Early Man

by Aardman Animation Ltd

  “Mr. Rock! Noooooo!” wailed Barry as one mighty mammoth toppled his smiling friend, breaking Mr. Rock in half.

  Bobnar dragged the devastated Barry away. “To the Badlands, everyone!” he urged.

  “What? Leave the Valley?” said Dug, looking dismayed. The thought was heartbreaking. The Valley was their home.

  More terrible crashes of metal shattering stone split the air.

  “Just GO!” insisted Bobnar.

  As the others obeyed their chief, Dug took one last look back, and his heart missed a beat.

  “Hognob!” he cried in horror.

  His faithful friend had been left behind. Hognob was still defending the settlement. Even now, the brave hog was blocking the path of an advancing mammoth.

  Dug was not about to abandon his best pal. The rest of the Tribe, unaware, was already making their getaway. But Dug turned and sprinted back toward the danger.

  He was in the nick of time. His diving tackle bowled Hognob out of harm’s way not a moment too soon. They tumbled over together and rolled into a ditch. Grateful to be out of sight, Dug peered from their hiding place. He watched in horror as the Bronze Army continued its attack.

  Then, on a signal, the destruction stopped.

  One of the mammoths was more richly armored and equipped than the rest. From the luxurious carriage on its back, a ramp swung down. A man dressed in purple robes, a burgundy cloak, and gleaming, bronze-trimmed boots descended. The sash around his bulging belly was buckled with a large bronze clasp. It was clear from the man’s smug, arrogant air that he was very much the person in charge.

  Dug shrank back as the stranger came striding straight toward the spot where he and Hognob were hiding. The man stopped only meters away, stooped to pick up a fragment of rock from the ground, and examined it with a greedy eye. There were glittering flecks within the rock. The sight of them brought an unpleasant smile to the stranger’s face.

  “Mmmmm . . .” he purred. “Excellent!”

  He turned to give his orders to his waiting assistant.

  “All right. Secure the valley,” he commanded. “Start mining ore!”

  The assistant, an older man with a rather magnificent mustache, looked confused.

  “Or . . .? Or what, Lord Nooth?” he asked nervously.

  His master scowled at him. “The ore, you fool! Start mining the ore!” he barked. “The metal in the ground!”

  The assistant cowered under his master’s glare. “Oh, the ore! In the ground! Of course!” he groveled. He gestured in the direction in which the Tribe had fled. “What about the primitives, sire?”

  By now, Dug realized, his friends should be well on their way out of the Valley. But they were running from one danger to another.

  Lord Nooth knew this, too.

  “Let them rot in the Badlands,” he said with a nasty smirk. “They are the low-achievers of history with their puny flints and drafty caves. The Age of Stone is over, Dino,” he told his assistant, sneering. “Long live the Age of Bronze!”

  Dug had heard enough. Lord Nooth’s cruel mocking of his Tribe and their way of life filled him with fury. He saw red. With no thought for his own safety, he sprang from the ditch and charged at his enemy.

  Lord Nooth was already making his way back toward his mammoth. On his signal, his men began their mining work. The first wrecking ball swung into action . . .

  . . . and slammed straight into Dug. It knocked him flying out of sight before Nooth, Dino, or anyone else had even noticed his wild charge.

  Lord Nooth climbed the ramp into his mammoth-back carriage.

  “Okay, let’s get moving!” he demanded. “I’m late for my massage!”

  Nooth’s mammoth and those of his attendants immediately began to make their way back into the forest, returning the way they had come. Only the men and beasts involved in the mining operation remained behind.

  And one howling hog.

  Hognob had seen what Lord Nooth and his men had failed to notice. Dug was lying on his back, out cold, in a cart pulled by the last of the departing mammoths. He had been knocked into it by the blow from the wrecking ball. And as the cart trundled away, heading for the unknown, there was nothing poor Hognob, driven back by enemy guards, could do to stop it.

  CHAPTER THREE

  THE CITY OF BRONZE

  When Dug came to, he had a very sore head, and not the slightest idea where he was. He was flat on his back, with the sun in his eyes. Whatever he was lying on seemed to be moving. Unfamiliar sounds came from all around.

  The mammoth-drawn cart rattled over a drawbridge and through a mighty gateway as Dug, dazed and confused, sat up. His immediate instinct was to flee, and his heart sank as a pair of giant gates swung closed behind the cart, barring his escape. The gates were made of the same shiny stuff as the gleaming armor of the Valley’s invaders.

  The gates were, in fact, made of bronze, like so much of the great Bronze City to which Lord Nooth’s mammoth train had returned. To Dug, whose life with the Tribe had been one of stone, wood, and animal skin, it seemed like the strange shining material was everywhere he looked. All around him were sights that made his Stone Age mind spin—buildings, streets, countless people bustling about in outlandish, complicated clothing.

  A sudden lurch in the cart’s motion sent Dug tumbling over its side. As the cart trundled on its way, he picked himself up, head still swimming.

  He realized, with dismay, how out-of-place he must look. It was plain to see that his animal-fur one-piece was not the fashion here, as it was in the Valley. He stuck out like a sore thumb. He hastily grabbed a piece of cloth that hung nearby and wrapped it around himself like a shawl. Then he staggered off along the street, trying to take in the exotic, mystifying world in which he found himself.

  The street was lined with market stalls selling all kinds of goods, the likes of which Dug had never seen. He stared at the nearest stall’s impressive range of tools and weapons, all crafted from shining bronze.

  “Multi-purpose pen swords!” cried the stall-holder, displaying one for all to admire. “Very handy for opening bottles, too!”

  The next stall belonged to a baker, who was proudly demonstrating an up-to-the-minute bronze-bladed bread-cutter.

  “Sliced bread? Wow!” gasped his enthusiastic customer. “That’s the best thing since . . . well, ever!”

  Dug turned to move on, and . . . Clang! He collided with something dangling from the neighboring stall. It was a metal pan.

  “Hey! Don’t touch the bronze!” barked a stern voice. Dug turned to look blankly at a blonde-haired girl, who appeared to be running the stall.

  “The what?”

  “The bronze!” snapped the girl, giving him a withering look. “Where have you been, the Stone Age?”

  Dug was spared having to reply by a sudden blast of blaring horns. As the grand fanfare died down, the sound of chanting rose to fill the air. All around Dug, the city-folk abandoned what they were doing to put on strange horned headgear and other ceremonial costume pieces, all with the same blue-and-bronze color scheme. As one, they began making their way along the street in a single direction. Stall workers, including the sharp-tongued girl, hastily shut up shop to join the moving, chanting crowd. Dug had no choice but to let himself be swept along by the flow of people.

  The street turned a corner, and Dug’s eyes widened as he saw what it was the city-folk were flocking toward. A huge, spectacular building towered up ahead. Colorful flags flew from its lofty walls. Wherever Dug looked, he saw stunning statues and ornaments of bronze. He thought of the simple stone circle in which the Tribe gathered for their most important rituals. As the crowd carried him on toward the great temple ahead, he decided that this must be their sacred site.

  “Fifty schnookels! Fifty schnookels!”

  A man with a foghorn voice and an official look stood beside a gateway in the closest wall of the temple. He was holding out a plate piled with small, glittering objects.

  “Voluntary contrib
ution!” he bellowed. “Every-one has to pay! Fifty schnookels.”

  As Dug drew closer, he saw that each person entering the temple first placed a handful of shiny discs on the plate. He frowned. Coins, like so much in this strange, alien city, were new to him.

  “Fifty?” grumbled a man beside him in the shuffling crowd. He dug some shiny discs from a pocket. “It’s gone up again!”

  “Daylight robbery!” another voice complained from nearby.

  Before he knew it, Dug found that he was approaching the temple entrance. The official rattled his collecting plate in Dug’s wide-eyed face.

  “Fifty schnookels!” he repeated. “Voluntary contribu—Hey!”

  Dug had panicked. Without thinking, he had made a run for it. He darted through the entrance ahead before its sentries could stop him.

  “Hey!” yelled the surprised official again. “She hasn’t voluntarily contributed! Stop her!” Dug’s makeshift shawl, long hair, and stooped posture had given the impression he was an old woman.

  Dug didn’t move like an old woman. Heart pounding, he weaved his way through the crowd as fast as he could. He ducked through a doorway marked STAFF ONLY, and sprinted along an interior corridor of the temple. He could hear the shouting guards coming after him.

  “Oi! Stop!”

  Dug heard more footsteps and voices up ahead. A side door halfway along the corridor seemed to offer his only hope of escape. He struggled desperately to open it. Catching its handle by sheer luck, he stumbled through the door . . .

  . . . and found himself in a white-walled, steam-filled space. A man was standing nearby under what appeared to be his own personal rain-shower. He was singing loudly, and wasn’t wearing a stitch of clothing.

  It was Dug’s good fortune that the guards, hurrying past the changing-room door, didn’t catch the sounds of the scuffle within. Shortly, Dug reemerged, looking very different from when he went in. He had stolen the showering man’s clothes to disguise himself. In his warrior’s cape, badly fitting helmet, and strange studded foot-coverings, he was unrecognizable.

  He wasn’t out of the woods yet, however. As he ducked into another corridor, several burly men came striding along. They were dressed in capes that matched his own. One was the most handsome man Dug had ever seen. He had long golden hair, an athletic physique, and a strutting walk that suggested he was well aware just how magnificent he looked.

  “I tell you,” he was saying to a tough-looking man at his side as they approached Dug, “I wouldn’t want to be facing me out there!”

  Mr. Magnificent’s companion greeted Dug gruffly, mistaking him for the man whose outfit he had on. “Hey, Hugelgraber,” he said, rapping his knuckles on Dug’s helmet. “Can’t you see in that thing? The arena’s this way . . .”

  Dug had no choice but to turn around and march in the opposite direction. Up ahead, more men stood in a line along one side of the corridor. They, too, had matching headgear and capes, but of a different design than Dug’s. Just beyond them, the corridor led out into daylight.

  Mr. Magnificent cast a scornful look over the line of men as he, his companions, and Dug formed a second line alongside them.

  “You girls are gonna get slaughtered!” he told them with a sneer.

  Dug’s heart sank. He had a horrible feeling he was about to take part in some sort of violent contest. His present company all had the look of hardened warriors.

  Before he could think of a way out, the horn blasts of a mighty fanfare sounded from outside. With a last exchange of fearsome glances, the two lines of men set off at a jog through the opening ahead.

  Dug, terrified, was swept helplessly along with them.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  THE SACRED GAME

  The noise and spectacle that greeted Dug as he stumbled back out into daylight took his breath away. The grand fanfare was drowned out by the sudden swell of wild, cheering voices. It was the roar of a mighty crowd.

  Dug looked around in bewildered amazement. He was having trouble seeing out through his stolen helmet, but what he could see was enough to make his head spin.

  He and the others had emerged in a vast rectangular arena. All around it rose row upon row of tiered seating, jam-packed with noisy citizens. Dug had never imagined there could be so many people in one place.

  The grass surface of the arena itself was unnaturally flat and smooth. For some reason, it had been neatly painted with clean white lines.

  Dug struggled to make sense of it all. The vast gathering of this strange and dangerous tribe could only be for some great ritual event. Dug wanted no part in it. He tried to turn back, but the men striding along behind him only bundled him on.

  As they paraded out onto the grass, to the very heart of the cauldron of noise, a single voice somehow rose above the din.

  “All stand!”

  The voice belonged to a man Dug recognized. It was Dino, the finely mustached fellow he had seen assisting Lord Nooth back in the Valley. Dino was standing nearby, speaking into a peculiar contraption. The device magically amplified his voice and projected it around the arena.

  “All stand for our mighty leader, Lord Nooth!”

  The crowd got to their feet. As their heads turned, Dug followed their gaze. Midway along one long side of the arena was a grand balcony—a private VIP box. A familiar figure, dripping with bronze bling, stepped out into it. Dug felt a mixture of awe and anger.

  Lord Nooth soaked up the crowd’s applause as he made his entrance. He moved to the front of the box and raised a hand. A hush fell. Nooth looked down at the two lines of men in the arena below.

  “WHO CHALLENGES THE CHAMPIONS?” he bellowed.

  The largest of the warriors in the other lineup to Dug’s stepped forward. He raised the spear he was holding.

  “We challenge the champions!” he roared. He thrust the spear firmly into the ground, at a slant.

  Mr. Magnificent immediately responded. He stepped up and planted his own spear, angling it so that its shaft crossed that of his rival’s.

  “We accept the challenge!” he growled.

  It looked more and more likely to the miserable Dug that he was mixed up in some sort of ritual combat. A fight to the death in front of a crowd of strangers was not his idea of fun.

  As Dug fretted about just what he’d gotten himself into, and how to get out of it, the crowd turned its attention to a great sundial mounted at one end of the arena. All eyes followed the slowly shifting shadow cast by the sundial’s arm.

  “The hour has come!” declared Lord Nooth grandly from his box. “Let the Sacred Game commence!”

  The dark finger of the sundial’s shadow touched the spot marked at the exact center of the grassy arena. A hatch appeared, and a small black-and-white sphere rose into view.

  A ball.

  Dug stared at it. He didn’t have a clue what it was for, and yet something about it seemed vaguely familiar.

  He had no time to wonder about this odd feeling of recognition. Things suddenly began to move fast. The men around him threw off their capes. Underneath, they wore matching team uniforms—very short shorts, and numbered tops. They began limbering up, stretching their muscles.

  A new announcer’s voice echoed around the arena. “Today’s match official . . .” it informed the crowd tinnily, “. . . Referee Dino!”

  Dino, too, slipped out of his cape, revealing a black shirt and brown shorts. A gleaming bronze whistle hung around his neck. He called the two men who had performed the spear-crossing ceremony to join him beside the ball. The others jogged off across the grass, spreading out over the arena.

  Dug watched, baffled, as Dino flipped a bronze schnookel in the air, caught it again, and peered at it closely.

  “In the name of Queen Oofeefa,” declared Lord Nooth from his VIP box, “we give thanks for the Beautiful Game!” Nooth was now wearing a bizarre pair of giant fake hands. “Oggy-oggy-oggy!” he sang out, as he jabbed a huge pointing finger into the air.

  “Oi! Oi! Oi!” the
crowd called back, completing the ritual chant.

  “Let’s play soccer!” yelled Nooth.

  Dino blew a loud Phweeeep! on his bronze whistle. There was a mighty roar from the crowd . . .

  . . . and all around Dug, chaos broke out.

  It quickly became clear that the ball was the focus of the contest. Both teams of men began to chase enthusiastically around after it, kicking it back and forth to each another. Dug dashed randomly around the grass, doing his very best to stay out of harm’s way. The gruff man who had stopped him in the corridor shouted over to him, frowning.

  “Hugelgraber! What are you doing?” He gestured urgently toward one end of the arena. “Get in the goal!”

  Dug was desperate not to give himself away. He must try to act like Hugelgraber would. He hurried toward the white, netted thing his scowling teammate had pointed to.

  He was finding it very difficult to run in Hugelgraber’s strange foot-coverings. Dug had never worn cleats, or footwear of any kind. He had no idea that he had put them on the wrong feet.

  As he stumbled toward the goalmouth, he tripped over his own feet. He took a sprawling dive, and by sheer luck, blocked a fierce shot with his backside.

  Dug picked himself up. He was terrified to see several of the opposing team charging toward him. The ball was beside him.

  “Pick it up!” he heard a teammate yell. “Pick it up!”

  Dug did as he was told. He snatched up the ball. To his great relief, the other players immediately began to move away from him, spreading out.

  “To me, to me!” called Mr. Magnificent from some distance away. Dug obediently set off across the grass to carry the ball to him. “What?” cried his dismayed teammate. “No! Put it down! Put it down!” But it was too late.

  “Handball!” bellowed the opposition players.

  Referee Dino gave a blast on his whistle. “Free kick!” he declared.

  Dug’s handsome teammate glared at him in disbelief. “Hugelgraber!” he snarled. “Just get in the game!”

  Dug was clearly doing everything wrong. He stumbled miserably back toward the goal, wondering how long it would be before he blew his cover.