through the muck to protect the people of Albion.
The tunnel split a short distance ahead. The left passage was broad and dry, while the right smelled like a swamp after the first spring thaw.
“Left,” said Leech. “Redcaps avoid the water when they can. Like cats.”
Tipple looked pointedly at the right tunnel. “You think that sludge qualifies as water?”
“Sure. From the smell, I’d say water mixed with faeces, urine, rotting food, algae, mildew”—he adjusted his mask and sniffed—“and just a hint of vomit. None of that matters to a redcap. They’re just worried it will wash the blood out of their headgear.”
That was good enough for Inga. She turned the corner and caught a glimpse of movement in the distance. Her body reacted automatically, raising her left arm as the filthy, hunchbacked creature with the pointed red cap drew back his slingshot.
Something sharp crashed into her forearm where Bulwark should have been. An animal skull fell into the dirt at her feet. Manic laughter echoed through the tunnel as the redcap scampered away.
“Get back here, you pointy-headed pimple!” Tipple roared. “If you’re gonna ambush someone, do it to her face, like a man!”
The tunnels here were larger than the sewer and better maintained, but Inga still felt like a bull in a barrel. She shifted Bulwark onto her arm in case the next missile was deadlier. There was just enough room for her to hold it at an angle across the front of her body.
“Easy,” said Rook. “Only a fool charges into the monster’s lair.”
Inga nodded. The ground was hard-packed dirt, which muffled the redcap’s retreating footsteps. The walls were made of irregularly cut stone. Thick timbers helped to support the ceiling. She kept bumping the overhead beams with her shield.
The redcap couldn’t have gone far. This was one of Brightlodge’s smallest islands, housing little more than the library tower. There might be a few underground storage rooms where he could hide, or perhaps another tunnel running to the foundations of the bridge, but little more.
She couldn’t help feeling sorry for the poor thing. Trapped underground, pursued by four armed Heroes. Did he realise how hopeless his situation was?
But he had started that fire, a fire that could have killed everyone in the tavern. Not to mention setting that sow free and all the other mischief he had caused. What if next time he attacked a child or an old woman? Worse, once he settled in to Brightlodge, would others follow like rats to a leaking grain sack?
Bulwark shifted of its own accord as she rounded the next corner. An arrow cracked against the wood. Inga glimpsed eight—no, nine—outlaws hunched behind an assortment of barrels and crates. She waved for the other Heroes to stop. The outlaws had been here for several days, judging from the rumpled blankets, discarded food, and remnants of an old cook fire. It looked like she had interrupted their breakfast.
Inga looked pointedly at the arrow on the ground. “I’m willing to pretend that didn’t happen.” She used the same tone her mother used to take with her when she came home covered in mud and blood. “Put down your weapons, and we can talk things out over some of that fish.”
“Forget the sewer fish,” Tipple called out. “What do they have to drink?”
A pair of chickens wandered aimlessly through the mess, searching for bugs. The redcap perched atop an empty cage, his manic smile displaying far too many teeth as he rocked from side to side.
“That redcap looks comfortable,” Inga said. “Is he with you?”
The man with the bow scowled. “Not by choice.”
“Nonsense.” Inga inched closer, ready to knock down anyone who so much as twitched. Bulwark’s surface rippled like the air over a sunbaked field as the shield gathered its power. “Granny Brody used to say even a fly can choose which cow pat to live on. Why hide away like animals in the darkness when you could fill your purses with