By Hans-Jörg Knabel

Two different armor sketches for the paladins supporting the host of Rhobar III.

Thunk.

Wood met stone.

Thunk. Thunk. Thunk.

Murdra looked up from the cooking pot and glanced in Belgor’s direction. He was hobbling towards the table where Feren and the rangers were sitting. ‘es gettin’ used to the new leg, she thought. The crutches stood in the corner by the sideboard. He hadn’t touched them for two weeks now. Belgor was still fighting for his balance and wobbling as he walked, but the wooden leg didn’t slide away from under him anymore, as it had at the beginning, and it had been a while since he last fell flat on his face.
Craglan gave him an appreciative nod and pulled him up a chair. Belgor sat down at the head ranger’s side with a groan and slid his peg leg under the table.
„Ah, the wobbling landlord“, Feren mocked.
Belgor ignored him. Since the night he had charged the shadow beast – armed only with a torch and a pitchfork – many regulars had started to mock him, calling him a cripple, half a man, considering him unfit to run a tavern. Feren wasn’t the only one, but he was by far the worst. He enjoyed thinking up several names for Belgor, like “wobbling landlord”, “peg-legged fool”, and “hayfork-foot”.
Should be kicked out, the lout, Murdra thought. In her eyes, Belgor was more of a man now than he had ever been; he had proven that he was a hero. Far from being a flaw, the wooden leg was no flaw – it was a mark of distinction, a badge of honor crafted for her husband at the king’s behest, a sign of the monarch’s gratitude. She ladled a last portion of stew into the bowl she had specially prepared for Belgor and made her way out of the kitchen, bowl in hand. Grabbed her broom as she passed the door, she trudged to the table.

„What are you talkin’ about?“ Belgor asked as Murdra served him the stew.
“Nothing in particular”, Feren said in a bored tone, playing with his rings. “Nothing a cripple should care about.”
Murdra scowled, gripping her broom, and began to clear away the damp hay around the table with large, angry strokes.
Craglan gave Feren a steely gaze. “About the new king”, he said to Belgor. “Up there, on the continent.”
„Calls himself Rhobar III“, Ricklen added. “Not a very original name, if you ask me.”
„You’re certainly right about that“, Feren agreed.
„I don’t know“, Craglan mused. “Kings pick their names carefully. As you may have heard, he doesn’t simply call himself the king of Myrtana, but the king of Midland. Trust me, my friends – there is a storm brewing, for that name clearly states one thing: he intends to reunite the old kingdom. Don’t forget the southern islands used to be part of the realm!”
„If you can believe the rumors“, Jilvie chimed in, „he is two paces tall and wields a greatsword in one hand.“
„Yes“, Ricklen added. „I heard he challenges every man who crosses his path to a duel. He’s just a giant brute… someone will have his head long before he can set foot on our island.”
„Whether he is a brute or not, I cannot say”, Craglan interjected, “but from what I’ve heard, he’s supposed to not only be a master swordsman, but also level-headed and sound strategist. The people of Myrtana support him as he promises them lasting peace.”
„We already have peace here“, Jilvie said. “We don’t need a Midland king!”
„We don’t“, Craglan agreed. „But on the continent, things look pretty grim. There are wars being fought all over.”
„What about the story with the eagle that accompanies his army wherever he goes?“ Ricklen asked.
„Don’t know anything about that, but in any case, Rhobar III has chosen an eagle as his emblem”, Feren replied. “And his campaign against the orcs was blessed by the gods – he has driven them out of Myrtana, and Thorus has fled the continent with a handful of minions.”
„He’s going to sail back to Torgaan“, Jilvie piped in.
„Well, I ‘ope ‘es not comin’ ‘ereaways”, Belgor said. “Last thin’ we need is a bunch of warrin’ orcs!”
„Tell you what Belgor“, Feren said with a grin. “If I were you, it’s not orcs I’d be worried about. With that pitchfork leg of yours, a little shepherd boy could give you a thrashing.”

Escutcheon with an eagle, the sign of Rhobar III.

The chatter gave way to an uneasy silence. The rangers exchanged embarassed looks. The pig, Murdra thought.
“If it’s trouble, you’re lookin’ for, Feren, you can ‘ave it!” Belgor thundered, smashing his fist on the table so hard the stew spilled over. He tried to stand up, but Craglan held him back with a hand on his shoulder.
“Don’t”, the ranger murmured.
Brushing his hand aside, Belgor hauled himself up. “Yes!” he yelled at the young trader. “I’ve only got one leg! Even a molerat can see that! But one leg is all I need to kick you out of my tavern!” He rolled up his sleeves and hobbled around the table, his eyes fixed on Feren.
„I don’t think so“, Feren said cooly, standing up.
„Wait, Belgor“, Craglan said. „I’ll toss him out for you.“
„Stay!“ Belgor replied. His wooden leg was planted firmly on the stone floor, like an oak. Feren grinned. Belgor didn’t hesitate – he came at Feren with a right cross, but Feren simply stepped back. Belgor lost his balance, the wooden leg sliding away to the side, wedging itself into a crack between two floor stones. He stumbled, but did not fall. Belgor struck again, this time with his left, but Feren easily blocked the blow and deftly stepped to Belgor’s side, kicking the wooden leg from under him. Belgor fell and hit the stone floor face-first with a resounding thud.

Murdras hero had fallen. Now ‘es gone too far, she thought, gripping her broom with both hands. “Out!” she hissed at Feren. “You’re not welcome ‘ere no more!”
„Think about it, Murdra“, the young trader said, laughing. “Do you really want to do without my gold?”
Damn your gold, she thought, jabbing her broom at Feren’s face. The birch switches raked his cheeks, lips and eyes. Feren stumbled back, the laughter cut short.
„No. I… I’m gonna toss ‘im out!” Belgor groaned, struggling to rise.
Murdra heard him, but she couldn’t wait. She fell on Feren like a mad harpy, striking him left and right. Feren stepped back, trying to block her blows, but Murdra pressed on just like the king in his fight with the shadow beast, with a broom and apron in guise of mace and plate mail. She overwhelmed Feren, and the switches of her broom whipped over Ferens face, leaving bloody streaks across his cheeks and brow. He turned for the door and fled, but Murdra didn’t let up. Feren stumbled, but managed to catch himself by grabbing the door frame. With a savage blow, Murdra catapulted Feren off the porch, sending him flying face-first into the dirt.
“And don’t ever think of showin’ your face around ‘ere again!” Murdra yelled and slammed the door shut.
She turned around and saw Craglan helping Belgor up. “Don’t worry about the likes of him”, he said with a comforting smile. „They’re not worth it.”