Deep in the dark catacombs, over two dozen souls wandered down the dank and dusty halls. Smoothed Stone walls flanked them, sconces, unlit and untreated for decades sat unburdened by flame. Sarcophagi of wood and rock lined the cropping's, some worn down by time and either cracked or shattered with age. Dripping water from far off distances and the occasional hiss of unseen centipedes was drowned out in favor of a group of vulnerable, tired and terrified Daeg, stomping cautiously their way through the long foreboding labyrinth of the dead. Maxwell led onwards, followed by Barry and Nigel hot on his heels. He, as the preacher, knew these halls well. He had buried many of the townsfolk in his time as the preacher, and thus was accustomed to the subterranean world they now found themselves in. His boots, which were old and worn, barely kept at bay the water from pools of seeping rain which in places encapsulated the otherwise dry floor. The catacombs wore down on Maxwell, with each passing year his people grew older and older. Each decade saw less Daeg born, and more interned in the depths.

  “This’n be the way outta’ere,” he cried aloud, trying to keep morale high.

  But the others were still uneased by the direness of their situation. A home destroyed, a church burned to ash, and only Mark knew how many were slaughtered. These people had lost everything, had lost fathers or mothers, lost children. Maxwell knew that there was no sugarcoating the tragedy that had befallen them all, and he couldn't bring himself to confront it; not yet. He had to keep going, they had to keep going. Then it would be Nigel's turn, he thought, whether he wanted it or not. Maxwell considered whether he could have guided the people better, to prepare them. The response to the raid was retarded by various factors. Laziness, complacency, a lack of training and routine sentry check-ups. Usually it wasn’t the church who prepared the defenses, as the militias were often kept separate to prevent religious schisms turning into civil wars. Perhaps this is why the Daeg were so ill-prepared for the coming of Eli’s forces. Warmanchester, at present, was most certainly reduced to cinder and rubble as the group travelled beneath the town and out to the western tunnels.

  Nigel's mind meanwhile, was slowly consuming itself. The poor man, for all his faults, had a heart. He thought about the people they had to leave behind, the friends and neighbors he knew. Tombo, Merriam, Grechen, even Barry’s father Wilbard. All of them had not been there, not in the huddled mass outside the church. Nigel looked over at the poor boy, despite his youth he trudged on like a soldier. But it was that which worried him the most. Barry was not used to killing, it was never fun, never got easier. Nigel knew this from his days as a scav’, Occasionally a na?ve young man or an overconfident adventurer would think that the Daeg were an easy target. They would shout odd bravado about how 'halflings are weaker than goblins’, halflings were apparently what humans called the Daeg. As for goblins, the similarly small Sióbhe race seemed to fit the description.

  There in the marshlands, adventurers would often meet a grizzly end. The Daeg were small, not weak. No, not weak at all. Nigel had fought and ended humans before, even elves. It wasn’t pretty; the screaming, the blood. Sometimes the shouts from his own kin terrified him more than the tall’ns. But he understood it was their way, the Daegish custom almost, to survive.

  Barry may have looked alright, but Nigel understood why. He was surrounded by elders, he didn't want to show weakness. He had likely lost his father in the fighting or the arson, he had killed a man, and had lived to see the next few hours. Not something a kid should go through. Nigel noticed with momentary stress that Jennifer had not come along. He remembered through the drunken haze that she had fled the tavern, when Maxwell showed up to rally the people to arms. Had she escaped? He hoped so. But he also knew how Elis' men operated. They were barbarians, held only in line by a rigid moral code that did not apply to ‘inferiors’. He sighed silently to himself. He guessed at the state of the town now; burned down, the survivors slaughtered most likely or used for … other things. He tried to take his mind off of it. He needed to remain focused, to stay vigilant and ready to act.

  He broke the silence of the walk, trying to make the trip just a tad less dreary. “Col’as wint’r down’ere eh?”

  Barry turned, nodding in silent agreement. Maxwell was less cordial. “Shush ya’self, we’s almos’close”

  He went back to his quiet brooding, as Maxwell led the flock down the tunnels of the ancient burial ground. The smell of wood rot, a potent miasma which intertwined with the stench of decay, hung oppressively in the air. A few of the group covered their noses, as they passed open coffins, the bodies easily visible through the cracks. Nigel ran his fingers across the wall of his right for a moment, but quickly retracted it upon touching the wet, slimy texture of the filthy stonework passages. He wiped his hand on his jacket quickly, hoping that it wouldn't stick.

  “heh,” he nervously chuckled. “thes’ere tunn’ls need a bit ‘a clean-”

  “I says shut’yur gob” Maxwell barked. “I’s tryin’teh concent’ate”

  As he said this, the old man stumbled over something unseen. Nearly falling, he managed to catch himself on the wall, only scraping his hands in the process. The group halted, Barry came to his side. After he helped the old Daeg back to his feet, he stepped back into the line beside Nigel.

  Maxwell sighed, he was lucky that he didn't get hurt worse. At his old age, a simple fall could easily break bones. He glanced over to the thing that had tripped him, it was a skull. He closed his eyes and turned away.

  “Mark fo’give me.” And with that he walked onward.

  After another twenty minutes of walking, the coffins disappeared, replaced with barren rockface. They had exited the catacombs and had made it to the western passages. They had been built long ago during the first exodus, and had been there ever since. Maxwell remembered building the tunnels with the other exiles right after the death-march to the marshlands. The Imperials didn’t even supply tools to help the Daeg survive. They stole everything, every sack of grain and sword. That first winter was brutal. Imagine such a sight; four thousand Daeg led to a swamp and told to enter it or die. Some chose death before exile, but most reluctantly trudged through the autumn chilled waters and into their new home. Gator infested, leech plentiful, it was horrific for the first generation there.

  Maxwell stopped as he saw light ahead, holding up a hand to signal others to halt. All eyes were fixed on the tiny blotch of glowing orange-red in the far distance. Nigel and Barry came up behind the preacher, cautiously.

  “What’n be that?” Asked Nigel.

  Barry smiled up at the men, “Is’et the exit?”

  Maxwell slowly shook his head, and his face took on a frightened expression. “We’s no’ere close tuh theys exist.”

  Nigel opened his mouth to ask the obvious question, he stopped himself as he heard it. Everyone went silent in the crowd, and Barry recoiled in fright at the sound. A grinding, a clank, a few more. Then, a whistle. A loud piercing whistle bellowed forth as the sounds grew closer and the lights grew brighter.

  “No,” Nigel backed away in horror, “no, oh no, no no. I's don' like that'n one bit.”

  The crowd trembled, not out of knowledge of what was coming their way, but from the reactions of the three leaders they knew trouble was afoot. Barry looked up at Nigel then to Maxwell and then back to the glowing light.

  “Wha’sat?” Barry asked Maxwell, tugging on his robes, voice trembling.

  Maxwell swallowed spit, and spoke with a clear and fearful tone. “Lacrua.”

  Barry didn’t understand, how could he, Maxwell thought. The boy had never seen Lacrua before. He hadn’t even heard the stories of the ancient wars between the liches and the war machines. Never heard tales of them, nor the unending hatred they bore for all living things. As they stood there, panic began to rise in the minds and throats of the crowd.

  Maxwell turned to Nigel, “take’em back tuh theys cat-e-combs, an’wait for me’s there.”

  Nigel blinked. “What? I’s ain’t leavin’ yuh to brawl’n wiff enm'ys”

  “Wes dont gott’eh time tuh argue. I’lls ‘old em off while yous be gettin’ theys all to saf’ty”

  Nigel shook his head, “No.”

  Maxwell, in reply, grinned. “I’s be thinkin’ yous didn’wanta be they leader? Yous makin’ decis’ns now?”

  Nigel harrumphed, turned to Barry and placed his hand on the young man's shoulder. “Barry,” he said, “yous lead theys mob back’n to the cat-e-combs. Stay’n there till’ wes return.”

  More clanking, louder than before, was gaining ground towards them. Another whistle blared in the approaching glow. Barry turned to look up at Maxwell, then to Nigel.

  “Alright,” he replied. “But what’n be done if yous die?”

  Nigel grinned, and removed his hand from Barry’s shoulder, and ruffled his hair. “Yous a good’n. we’s be fine an’ll come back well an’ proper, I’s promise.”

  Another louder whistle in the dark, a voice echoed from the light, its words undecipherable.

  “Now, git!” Nigel yelled, and Barry made off pushing the other Daeg back towards the catacombs.

  Some wanted to stay, to help the two men who most certainly were about to face their doom, but most were too frightened and willingly backtracked as Barry herded them away from the dread clanking of the approaching doom The two faced down the orange hue, waiting for the foe to finally step into sight. Beads of sweat poured down the brow of the preacher, as Nigel began to also feel the sweltering heat progressing ever so slowly towards them. It felt like minutes, but within a few seconds, two shapes appeared in the light. Maxwell seethed in panic, his compatriot took a step back in fear.

  From the light, came the lurking danger. Two of them, clad in thin bronze armour, worn by time and potted with dents. Legs and arms made of intricate copper gears, rolling and spinning faster as they decreased in size moving up to protected torsos. Their heads, conical, a single cross shaped hole in the center revealing a bright blue hue of swirling, writhing energy. Another whistle echoed forth, a device protruded from each of the machines capirote heads, letting off steam from deep within the human sized automata. And most startling of all, their weapons. In three digited metallic hands one of them held a sword of cold steel, and the other had none, replaced with a single attached metal crossbow and a retractable blade where the other hand would lay.

  This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  This sight was pure terror to the two Daeg who stood there, standing their ground as the machines marched forth. Maxwell looked over to Nigel, the man had begun to waver.

  “Nigel,” Maxwell began. He looked to Maxwell, “I’s get’n a spell all conj’rd, can yous ‘old em off?”

  The man looked incredulous at the old preacher, then back to the continuously approaching death that was surely to befall them.

  “yous mad?” He asked. “I’s got’a die for yous to be castin’ ol’ spook-spells?”

  Maxwell hissed in anger under his breath, “do’s it or we’s both dead’ns”.

  It was clearly no time to argue, Nigel knew that as he peered at the two Lacrua. the sword bearer raised his blade and both halted. It spoke. Its deep raspy voice, coming from metallic boxes embedded in its chest, was a loud and disturbing mockery of the voice of the living.

  “By the lord of the forges, none shall be spared. For Eden shall be purified of the filth of the flesh and the tree and that which moves upon the ground. so sayeth the Watchmaker, and so sayeth the Machine-Christ!”

  Another pair of loud whistles blared when the sword bearer charged, as the other raised his crossbow in tangent. It was fast as it blazed forth, unnaturally so, its legs moved in a grotesque perversion of what counted as ‘running’ to organic things. Its steps were uneven, crooked and more resembled a shambling, though lighting fast.

  “Now Nigel!” Maxwell yelled, and without thinking, the Daeg rushed forward to face the enemy.

  Every step made him think of turning back, of running, his mind was doing everything it could to change his ‘fight’ response to ‘flight’ but it was already too late. Ten feet, eight feet, five. The distance closed as he approached the Lacrua, a black and green flash buzzed Nigel's head, grazing his face and leaving a shallow cut. A bolt from the second machine's crossbow had nearly hit its mark. Nigel heard from behind him the quickened chanting of Maxwell, the man was readying his magicks to either help them … or hinder them. Nigel didn't trust magick, but in that moment he had no choice but to hope it didn’t backfire on the two of them. Nigel rolled to the ground as the sword swiped downward to slice him across the chest, as he clumsily tried to scramble back to his feet, he kicked the Lacrua in the leg joint. This had no effect other than causing the poor Daeg to feel a tinge of pain shoot through his toes even through the boot. The machine screeched with its whistle, raising its sword once more and jabbed downward towards Nigel, the man fell back to the ground, rolling around to avoid the blade. Left, right, left the sword bearer had enough of the game and picked the Daeg up by the scruff of his shirt with its other hand and held him aloft. The crossbowman had just loaded another bolt and was about to fire a second shot at Nigel right as the sword of the first was about to stab into his chest. Then, a gust of wind.

  Nigel looked back and saw that the old man had done something, and a sound like buzzing arrows came from the darkness. Nigel almost missed the first shard as it pierced the swordsman's capirote shaped head. The Lacrua screamed in anger and frustration as a second and then a third ice spike stabbed into its body and even through its blade as it lifted to block the onslaught.

  Maxwell had conjured shards of ice from the water within the catacombs, frozen them somehow and turned them into hardened weapons. Weapons which, while hitting their quarry, also threatened to hit poor Nigel as well.

  “Quick!” Maxwell yelled above the whizzing ice, “git out’a its grip’n run bac’ere!”

  Nigel pulled at the Lacrua’s hand, trying to pry himself free from the machine's hold, but to no avail, it wouldn’t relent. The swordsman turned to face Nigel again and began to try and stab him, as a second crossbow bolt zoomed past, this time aimed at Maxwell. He dodged just as the bolt hit an ice shard midair and sent flecks of hardened ice in several directions, striking Maxwell's face and cutting him badly. Blood trickled down his forehead, cheek and nose. Maxwell turned and faced down the crossbowman, charged forth, jumped and kicked the machine center mass, toppling it. Maxwell crashed to the ground as the crossbow man did, and immediately cried out in pain.

  “Gah, muh fackin’ leg.”

  Nigel swiveled side to side in a repeat of the previous ground dodging as the increasingly infuriated swordsman jabbed over and over to hit the man to no avail. Finally, by sheer luck, an ice shard hit the unarmed hand of the machine, forcing it to let Nigel go and drop him to the floor. Then, the flood of ice shards ended. The Lacrua stood above him, sword raised. Nigel awaited the killing blow, but it never came, as an arrow shot from the darkness. The tip wedged itself firmly into the machine's blue glowing eye slit, causing it to screech and fall backwards. Nigel watched as it jolted around, its whistle piercing the air with its death throes, wailing as it finally fell to its knees and then collapsed to the ground. Dead. It was dead.

  He looked over to Maxwell and saw him struggling with the other Lacrua, it was trying to stab him with its retractable blade hand, and the old Daeg was keeping it at bay by strength alone, using both his hands to try and keep it from burying the sword into his face. A second arrow, then a third, one missed while the other hit its target, the machines seeing slit. It too screamed in agony, as it rolled off of the preacher and began thrashing about on the floor, its whistle blasting as its gears one-by-one stopped spinning and its screeching finally sputtered silent.

  Maxwell panted and grabbed at his leg, seething in pain. He began rocking back and forth trying to keep calm despite his injury. Nigel looked down the tunnel back towards the catacombs, and wasn’t at all shocked to see Barry emerge from the darkness. Though in the next moment he was, as the rest of the Daeg slowly trudged back into view.

  “I’s an’ Maxwell tol’ya to git theys bac’n teh cat-e-combs.” He said, eyeing the young man.

  Barry put his bow back around his shoulder, and pointed back towards the catacombs with one thumb.

  “Cant, them tall’ns comin’ ” Barry replied bluntly.

  Nigel's eyes went wide, and as once he scrambled to his feet and pointed down the cave, in the direction from where the horrible Lacrua had emerged.

  “Go, I’s gon’ta git the preecher, yous lead’em to the exit.”

  Barry nodded, turned and motioned the rest of the terrified mass behind him to follow. With a little encouragement, and some scornful growls from both Nigel and Barry, they all began to silently and carefully walk forth. As Nigel watched the survivors travel further, he went up to Maxwell and helped the old man to his feet, or rather, foot.

  “How’n be the leg?” Nigel asked him.

  Maxwell grumbled angrily to himself, but eventually sighed and looked in the younger Daegs eyes. “It be’brok’n, nary a doubt.”

  The two began slowly pacing forward to catch up with the others, Maxwell's robes were torn in a few places from the scuffle, ripping gashes near his legs and chest area, the dirt from the cavern's floor soiled the once brightly colored and patchwork fabric. Nigel was used to being covered in muck and dirt. But him seeing Maxwell, the preacher, a beacon of purity for the town in such disarray, made him chuckle a bit. The preacher grimaced as he walked forth, his leg still aching, but even he let out a little of his humor as he saw the state he was in.

  “I’s can’t remb’r the las’time my clothin’ was’n all clean an’ dry” He said, then laughing aloud.

  Nigel shook his head with a grin upon his face, “Yous gon’ git used tuh it, preecha man.”

  As they limped on, Maxwell fell silent, thinking. He was worried, and many dark thoughts crossed his mind as they went along. After a long while, the two began to approach a fork in the cave. Maxwell stood with Nigel supporting his weight, as Barry came over to meet them. The mass of terrified Daeg stood at the mouth of both passages, trying to decide for themselves which way to go, but upon seeing Maxwell they simply stood quietly, waiting with nervous anticipation.

  “Nigel, Barry, come’n huddle wit’ me” He said, as Barry came closer.

  The three made a circle and whispered among themselves out of earshot from the herd. And their conversation went as such;

  “Whats’it ‘bout Maxwell?” Nigel spoke up first.

  Barry looked between the two men, back and forth, listening intently to the things both said. The slow dripping of water from the cavern's stalactites was a quiet metronome, counting down the seconds. The dank odor of the place was foul, and the orange glow from down the right corridor spelled only more trouble.

  Maxwell sighed, and began, “Lacrua, whys they’n be ‘ere is one myst’ry I don’ wanna solve. As’n so, we’s takin’ dey left-way. If yous ‘ave any ob-jecty-owns, speak em.”

  Barry nodded to Maxwell, “what’r thems Lacrua any’ow?”

  “Theys be’n bad news, ‘nuff said. Yous See that there’s glow?”

  Maxwell pointed down the right hallway, towards the orange light in the distance. Both turned and looked down the path, it gave off an eerie atmosphere, unnatural. Distant sounds, too faint to hear by most, screamed through the miles of tunnel they originated from. The cry of whistles far away.

  “That way’n be tuh north. North’ll be them ‘hot forges’, Maxwell said.

  This time, Nigel spoke, wiping sweat from his brow. “Lacrua be from ther’n?”

  “Aye. An’ I’s don’reck’n we wan’tuh tangle with no real’ns eith’r.”

  “Real’ns?!” Nigel said, nonplussed by the statement. “Near’y kilt us both thems did. An’ yous sayin’ theys not real’ns?!”

  The crowd of survivors were getting anxious, they overheard Nigels alarmed voice, and murmurings began.

  “Real’ns?” One man asked another, “What be ol’ Nigie gon’ on ‘bout?”

  The other man replied, “Sumtin’bout dem met’l men, I’s reck’n.”

  Maxwell turned to Nigel, meeting his gaze with serious intent. The two stared at each other long, then the old man spoke calmly.

  “Thos’was scouts. Scav’s. Not one’a they was a warri’r.”

  Nigel’s face went pale. He swallowed spit, and looked back to the orange glow. Then back to the preacher.

  “Lead th’way, Maxie. I’s wit’you. I’s not meet’n no warri’r met’l man, not t’day.”

  Maxwell nodded. Barry, though silent, made mental notes, he spent much of his time listening to other, more older Daeg speak in his free time. It gave him a lot of experience for when information became handy. Mostly he memorized woodcutting techniques, or which bugs annoyed which adults the most so he could pour a few in their beds. That always got a good laugh or two for him. But that night, he had to pay attention, as the lives of himself and others were on the line.

  “Lacrua,” he thought. Metal men with armor. Can be killed by shooting their blue lights, Have swords and crossbows. Deadly.

  Maxwell shouted to the other Daeg, and all turned to listen. His voice echoed, which while helpful, definitely gave their position away.

  “We’s goin’ left. The west’rn exit will be lead’n us to saf’ty. All yous git, ‘for we’s get kilt’r caug’t”

  All at once, they all began to stride down the leftern tunnel, the three other Daeg walking after them. Maxwell dragged his injured leg, occasionally lifting it to take the weight off it. The pain was horrible, but he didn't want to rely on Nigel to bear him as a burden, thus he supported himself by placing his hand on the cavern wall, steadying himself as he hobbled along. Nigel occasionally looked over his shoulder, expecting another Lacrua to appear from the ever darkening cavern behind them. A specter of death, perhaps. While he had never seen a Lacrua till that day, the Daeg had more than his fair share of experience for a lifetime. He thought back to the glowing blue in the things helmet. The otherworldly color, the swaying and shimmering light of something almost natural, but so far removed from its original form that it-

  “Nigel?”

  Nigel shook his head, looking around for the voice's origin. A few seconds pass and he looks down, Barry was walking beside him, his face sunken into a worrying expression. Nigel knew what was coming, it was destined.

  “Barry?” he replied.

  “I- I’s don’ think’m doin’good.”

  “Yous feel’n sick?” Nigel asked.

  Barry nodded, and then collapsed. Nigel and Maxwell both paused, watching Barry drop to his knees, and vomit. Nigel nor Maxwell looked away, no Daeg would in that situation. They all understood the pain of going through their first real kill. Some, like Barry, could last for a few hours, maybe a day, before the realization would sink in. But everyone goes through it. Nobody wants to kill, it's messy, it takes something from you. The warm liquid splattered onto the ground, mixing with the dirt upon the floor of the cave. Barry started to rise, but he almost collapsed again, until Nigel jumped over and steadied the boy. Nigel stared into the eyes of Barry as he looked up, tears flowing down a reddened face. The burning in his throat and the stinging of his eyes, caused Barry to begin to sob silently. Nigel drew the boy close, and let him cry into his chest.

  “Let out’em tears Berry. Jus’let em out. I’s know, it ‘urts.”

  Maxwell closed his eyes, turning away. Watching his kin weep was too much for him, he had seen too many funerals and more than once did the same thing Nigel was doing then. Nigel himself, while holding Barry to muffle his sobbing, began to hold back his own wet eyes, trying to wipe at them stealthily with his jacket collar.

  “Why?” Barry whimpered. “Why’d he go an’ attack yous an’ Maxwell, I’s didn’want’a kill ‘im. I’s didn’.”

  Nigel patted the young man on the back, and released him. Barry wiped away the remaining tears on his face and sniffled. His puffy eyes still stung with grief as the three of them kept walking after the rest of the group.

  Thems tall’ns, Barry. Ain’ pretty, but’n sometim’s it be yous or theys. An’ yous got’ta choose. Yous jus’ chos’n us an’ youse’f over theys, is all.” Nigel said as they went, looking ahead.

  “Does’n it, git easi’r?”

  “No.” Nigel stated it flatly.

  The rest of the march was silent, as the Daeg all wandered down the western tunnels to the exit of the caves. Maxwell had a feeling he knew what awaited them, and he had a plan as well, he sneaked a peek at Nigel, before looking back to the road ahead. When the time came, he would tell Nigel, but for the moment then, he said nothing.