Chương 32: Chapter 19.5: Downwind

The repetitive shaping and binding slowly settled into rhythm beneath my hands. Measure tension. Trim excess. Wrap. Secure. Test strain. Repeat. The pile beside me changed as the afternoon wore on. Broken hauling loops became short reinforcement ties; shield straps too narrow for grips became hinge wraps; a length of tendon Wade had dismissed as uneven held cleanly once I doubled it around an Ironbark pin. I began arranging failures by the reason they had failed rather than by what they had once been.

Water damage to the left, torn rivet holes to the right, stretched fibres nearest the fire. The sorting made each repair faster because my hands reached for the weakness before they reached for a replacement. Toolsmith deepened gradually beneath the repetition. Not through inspiration. Necessity. Every failure mattered now because broken equipment meant delayed walls, weakened patrols, dead workers. The pressure sharpened the work. It also made Appraisal behave differently.

I began seeing weakness before touching it: a strap too thin near the rivet hole, a shield grip set half an inch too far inward, a support brace pulling against its own fastening instead of sharing strain across the frame. Each flaw appeared small until I imagined it failing under claws, weight, rain, and fear. Then small things became fatal. Near dusk, Bren approached carrying a damaged shield stripped nearly bare where old leather bindings had finally torn loose from the backing frame.

"Can you fix it?" I took the shield automatically. The damage looked severe at first glance, yet beneath the torn bindings the Ironbark structure remained solid. Beast tendon could replace the inner wraps. Thick stalker hide would reinforce the grip. A scavenger rib, split and shaved clean, could brace the lower join without adding too much weight. The thought arrived complete enough that I paused, surprised by it.

"Yeah," I said eventually. Bren handed over a fresh strip of cleaned hide.

"Do it fast." I settled beside the fire trench while rain hissed softly against the coals around me. Workers moved through the perimeter carrying tools and sharpened stakes while distant hammering echoed beyond the mist. Somewhere near the northern wall, Jory argued loudly with Wade about whether beasts understood architecture.

"They keep testing weak points," Jory insisted. Wade's answer came back at once.

"So do drunk men leaning on fences."

"Drunk men don't circle from downwind." Wade paused.

"Some do." Jory sounded offended by the possibility.

"That is not comforting."

"It was not meant to be." I tuned them out. The work narrowed my attention completely. The shield rested across my knees while wet leather strips tightened beneath my hands one layer at a time. Timbercraft guided the balance points instinctively now. Toolsmith followed behind it, understanding how tension should settle through grip and frame without compromising movement. The first wrap failed immediately, bunching too heavily near the inside curve.

I cut it away without irritation, which surprised me more than the failure itself. A week ago I would have cursed the wasted strip. Now the mistake simply taught the next angle. I reset the grip, loosened the shoulder tension, threaded tendon through the inner holes, and pulled the stalker hide across the frame, not as a covering, but as a living line of force between weak points. Something clicked. Not mentally. Physically. The bindings aligned suddenly into cleaner rhythm beneath my hands.

Weak points became obvious before strain even reached them. The shield no longer looked repaired. It looked functional. Reliable. Built from death, mud, and ugly need, but built properly all the same. The understanding settled heavily through my hands. The advancement rolled quieter than combat progression yet deeper than before. ABILITY ADVANCED Toolsmith has advanced from Iron (mid) to Iron (late). This story has been unlawfully obtained without the author's consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.

You now better understand grip shaping, weight distribution, material stress, improvised construction paths, reinforced bindings, and the difference between temporary repair and durable field function. Your field-made repairs and practical tools can now reach stronger Iron-quality reliability when built from suitable materials under sufficient care. Knowledge spread through my hands and wrists in subtle practical ways. Grip shaping. Weight distribution. Material stress. Improvised construction paths.

The understanding did not feel academic. It felt earned. I exhaled slowly while staring down at the finished shield. Bren noticed immediately.

"You advanced." I nodded once.

"Useful one?"

"Think so." The older guard took the shield back and tested the new grip straps briefly. His expression shifted slightly after the second movement.

"Hm."

"That good?" Wade called from nearby before Bren could answer.

"That's a dangerous face from Bren. Usually means something's finally working." Bren ignored him while rotating the shield once more.

"Better than the old bindings."

"That was the idea." Bren's eyes remained on the shield another moment.

"Not everyone reaches it." The comment was quiet enough that I almost missed it. I looked up, but Bren was no longer watching the shield. The older guard's gaze had shifted past the fires, past the trench line, and towards the darkening Greywash forest beyond the camp's eastern corner. Movement flickered there. Not an attack. Not close enough for that. A shape stood partially concealed between the Greywash trees beyond the trench line, low and lean beneath the drifting rain.

Smaller than the Greywash predators from earlier attacks. Longer through the limbs. Its pale eyes reflected faint firelight while its head tilted slightly toward the southern wall section. It had chosen the one gap where the processing smoke blew across the trench instead of towards the trees. The scent of boiled hide and blood should have hidden it from men on the wall, yet the same wind carried the shape of its wet fur towards us whenever the fire lowered. Bren shifted his spear without raising it.

Wade set the repaired shield against his forearm and placed his boots where the brace posts would not trap him if the creature rushed. The watcher remained beyond bowshot and measured those changes without giving us one of its own. Toward my workbench. The creature watched silently while rain moved through its grey fur. Then it disappeared. Wade had noticed it too.

"What was that?" Bren's expression darkened slightly.

"Scout." Jory looked immediately alarmed.

"Beasts have scouts now?" Bren kept staring into the trees.

"Always did."

"That feels like information we should've discussed earlier." Bren's attention stayed fixed on the place where the creature had vanished.

"It wasn't interested in the walls." I looked up slowly. The older guard nodded toward the leather bindings and tools spread around the fire trench.

"It was interested in what you were making." Nobody liked that explanation. Night settled heavily afterward. The perimeter fires burned brighter while workers reinforced trench sections beneath steady rain. Patrol rotations doubled near the south-eastern corner where the scout had appeared, though nobody saw it again. That made the trees worse. Each patch of darkness beyond the trench seemed to contain patience now, not hunger. Hunger rushed. Hunger snapped. Hunger wasted itself against walls.

Whatever had looked from the trees had waited. I remained beside the fire trench longer than intended while reshaping fresh bindings beneath the low orange glow of the coals. The new Iron (late) understanding inside Toolsmith changed the work noticeably now. Less wasted movement. Cleaner joins. Faster adaptation. I tested every finished piece twice after that. Once against the strain it had been built to carry, then again against the thought of claws reaching the same weak point deliberately.

The second test ruined two bindings I had considered finished and sent one shield grip back beneath the knife. Wade said nothing when he saw the discarded work. He only moved the better pieces nearer the wall and left the failures beside me, where the creature's pale eyes had seemed to rest. Useful. Dangerously useful. I fixed two more shield straps before midnight, then reinforced a hauling loop with boiled tendon and split Ironbark pins.

Wade checked the first without complaint, the second with a grunt, and the third by carrying it away silently, which seemed to be his highest form of praise. Jory eventually drifted over with a cup of thin broth and placed it beside my knee.

"You should eat." I did not look away from the binding in my hands.

"I will."

"You said that two hours ago." I tightened the tendon wrap.

"I meant it then too." Jory pointed at the untouched cup.

"That's not eating." I looked up at him. Jory pointed toward the trees with his chin, voice quieter than usual.

"If something out there is watching what you make, maybe make sure you're alive to be annoyed by it tomorrow." Then he walked away before I could answer. For a while, only the fires spoke. Leather tightened as it dried near the coals. Tendon creaked softly under tension. Rain ticked across canvas, shields, hides, and mud. Beyond the walls, beasts moved through the Greywash forests searching for something, or perhaps someone was searching through them.

And now, for the first time, something in those woods had stopped to watch me work.