By Hans-Jörg Knabel

“Bah!” Murdra hissed, jabbing at the embers with a poker. She was standing in front of the fireplace in the kitchen, away from the guests in the tap room. She sensed them whispering behind her back. Murdra was certain they were staring, or at least shooting her sidelong glances. Givin’ me the blame, she thought. Me! She was fighting the urge to step up to the counter and whack it with the iron, and made do with angry pokes at the fireplace.
‘ow’s that mess supposed to be my fault?
Was she responsible for the landslide that had blocked the pass to the swampland? Had she invited the brigands to block the bridge to Stewark?
Murdra shook her head angrily.
But the woodcutters, she carped to herself, they’re plenty to blame! Gettin’ too pissin’ drunk to put up a fight when the brigands kicked ‘em out o' their hut by the bridge, the wreched dogs! If they hadn’t drunk as much, the bridge’d still be open and the Maiden wouldn’t be cut off!
Murdra tossed the poker on the floor and trudged to the counter, glaring angrily at the woodcutters sitting at a table at the other end of the tap room. They looked away.
Ha, Murdra thought. Feelin’ guilty, the oafs!

Bandit camp with Stewark in the background

Yet it had been them who had told each and every traveler stuck in the Cleaved Maiden that Murdra was to blame for the brigands, that they were blocking the bridge because of her - trying to bleed her dry. Was it Murdra’s fault that their leader had once worked for her as a stable boy? She couldn’t even remember his name. It had only been when she'd caught a glimpse of him at the bridge that a long-forgotten memory had oozed up to the surface. ‘e was completely worthless, the dog! That she could remember. But why was he here now, trying to ruin her? It made no sense. She had done nothing. Nothin’! Granted – she had kicked him from the Maiden and chewed him out because he was lazy and rude with the customers. But what else do you do with a wretch like that? “Shouldn’t ‘ave kept beatin’ ‘im with the belt in front of the guests”, Grengar had told her with a big, smug grin. But who in their right mind would block a bridge because of a few whacks? And just to ruin a poor woman – a widow – at that? If that was the proper way to respond to a beating, Murdra would’ve had to ruin her mother thrice over, then.
She spat beside the counter.
The woodcutters weren’t all to blame. The travellers stranded in the Cleaved Maiden had done their part to make the situation untenable. The woodcutters had tried to strike back and free the bridge with the help of the travellers, but the travellers had refused, saying that the baron would send help. But help hadn’t come, and now it was too late to attack the brigands; they had made good use of the woodcutters’ lumber and put up a palisade. Should be choked dead, the lot of ‘em, Murdra thought. The tap room door creaked open.
“Jus’ what I needed”, Murdra hissed. Grengar!
It wasn’t Grengar. A chill ran down Murdra’s spine. “That’s not possible!” she gasped, surprised shouts erupting throughout the tap room. Murdra nervously groped under the counter, seeking the comfort of her dead husband’s wooden leg.
Lorn paid no attention to the shouting. He headed straight for Murdra. His eyes were narrow slits of rage. “Follow me”, he said in a tone that left no room for objection.
Murdra nodded and patted the polished wood of Belgor’s leg one last time. Lorn grabbed her arm and pulled her through the kitchen door, outside.
“What have you done?” he spat, pulling the door shut.
“Me?” Murdra growled, crossing her arms in front of her chest. “I didn’t do nothin’!”
“You sold our boats. Our boats!”
“That was the deal!”
“Deal?” Lorn nearly choked on the word. For a heartbeat, Murdra thought he was going to strike her, but instead he clenched his teeth and took a deep breath. “Liesela told me you were only goin’ to sell the boats if we didn’t make it back from the war.”
“Heard you were dead”, Murdra answered. “The boy from your unit said so and Grengar said so too.”
“You could’ve waited until the war was over”, Lorn growled.
“Dead is dead”, Murdra hissed. “What’s there to wait?”
“I ain’t dead”, Lorn countered. “ ’iulad ain’t dead, and ‘enk ain’t dead either.”
“ ’ow did you...?”
“Our emplacement was in front of a cave entrance”, Lorn began. “When I realized we didn’t stand a chance, I pushed ‘enk and ‘iulad into the cave. We holed up deep into the cave and kept our pursuers busy until Lord Gawaan and his knights drove the paladins back. That’s ‘ow we survived.”

The Cleaved Maiden and the bandit camp

A sneaky suspicion befell Murdra. “Dartan and his brigands are said to be deserters”, she said. “Did you come with ‘em?” Lorn shook his head.
“ ‘ow did you get ‘ere, then? The bridge has been closed for days.”
“We fought our way through to Stewark”, Lorn said. “A friend brought us ‘ere by boat.”
Murdra nodded slowly. Could be.
“And the first thin’ I notice when I get back?” Lorn said, anger flaring up in his eyes. “My boat’s gone! The boat I use to sail out to sea. The boat I use to fish. The boat I use to feed my family! And why? Because you’re so damn greedy that you went and sold it!”
Greedy? Murdra had enough. She uncrossed her arms and planted her fists firmly on her hips. “I gave Liesela all the money I got for the boats. Everythin’ – no cuts! I only kept what she owed me, and didn’t ask for no interest. I felt sorry for the women, bein’ widows like me.”
“That’s not enough for new boats”, Lorn hissed.
Murdra knew that she would have to make him an offer if she were to have any hope of getting rid of him. “All right”, she said. “I’m gonna give you all the money I got for the boats. You pay the debts later, but with interest.”
Lorn shook his head. “No”, he replied. “You’re gonna give us what we need to buy new boats. The piddly sum you gave us ain’t enough to pay for a raft with a sail.”
“Bah!” Murdra spat. “Fuhgeddit!” She turned her back on Lorn and trudged into the storage cave. Lorn tried to stop her, grabbing her arm, but Murdra tore free from his grasp and ploughed on.
“You’re gonna regret that!” Lorn called after her.
“Get lost!” Murdra growled, not bothering to turn around. Behind her, she heard Lorn’s steps on the gravel, followed by the loud slam of the kitchen door.
She waited a while before she returned to the kitchen. Lorn was nowhere to be seen. There was an uncomfortable silence in the tap room. The pitcher of mead Murdra had at the ready on the counter was gone. ‘e stole it, the dog! Murdra thought, feeling the rising need to touch Belgor’s leg again. She reached for the polished wood, but grasped only air. Diving under the counter, she let out a strangled scream. It was gone!

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