A short story from my upcoming 2nd book, "The Glorious & The Wretched."
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The ran like a pack of wolves through the night, the larger staggered around the weaker. They glided underneath the steel and stone that towered into the heavens above, the scaffolding that reached up in defiance. They understood that. Faster, they moved like a single organism, the torches in their hands gleaming ever so little in the lower depth of blackness. They needed very little light, and in fact, they preferred it dim.

As she rounded the corner, she brought her torch out away from her body. The sparks blazed off a moment but went unnoticed. Breaking pattern in only the slightest way, she dodged a thick drizzle of water from the upper heights that stood in her path. From the corner of her eye, she caught a firm and single nod of approval from Halgrisom.

Those seconds of distraction, lost in the weight of her mentor’s gaze, proved disastrous.

Gasmen. In this region it was always the Gasmen who were sent out. They erupted from the shadows, their long nozzles swinging like the distorted trunks of the now legendary elephant, their glass eyes reflecting back the orange of the flames. They chitted and buzzed in their Gasmen language, calling for the extinction of the tribe.

The putrid green clouds came rolling out from their mechanics. Thick, it stuck to your skin, almost pulsing with its own life. It stank of feces and boiled without heat. Those in the lead of the pack were dropped immediately by the insubstantial weapon, their flesh and clothing caked and already festering with a myriad of diseases. The tribe swirled into itself and prepared to fight back.

Those with the better sight were placed in the back, nestled into corners and niches with long guns to fire balls of molten lead into the bodies of the Gasmen. In the front of the line, the bold brought their torches to bear along with small cans of a special air. They released the air into the flames to ignite giant fireballs that burnt out the worst of the Greenness.

She felt the pressure in her chest as the plan moved accordingly. Looking about for Halgrisom, she hoped the Old One hadn’t perished in the initial surge. But there he was, his skin as white as parchment allowing the blueblack inked tattoos about his face and arms to stand out, his long graying beard braided into two knots. He blew another burst of flame into the Gasmen’s attack then looked over to her. His eyes gleamed with purpose, his body rigid with intent.

He held up an open palm, let it hover a moment, then clenched it into a fist to signal her action.

At fifteen years old, she was the eldest of the interior war party. It was hers to command, and this was her test. She in turn raised her hand high, open palm, letting the other children assembled who had been crouched around her see it brought into a tight fist. From their left hands they dropped their torches as their right hands found the make-shift axes strapped to their backs. Weapons retrieved, the children of the tribe silently dove into the dark.

Into the lingering remains of the foul Greenness they charged, their lineage having proven immune to the effects of the disease ridden vapors. They tore through the weapon that had fell so many of their ancestors, unaffected by the stench the waivered up their nostrils, unconcerned by the paste that built on their skin. Deep they went, right up to the Gasmen, and brought their sharpen axes to bear.

Razor sharp, even swung by the strength of a child, a weapon of such caliber can destroy with their weight behind it, their hate behind it. Electronic screams filled the black hollow of the city’s bottom, tiny arms flinging death into circuitry and plastic only to find flesh beneath. The young ones knew this was not play, not a sort of game. And to wade in gore and to know that you are righteous is a glorious thing.

So it was done, so the tribe had conquered that day.

The children came out of the deep black a new color; brown. Brown, the color mixed of the Gasmen’s weapon of choice and their life blood. Not a single child had been lost, the opponent so sure and sanctimonious in their superior abilities that had always served them. Scavenging what they could, they set ablaze the bodies of their fallen and left the enemy to fall to rot.

Halgrisom began to motion for a retreat back to their compound and saw her standing there, weapon still in hand, the ichors of the days dripping from her small form. He walked up to her and observed her a moment, watched her stare into the place where she had just become the incarnate of death. For the briefest period, the elder was unsure of himself.

Finally, he asked of her, “How do you feel?”

She looked up at him, her eyes wide and streaming with tears that cleaned the muck from her face.

In a strong and clear voice, she replied, “I feel pure.”