Chapter 60: Rotten Water

Chapter 60: Rotten Water The line of kobolds stretched along the narrow forest path, moving with the sluggishness of an old river. For thirty-one days, they had known little but the forward motion of weary feet. Orkell watched them from his position beside Elder Lamna. He felt the weight of the eleven surviving men’s spears and the responsibility for every life in the column. Their patchwork leather and cloth armor chafed against his skin, worn thin by hunger and stress. The sound of their footsteps was a dull whisper against the soft dirt path. Lamna walked with a calm that Orkell couldn’t understand. She carried the weight of their despair with quiet strength, but her eyes were never still. A little kobold girl trotted beside her, clutching at the elder’s tattered robe. "Elder," she whispered, "this place is scary." Lamna looked down, smiled, and scooped the child up. "Scary? No, no. It’s quiet. That’s a good thing." Orkell disagreed. He kept his eyes on the tree line, his senses on high alert. The "peace" Lamna spoke of was unnerving. "Too quiet, if you ask me," he muttered, his tail twitching with anxiety. He felt the cold touch of dread. He knew six days of luck felt like a debt that was soon to be collected. A young mother named Rhaka called out from down the line, "Luck’s all we’ve had for a while now. I’d like some walls instead." Orkell heard Lamna’s voice carry, calm and steady. "They’re just campfire stories," she said. He couldn’t shake the reports he’d heard. "I believe in what folk who’ve passed through here have said. The red eyes, the coughing, that rotten-egg stink." The burn in his own throat and the subtle itch behind his eyelids confirmed the stories for him. He heard another kobold, Vek, mutter, "Rotten eggs sound like bad water to me." But Orkell didn’t care about the cause. The feeling of sickness was real. "The forest is unique," Lamna said, a reply Orkell didn’t believe for a second. "Here, no one comes. That is safety." Another voice, Mirren, coughed. "I’d rather fight orcs than sleep under these trees." "Careful what you wish for," Orkell said without looking back. A heavy silence fell, broken only by the shuffle of tired feet. Orkell glanced over his shoulder at the column—a river of exhausted faces and slumped shoulders. He saw his people carry bundles that were not heavy, only all they had left. The older ones walked with heads bowed in grief, the younger ones clung to parents and siblings. Even the guards looked worn thin. Orkell’s jaw tightened. Whatever happened next, he vowed to keep them safe. Somewhere up ahead, boots quickened on the path. Then, a sharp shout cut through the stillness, a sound so loud it made every head lift in unison. "I see roofs!" The column stirred like a current in water. Orkell heard a flood of hushed voices. "Did he say roofs?" "A village?" "I really don’t care about anything now. Walls are walls." Lamna raised her staff, her voice firm and clear. "Hold. Let Orkell and the guards see to it first." Orkell signaled to Brel, Korin, and the two veterans, Rass and Verris. "Standard sweep," he said quietly. They moved up, shields raised and spears held steady, their footfalls cautious against the damp earth. The fog thickened as they neared the village then pulled back to reveal outlines of huts, a mossy well, and fences that still stood straight. The place felt far too still, an unnatural quiet that set Orkell’s teeth on edge. Brel scanned the walls, his eyes tracing the rough-hewn timbers. "It’s not caved in. Whoever lived here didn’t leave long ago," he said, his voice low and tight with a wary respect for the unseen inhabitants. Korin wrinkled his nose, the scent of the forest growing stronger. "What’s that smell? That’s not cooking smoke. It’s like rotten eggs but a lot stronger here," he muttered, his words a confirmation of Orkell’s own burning throat. Rass stayed silent, his gaze fixed on the rooftops. Every shadow looked like it might move. "Fog’s covering the high ground," he murmured, noting how the low-hanging haze concealed any potential ambush points. They split up to check the houses. Orkell stayed near the center, listening to the reports from his guards. In one hut, Brel found bowls still on a table, the stew inside them hardened to a crust. "It’s days old," he muttered, brushing dust from the rim. The implication hung in the air: they had fled so quickly, they didn’t even have time to finish a meal. Korin’s hut had tools leaning against the wall and a pair of boots neatly placed by the door. "No one leaves these unless they’re coming back... or couldn’t," he said, his voice a grim whisper. These were not the signs of a people who had simply moved on. A call came from another hut. It was Verris. "Overturned stool. Claw marks. Left in a hurry." The thought of what could have caused the marks made Orkell’s tail twitch with a jolt of alarm. Rass poked his head into a small storage shed, sniffing the air. "Dry grains are untouched. Whoever left didn’t take supplies," he reported. This detail, more than anything, screamed of a sudden, terrifying departure. The guards moved from building to building, calling "Clear" when they were done, the word feeling more like a question than a statement. Their banter, usually a way to keep the tension from choking them, was silent now. Each report added another layer to the strange emptiness of the village. Even the well had fresh rope coiled beside it, the bucket still damp with use. They finished the sweep and regrouped at the well, the fog swirling low around their legs like a sickly steam. Orkell’s voice, though quiet, cut through the quiet. "Clear?" "Clear," Brel said. The others nodded, but no one looked relaxed. Their eyes, like Orkell’s, kept darting to the fog-shrouded rooftops. "Good. Call the refugees. It’s safe enough for the night or permanently, who knows. We’ve been walking long enough." Rass jogged off to fetch them. Orkell let his eyes run over the group, counting heads. He stopped. "Where’s Yrix?" Brel hesitated, his eyes wide. "He was with me at the smokehouse. He stepped out for a moment. I thought he was checking another house." Orkell’s tail twitched. "And no one saw him?" Korin shook his head, his hand tightening on his spear. "I didn’t think he’d wander far. He’s usually careful." Before anyone could answer, a shape emerged through the fog — Yrix, grinning, holding a crumbling yellow rock in his claws, the stench rolling off it even from several paces away. "You gotta see what’s up there! There’s a hot spring and steam everywhere, like the whole ground’s breathing and these rocks are everywhere." The others took a step back, the stench hitting them like a physical blow. Korin waved a hand in front of his face, grimacing. "By the three gods, Yrix, get that thing away from me. What did you bathe in? Horse shit?" Yrix laughed, completely unfazed. "It’s just the air up there. It feels thick, makes your teeth tingle. Strange, but... kind of nice. It warms you right through." Orkell’s eyes narrowed. "I told you not to wander off. What were you thinking, climbing a hill alone in a place like this?" "I heard running water," Yrix said quickly, his grin faltering a little. "I was thirsty, so I thought maybe it was a stream. Instead, I found a spring. It’s huge, bigger than the well here, and the steam just rolls down the slope." Verris took a cautious step forward, leaning in to sniff the rock. He coughed, his eyes watering. "This is disgusting," he rasped, waving the smell away. "It’s soft too and crumbles easily. What in the hell is it?" "No idea," Yrix said, still holding it out like it was treasure. "But it looks valuable, doesn’t it? It looks like gold." "Wrap it," Orkell snapped. "Anything you have. Get that thing out of everyone’s noses. That thing smells just like a rotting egg." Brel pulled a rag from his pouch, and Yrix reluctantly let the rock be bundled. The stench dulled but didn’t vanish. Orkell took the small bundle, holding it under his arm like it was a live fire. "Nobody goes near that spring until we’ve rested and decided it’s worth the risk," Orkell said, his gaze sweeping over the guards. "The last thing I need is half the company breathing whatever’s coming off that water." Korin nodded in agreement. "A smell like that always comes with a cost. My uncle used to talk about a lake that smelled the same. Anyone who stayed too long near it ended up coughing for days." Yrix’s grin was completely gone now. "I didn’t feel sick. Just light-headed. Thought it was the climb." "That’s how it usually starts," Verris muttered. The group lingered in the village square, the fog curling around their feet. Somewhere in the distance, a crow called once, then fell silent again. The emptiness of the village pressed on them; every creak of old wood felt like it came from just out of sight. Orkell broke the quiet. "We’ll hold here for the night. The people will have roofs, even if they’re not ours. I want a watch set—two at the well, two at the road, and someone patrolling between the huts. If this place was abandoned quickly, there might be a reason beyond the smell." Brel cracked a small smile. "You mean besides Yrix’s bad decision-making?" That earned a few chuckles, the sound a small relief against the tension. Yrix smiled and shook his head. Orkell didn’t respond. His eyes were on the hill beyond the far fence, where the fog seemed thicker, heavier. In the dim light, it almost looked like it was moving with a will of its own. Somewhere deep inside, he felt the same unease he’d had since stepping into this forest. And he knew they hadn’t seen the last of what this place could do.