fancy and just enough to be comfortable. Even in his old age, Damien found himself being utilitarian to a fault.

‘Comfortable. Comfortable…’ Rolling the words around in his mouth, feeling them flow off his tongue he finished his letter. ‘Perhaps it is time for another shepherd to try his hand.’ Wearily standing, he coiled his chain necklace into a pile on top of the vellum, rescued the figurine from the ledge and extinguished the oil lamps hanging from the ceiling. He wound his way through the library, snuffing out each lamp that the scribes had forgotten before reaching the large main hall of the library. Now almost pitch black and empty of people he rested a hand on the top of one of the restored oaken tables.

‘I hope I’ve chosen the right person old friend. She’s the only person that knows you as well as I.’ When he reached the large doors that led down to the streets he paused. ‘And I’m sorry that I was such a poor student all those years ago.’ With one last pat on the door frame, Damien slipped out as gracefully as a man in his mid-nineties could.

Burning wicker lights lit up the market streets like oversized fireflies in the cool autumn air, some two thousand citizens out and about in the evening air. The influx of farming communities had ceased following the truce between the two powers that had spurned their exodus, but they had brought with them their traditions. A pleasant mixture of a harvest festival and the memorial for Vas who had passed away two years beforehand around the same time, a great wooden monument was erected in the centre of the market square. Shaped in the likeness of the man who’d wrested control of the city back from the militia, it stood with both wooden arms placed on the head of a hatchet balanced between its feet. Standing a good four feet higher than the tents and market stalls surrounding it, the monument formed the central point for the festivities.

‘Damien!’ From out of the many heads surrounding tables laden with food a woman waved. Cassandra, now with more than a few grey hairs sticking out from her head of hair she motioned to a free spot on the bench next to her. Limping over to the offered seat, he sunk down onto the carved log gratefully Sitting across from them were her two daughters, although her son was likely making a fool of himself as all young men did as his age. Alongside a few dozen revellers, Damien soon enough food a plate of freshly harvested produce from outside the city walls resting in front of him, alongside a rather full mug of mulled wine. Laughing and talking alongside those around him, it was as if a great weight had been taken of his shoulders. Smiling across the table at Merrill he rummaged through his pocket and handed her the small figurine.

‘That’s for you. I also won’t be working tomorrow, I’ve left some instructions on my desk for you. Could you make sure they’re taken care of?’

‘Finally taking a break? That’s not like you.’

‘Oh I’ll still be around, I’ve just got some other things to take care of.’ Grinning like a fool, Damien took another drink from his mug. ‘But it’s important, and I won’t hear any complaints about it either.’ Although Merrill looked rather perplexed, she nodded in assent.

‘That’s not fair.’ Halfway between scolding him and smiling she reached for the pitcher of wine. ‘You’re hiding something from us, aren’t you?’ Rolling her eyes when he didn’t respond, she nudged her husband on her other side who shrugged.