There was a clearing. A beautiful clearing. A gasp of fresh air that escaped the forest's clutches.
The air had not always been so fresh. Once it smelled of sweat and anxiety. The musk of man.
"Settle around!". The youths and younglings sit still. The raging fire behind the elder illuminates his creased and sharp face in the twilight. The elder is perched on a cushion of linen. He is the last one to remember the black day...
We met at a clearing.
There were 2 lines of men that faced off. On one side, their side, were men with stone clubs and spears. They carried a round wicker shield each and wore battle dresses made of hide intertwined with string and linen-
"But!", interjected a wide eyed youngling, "you said square shields and fur, not hide, last time!".
The elder corrected the child's "insult" with his furious gaze, making this mannerless youngling cower behind his older sister.
"Can I go back now?", asked the elder, with only one answer in mind.
"Yes...", chanted back at the youngsters. Arguing with an elder is forbidden; even if he's told this damn story tens of times this spring.
We counted around 60 or more of these bandits. Primitive idiots I say! On my side it was different; oh so different.
Bronze, copper, tin; metal.
Our shields, they had a metallic glow and they blinded the stupid barley human monstrosities as the light bounced off the bronze as if in awe of what sort of creature could craft such a pure item from the earth's dirty resources. Fire is the answer, the cleanser of all, it engulfs the slow and purges the corrupt.
We estimated we had around a couple dozen men when we headed out of our village.
In saying this, the elder looked at the most troublesome younglings at the back,"corrupted", he repeated,"corrupted", louder this time bringing the troublemakers to face the elder's angry eyes.
Our caps were made of hide and a small stud of copper at the top. A spear or short sword at each soldier's side. We were the very height of technology.
An awkward silence had been running through the clearing. Emotions ran high... We, the Bronze Men, had our wheat taken, we thought we were doing so well... To survive the winter, we needed our food. But the backwards hunter gatherers needed food too, they may not have been as advanced as us but their tribe was bigger, crawling with them.
Their people were riddled with diseases and their tents and huts were in bad condition with only the falling leaves giving warmth as their huts collapsed on their families. The men were unable to protect their families against the spirits' wrath. If their tribe was going to survive the winter they needed this food.
Our eye contact with the enemy was strong and firm. An awkward and fearful, an inner dread; while acting fearless. The sun rose over the golden, dying, yet majestic trees. Rays gilded the forest floor with a warm rush of light. These divine lights went through the leaves in the trees creating Godly rays. Our breath vapourized from our mouths and the larks sung with a powerful tune that strung the cords of our hearts. Other birds began to join the song, creating a vibrant contrast to our dire situation.
Yet we waited.
YOU ARE READING
The Elder's Dagger
Historical FictionA tribe by the Thames river has to fight a primitive tribe to the north to secure its grain, but what happens when there is more than grain found in the clutches of the enemy?
