After they had slept the worst of the road out of their bones, Joji led them back into the clang and coal stink of the blacksmith.
Walter tested the weight of steel shields with both hands, turning each one until the balance spoke true.
He settled on a kite shield with scuffed edges and a few old bites in the rim, used, but honest.
Joji and Alaric had told him to choose by feel, not shine.
If he could not bring it up in time, it was no shield at all.
Walter hefted it once more, gave it a short, sharp swing, and nodded. The fit was right, and for once that was enough.
Kobluk picked up one machete, then another, weighing them the way he weighed lies.
He had lost both blades in the fight with the lizardman, and now his hand kept drifting toward the same cheap make he always bought, the sort that felt fine until it met bone.
Joji saw it and cuffed him on the back of the head, not hard enough to start a brawl, hard enough to make a point.
