Episode 1 - The Red Faces (2)
“Everyone, battle stations!!! Move like I told you!!!”
My shout sent the whole group scrambling—not in perfect unison, but at least now they knew what to do.
Those used to hurling things clambered up the trees, taking positions beside the baskets of stones we'd prepped. The spear-throwers and stabbers spread out along the lower branches and the perimeter of our nest. The bola experts scattered to the flanking forest paths. And the weaker females, young ones, and elders fell back behind the central bonfire, the biggest one.
It wasn't a flawless formation. But it would do. Neither they nor we were an army—just freshly diverged from Australopithecus, the earliest flickers of humanity. Above all, we were armed with a variety of tools now. Bolas, stones, spears, clubs. This was a fight we couldn't lose...
Shiiik!
Something whistled past my face. It wasn't that fast, so I got a clear look. A long branch... no, that was a weapon, plain as day. A gently S-curved wooden stick. I knew its name.
Throwing stick.
At a glance, it resembled a boomerang, but its purpose was simple: chuck it far to hit the enemy. You could make one from any decent branch with a little trimming—something even our crude stone tools could handle.
The realization hit me, and I bellowed immediately.
“Everyone! Hide behind the trees!!”
Throwing sticks were easy to wield and craft. But their simple design meant clear weaknesses. It was just a thrown rod, after all. One tree trunk or a few thick branches, and its trajectory wobbled, its power gutted.
Why hadn't I considered they might have ranged weapons too? Throwing stick sounded fancy, but it was really just grabbing a curved branch and flinging it with all your might. Our primitive tools could make them easily, and mastering it didn't take long.
And that simple weapon came crashing down on us next.
Shwk! Thunk! Crack!
It wasn't one or two. Dozens rained from the forest like hail, interspersed with stones—not razor-sharp, but threatening enough. Our hastily built thornbush-and-branch barricade was too low to help in this mess.
Thud! Thwack! Boom! Crack!!
Dull impacts on trunks, explosive slaps against the ground, snapping branches—all erupted at once. It looked crude, but you couldn't laugh it off. Hit an arm or leg, and bones could snap. Temple, nose, jaw? Lights out.
I knew this in theory, but the reality was far crueler.
“Kyaak!?”
A sharp, piercing scream exploded overhead. I looked up to see one of our tree-perched group take a direct hit from a throwing stick. The curved rod smashed between his shoulder and neck, twisting his body violently. His grip on the branch gave way all too easily.
He tumbled down. Bounced off branches once, twice, then slammed headfirst into the dirt.
Thud.
Unmistakably final. His body convulsed once, then stilled. Neck bent at an unnatural angle.
Dead.
The guy who'd been breathing, yelling, grabbing stones moments ago was now just cold meat.
“...”
A chill raced up my spine. I'd thought too lightly of this. Their home savanna had dried to dust in the brutal dry season. They desperately needed a new nest, enough to stake their lives on it.
This wasn't a fight.
This was war.
The Red Face Alpha hurled his last club. Once he'd learned that a slightly curved branch flew farther and faster, his group had grown swiftly. With a weapon that could kill even the fiercest hyena if aimed right, his first move was expansion. Raiding neighbors, absorbing them, swelling their numbers.
But a drought worse than any before struck, and the wetland they'd thought eternally lush began to shrivel. Exposed mud grew brackish; fish rotted in the scalding heat, poisoning even the water.
So he'd led them in search of new lands. After countless losses, they reached paradise: clear water, abundant food. The drought hadn't spared it entirely, but green trees stood tall, streams flowed, game abounded.
The Alpha twisted his thickly mud-smeared red face and roared, hoisting his emblem, the gleaming black stone, high.
“Uwoooooh!!”
Not just a yell—a charge signal. His warriors flung their throwing sticks and burst from the brush, clubs and sharpened stones in hand.
But the charge halted abruptly.
Before them loomed something unprecedented—or glimpsed only in catastrophe before.
What the hell is that?!
A massive wall of roaring red flame.
The throwing sticks stopped flying, replaced by roars as they charged. At a glance, they outnumbered us by at least ten. They'd seized the momentum; we'd been dodging, too slow to counter.
We'd be slaughtered one-sidedly. The thought flashed, and I yanked burning logs from the central fire, hurling them forward.
Ahead lay our thornbush-and-branch barricade, bone-dry from the drought—perfect tinder. Flames leaped aboard instantly, roaring to life.
Whoooosh!
Red-and-yellow fire surged, forming a thin barrier before our nest. Barely chest-high to me, but to these creatures of the era, fire's mere presence terrified more than height.
“Kieeeek!”
The lead Red Face screeched, recoiling. The charging pack halted en masse before the blaze.
Good—hook, line, and sinker!
Fire blocked them and bought us time. I seized it, yelling,
“Stones—throw!!”
Tree-top stones poured over the flame wall onto their heads. Not just stones.
Whirrr-whirrr!
A bola sailed across, snaring one Red Face's legs. Stones followed the fallen foe.
They'd started with the edge, but one fire reversed it. The sudden blaze panicked them, exposing them to our barrage.
But numbers were numbers. They shook it off, hurling stones back or circling the flames.
“Block the flankers! Throw whatever!!”
As I bola'd a climber's legs, a roar erupted—someone leaped forward.
“Uwooooreee!!!”
Ace, clutching blazing logs in both hands.
“Hey, hey! What the hell!!!”
“Me! Handle monsters!!!!”
Ace plunged into their midst, swinging fiery brands—like my hyena rout last time. Inspired, others grabbed logs and charged.
Caesar asked, flustered,
“Chief! What now?!”
“Grab anything and throw!!”
Caesar hurled his bola. It whirred, binding Red Faces lunging at Ace's back. Stones and clubs pelted the fallen.
Strategy dissolved into a brawl. Red Faces hesitated at fire; we exploited with stones, clubs, brands.
“Graaak!”
One Red Face's arm grazed by flame screamed. A treetop stone cracked his forehead; he knelt. One of ours smashed a club down.
Thud!
Short, heavy. But we took hits too. A Red Face skirting wide swung a long pole, crumpling one of ours at the perimeter. Another stabbed with a stone-tipped rod—I reflexively flung my log.
Whish!
Fire met chest. Weak impact, but he shrieked like facing a beast, retreating. Fire fear ran deep—past wildfires, or just stronger instincts.
And it tipped the scales our way.
“Surround 'em! Surround them!!!”
Fire fading—we had to end it. I swung dual brands, urging encirclement. Miracle no other trees caught; locals stayed green even in drought.
We pressed from fire's flanks.
Then—
“Uwooooh!!!”
A red-painted face, head taller than the rest, charged: club in one hand, obsidian stone in the other. Undeniably their Alpha. He battered the flames aside, leaped through on the wind.
“What?!”
Bad. We ringed their main force; center held only frail females and young.
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[Circa 3000–2590 BCE, Early Dynastic Egypt]
This disarmingly simple weapon was easy to craft and wield. Primarily for small game, but viable against larger prey like deer or kangaroos. Its gentle curve stabilized flight for straight, accurate paths—skilled hunters could nail targets dozens of meters away. As its look suggests, the boomerang evolved from this very type.