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Master Talberth's dwelling sat in splendor between rows of rough and quick built shops and homes. While wood plank suited his inauspicious brethren, stone slabs lead to and from his door, and lined the way in front. Belsimioth, lost in thought, his feet obeying their own commands, missed the transmutation of wood planking to stone paving. He was moved through time, from the recent glorious past, and space, flying forward like one enchanted by his masters spells.
Ragnar heard the sharp startled cry and dull thud. Looking back he rolled his eyes, muttered something under his breath so intelligible that even he didn't know what he'd said, then reached down and hauled the dozy page up by the scruff of his neck.
"Belsimioth." He said disapprovingly. "Until you can float like your master, keep your head from the clouds and your eyes on where you're going lad."
"Yes Sir." Belsimioth said apologeticly but without much conviction.
* * *
Talberth, Master of Magic Arts, Sage of Ancient Tomes, Doctor of Thaumaturgy, HM.SoM.CoG., tapped the end of his quill pen against the side of his nose as he studied the report he would be sending the Duke. He occasionally glanced over at Emiel, a small, neat man, finely dressed with agile hands and nervous eyes. Emiel would catch these glances, pretend not to notice, but would then look towards Thaddeus, Ted to everyone else who knew him. Ted, a tow-haired, plain-looking fellow in common garb. Could be a workman, a tradesman, or a farmer if you put him in rough homespun. Ted was just watching the door and thinking, 'Ragnar, you big idiot'. He'd let that thought come and go a hundred times. He almost jumped, when, outside the door, down the hall, and at the entrance, a resounding boom rang out.
"If he breaks that knocker again, it's coming out of his pay." Talberth said, rising from his seat.
Emiel gave an insincere laugh, treating the pronouncement like a joke, but he knew Talberth meant it.
Ted just grimaced.
There was the sound of scurrying feet, someone running awkwardly down the hall outside the door. The booming continued then stopped abruptly.
A loud voice could be heard, Ragnar's, then that awkward running. The door opened suddenly, a small, deformed, ancient-looking man appeared. He wore long robes which brushed the floor and concealed his feet. His body appeared hunched, misshapen, and his grizzly white-haired head seemed disproportionate somehow. One eye was gone, a black strip of silk concealed it, wrapped around the head and covered one ear, though no sign of that ear appeared beneath the cloth.
"Caliban." Talberth called to him.
The old man smiled, his teeth surprisingly straight and strong.
"Caliban, I take it that Ragnar," and Talberth's voice took on a tone of amusement when he spoke the barbarians name, "I take it that he has arrived?"
"He has." Caliban said in a deep and pleasant voice. " He waits outside"
"Hrmph!" Ted could not stop the wordless exclamation from escaping his lips. Ragnar, wait? not likely.
"Good," said Talberth, "Let him stay for a moment." Then looking directly at Caliban, said, "No, Caliban, let him wait a good ten moments then bring him here."
Caliban merely grinned and shut the door behind him. His movements were shuffling yet quick and slightly unpleasant to watch.
"Now gentlemen." Talberth said leaning forward, his hands resting on the table in front of him. "I have a task for each of you. And our barbarian friend out there."
* * *
The look of shock on Ragnar's face almost made up for the unease that Belsimioth always felt when he was in Caliban's presence. Seeing the huge barbarian seized and lifted like a small child by the deformed old man was humorous, but also disquieting.
At first Ragnar did not struggle. When the old man stepped in front of him, blocking his way, he thought to gently move him aside. But it was Caliban who acted first and his grip was like iron. Ragnar's arms were pinned to his sides in an encircling hug and without visible effort he was lifted and carried across the hall.
Then Ragnar twisted and tried to break the viselike grip, but Caliban showed no reaction, no slackening. He paced slowly forward while Ragnar roared curses. Belsimioth covered his ears.
To the side of the front entrance, inside the hall, two alcoves flanked the door. Both were empty except for a granite square, a pedestal that some statue might sit upon. It was in one of these that Caliban placed Ragnar. Belsimioth thought he heard some twisted phrase snap from Caliban, but he caught the sound between Ragnar's damning shouts. And then there was nothing, Ragnar's voice was cut in mid curse, the word sliced in two with a razor of silence.
Caliban turned away and walked his strange shuffling, disturbing walk down the hall. With slow hesitant steps Belsimioth inched toward the alcove. There stood Ragnar, this Belsimioth knew. But it couldn't be. The semblance of Ragnar, an artists vision of Ragnar cut from rock and imbued with a palpable life, but not the living, breathing, shouting and cursing Ragnar. He reached out and gave a tap with his finger. The stone gave out a dull chu-chunk. Belsimioth snatched his hand away as if it had been burned. That stone was Ragnar!
"Master Talberth!" he yelled and ran down the hall.
* * *
(To Be Continued)