Fantasy Novel - Prologue


Here is the first instalment of my current work in progress 'Return of the Burning Man'  I hope you     enjoy.  There's more to come.  Please let me know what you think.  Chapter One tomorrow. 

Prologue
He could see the village but he dare not go there. He pulled his bear-skin cloak tightly around him and squatted down again making himself as comfortable as anyone could in a shallow ditch.  He lifted his tunic trying to view the wounds that the arrows had made.  He did not know for certain how many had hit him but he felt it was about five.  Only two were tipped with barbed iron heads; these were still inside him, the shafts having been broken off soon after he escaped his mystery attackers.  The others were simple, sharpened sticks which he lost count of as he fled the scene of his ambush.  He also knew that the arrows were almost certainly tipped with poison.  This was almost always made by the women using a paste made by pounding a certain type of tree bark until it made a red coloured juice and then mixing it with human excrement.  The arrow tips were them dipped in the paste and left to dry. 
He turned and could see some of the poison oozing from the wounds on his side but he could not see those on his back and those were the ones that were killing him.  He looked down at the eye tattoos on the back of his hands and he knew that Gurn’iti could see him so close to death.
He was sure that the villagers would not treat him with absolute hostility but he was also sure that they might not take so much care of his Numa once he was dead and it was his Numa that he was most concerned about just now.  He had no intention of being rounded up by Thetant’iti and taken down to his frozen underworld home of Aner’dul.  No, Thetant’iti must go without his spirit today because today was surely the day when he would die.  
He had decided, therefore, that if he should die out here, in the open landscape where all the Gods have jurisdiction, then, whoever found him would know that Berant’iti watched him die and that because of this they will have no choice but to return him to his people or Berant’iti will be angry.  It was a gamble but he had no choice. 
He turned to the wound in his stomach, which was heavily infected with an evil smelling pus, and touched it lightly with trembling hands.  It was red and swollen all around so it would be a great relief to die and join his ancestors in the spirit village.  But that all depended on the people of this village taking his bones back to Anken’dul, many, many days travel from where he was now.
He reached round to the smaller of the soft leather bags he carried and from it produced a little food.  A small piece of bread, a smaller piece of cheese and some berries and nuts that he had gathered days back.  He chewed a few morsels and, cupping his hand drank some water from the ditch.  He felt a little better for the small meal and, as if Berant’iti had noticed him at last, the sun had come out from behind the grey scudding clouds and had warmed him a little.
But it was all to no avail.  Death was close and soon he would find out what would be the destination of his spirit being.  He hoped that the people of this unknown village would help him back to his people although he must be realistic and prepare for his Numa to descend to Thetant’iti’s frozen home.
His final act would be to save the precious item that he had been carrying for the whole of his journey.  He had been sent by his people on a mission of great importance.  He was to carry out this mission on his own as he was to carry an item of great value and to travel in a large group of priests, warriors and attendants would attract attention from the bands of outlaws and brigands that roamed the open countryside between the larger villages. 
He was to carry, to the chief of the tribe of the Broken Axe, a golden circlet, made from a collection of gold carried out over many years, as a gift to the daughter of the chief and as an offer of marriage from the chief of the tribe of the Burning Man.  This offer was being made in an effort to end the hostilities that had been going one between the two tribes for as long as anyone could remember.  It was an offer born of desperation on the part of the tribe of the Burning Man because the tribe simply could not withstand any more fighting.  The tribes warrior caste was depleted to the point of using old men and boys.  They were putting all their hope on this man and his mission.
He opened the larger of the felted wool bags and pulled out the item, wrapped in a fine doe skin pocket.  He opened it and looked at the beautiful circlet.  He was desperately unhappy that he was not able to complete his journey but he must somehow ensure that the item made it’s way to the Broken Axe tribe and, despite his death, for the mission to be successful.
He wondered what he should do to ensure the success of his mission.  He must ensure that someone knew the story and then he must hope that somehow, someone from this tribe would take up his task.
He mustered all the strength he had and, using his spear as a prop, raised himself up to his full height.  He scanned the horizon.  There, across the next set of ditches was a small group of children playing.  He took a deep breath.
Whooooooop, Whooooooop. Whooooooop.’  he yelped as loudly as his injuries would allow.
The children stopped and started to look around.  He waved his arms around and shouted again.
‘Hey, Over here, here, here, over here.’
The children all stopped and looked in his direction.  Some of them pointed and others put their heads together and peered along their outstretched arms.  Suddenly they all started to walk in his direction, then they stopped and they gathered in a small circle.  It looked like they were discussing the merits or otherwise of going towards a stranger.  Some of them were in favour of heading back to the village and bringing adults while others were in favour of just carrying on.  Then they made up their minds, some headed for the village while a few carried on towards him.
‘Thanks to the Gods’ said the stranger.  He felt sure now that he could weave a story that the children would repeat to the adults that he hoped would convince them to carry on with his mission rather than chop up the circlet and distribute it amongst its Elders.
Three of the children arrived and stood twenty feet away from him. The oldest of the three spoke up.
‘You are not from our village.  Who are you?’
‘My name is not important but I have a task for you that is.  Are you a cleaver boy?’
‘Of course, I’m ten summers old, nearly a man.  Whatever it is that you need me to do, I am capable, old man.’
He ignored the boys disrespect and continued.
‘I have a task for you that involves the sun god Berant’iti himself.  It is a serious matter and just the kind of thing for someone who is nearly a man.’
Then his strength left him and he slowly slid down the spear-shaft, crumpling back into the small ditch.  At this obvious sign of weakness the boys moved closer, the oldest closer still.  He knelt down beside the injured man and lifted his head.
‘You will need to tell me what it is you want me to do or how will I be able to help you?’
The stranger turned his head and looked directly into the boy’s eyes.
‘Pass to me the larger of the felted wool bags that I have.’
The boy did as he was bid and crouched near to him.  The other boys stood off, staring intently.
‘I’m going to tell you a story and I want you to remember it.  I want you to repeat it to the chief of your tribe and I want you to hand him this felted wool bag.  You must not look into this bag as it is under the protection of Berant’iti himself, you must tell that to the chief as well.’
Then the injured man told the youth the story of the two tribes and the constant war and the effort to end it by the marriage.  He told him about the precious item but did not show him it and then asked him to repeat what he had said.  When he had done so the injured man sighed and sagged into the ditch.
‘Go now, go and do as I have bid.  Berant’iti will look down on you will pride, nearly man.’
The boy took the bag and slung it around his shoulder and motioned to his companions to come with him.  They climbed out of the ditches and at the top stopped and turned, looking, for a final time perhaps, at the dying stranger .  Then they were gone.
He took a deep breath and silently preyed to all the gods he could remember.  Then he fell silent.  His breathing became laboured and slow and after a long while it stopped.
Now he would find out what the gods had in store for his Numa.
And now with the help of the gods and these boys the fate of his tribe would be decided.


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