Lonka stood on shaky legs, peering out from his hiding spot behind a nearby fishing hut as the first contact between peoples took place. Everything had seemed to go oddly smooth. Banon stepped forward to take the roll of speaker as expected, then he managed to approach and even sit down in front of that princess. Lonka found that entire image hillarious for so many reasons only someone who had known Banon their entire life would understand.
Showing his belly to a woman, at last. Well, it was bound to happen someday.
Odd choice, though.
It was only a moment after that cheery revelation that the tension broke, and chaos began. Tema and his son were frothing like rabies apes and Banon’s surprisingly successful opening to the conversation had been cut off entirely by the display. When Haeran started walking up behind the seated Banon, Lonka sharply inhaled as he winced back, despite being nowhere near the action himself.
It was when Banon began to laugh from where he sat that Lonka knew something bad was going to happen.
“This is so fitting, my brothers…” Banon said between chuckles, “that we would survive all this time…” and Banon got up to his feet slowly, turning to face Tema’s son as he approached him, “just to be snuffed out by this stupidity.” Banon made sure to stare Tema’s son down as he finished that sentiment. It was hardly necessary. Whenever Banon did his slow turn to face you thing, you already knew he was mad.
Tema’s son stopped just short, glowering up at Banon, growling something guttural in the back of his throat.
“This is wrong!” he spat into Banon’s face, who didn’t even flinch. Haeran, on the other hand, was tensing up like he was about to throw a punch, or worse, cleave something with those blades in his hands.
Lonka considered yelling something himself, warning Banon in some way, but he knew there was not a point. Every day of Banon’s life was spent preparing for moments like this. For all there were things to be said about his younger brother, say Banon was un-prepared to fight something or someone to the death at any given moment and you would be a liar irrevocably.
***
Banon let just enough of a slit into his lips to show teeth, glaring down at Haeran and daring him with his eyes to do something.
“Why should we follow you?” Haeran demanded, jutting his jaw as high as he could towards Banon’s. The boy was his same age and similar in bulk, but lacking in some of the vertical stature Banon had. “You have nothing to your name but the reputation of a coward. So tell me, why should the boar follow the fearful fawn into the maw of the crocodile?”
Banon kept his easy smile. “Because the crocodile will chip his tooth when he tries to bite down on this fawn.”
Haeran’s eyes did not show hesitation as he stared up into Banon’s, to his credit. He was really about to do something. This wasn’t descent from the sidelines, this wasn’t insubordination… it was a planned and accounted for political maneuver.
Banon watched the first twitches in Haeran’s shoulders before the blades ever began swinging at him.
This was a play to power. In that fractional moment, Banon realized it was true. He realized Tema had most definitely put the boy up to this, or he had had the idea himself, it didn’t matter. Either way, it must then have become something that was discussed and measured, then agreed upon. Because of all times, now, to start a fight?
It wasn’t a coincidence this was happening in front of the Pyathen, and the other elders, and much of his entire village watching from a distance. It wasn’t a coincidence that Tema had for once been in support of Banon, if without being such a pushover as to arise his suspicion, which worked perfectly. And Banon had thought they finally saw eye to eye on something… Nonetheless, it had been nothing but a lie to put Banons mind at ease so the real plan could take him all the more by surprise.
It was then time sped back up again.
Banon flung himself back while rolling his shoulder right, angling himself away from the expected attack lines. Haeran’s black blades, each as long as forearms, split the air inches in front of his face.
While Banon’s upper body flung back, his lower body turned and pivoted, allowing him to keep his balance as he caught his momentary off-balance whirl about, setting himself instead into a series of widely sweeping steps to circle around his opponent as he drew his own large knife. Just the one. He valued a free hand in combat like this, where locking up your opponent's defenses meant an open line of attack. Despite the rare use of a skill like having practiced in Ooura on Ooura hand-to-hand knife fighting, it was one of the exercises Banon had his small force of like-minded boys who would soon become Kothai alongside him did most often. Mostly, it was a morale booster, a fun game to pass the time with mock blades and a points system for different body part strikes.
Also, it had been a fantastic excuse to train himself almost constantly for the inevitable possibility of in-fighting among the Ooura’s ranks in the panic caused by the twilight of their species.
Banon let the grin spread across his face without relent as the other boy hissed at him, mock lunged, yelled various taunts, and, most commonly, tapped his blades against his Orux skull headdress with a mocking sneer.
A fraction of Banon’s mind was curious about what the Pyathen thought of this whole mess. To them, they may not know the un-spoken rules of public combat like this, nor have the same views on such things having a place in their society, let alone in a moment as important as this. Usually, those rules only applied to Kothai, but the fact Haeran had made the first move meant he was not so stuck up on tradition to that degree of pedanticism.
Banon hoped, however, that his opponent would abide by the other rules of single combat among Kothai. Haeran’s initial attack may have seemed out of nowhere, but it was entirely within Kothai tradition, the only stipulation being that the aggressor, should they lose, would be forbidden from ever challenging the winner again unless the previous winner was the one to make the challenge. Beyond that, the rules got a bit more fuzzy. The unspoken rule was that scuffles like this one over dominance within a given tribe were subject to ending by either first blood or incapacitation.
Looking into Haeran’s eyes, however, Banon was even less willing to lean on tradition and unspoken rules than usual. Not that he was especially keen on ending up bleeding or unconscious either.
So, Banon tuned his mind to the uttermost bounds of attention, seeing every move and switch of momentum coming before his opponent could catch up with him. He saw Haeran’s strikes in the slightest twitch of muscle fibers halfway across the body from the attacking limb. He saw his further-out intentions in the darting of his eyes and the angles he set his feet. Banon danced with death. And had never felt so alive for it. Every time Haeran made another swipe as they circled each other, Banon backpedaled just a little further than the last time, until he began to notice Haeran compensating for it, leaning out further, lunging with his lead leg instead of keeping his balance.
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Good.
Banon danced away from one, two, and then a third probing attack. Each time, Haeran’s long, unkept hair swung out in front of him almost as far as his knife was, but on a small delay, giving Banon the perfect opening just after Haeran’s next strike. On the fourth, Haeran’s growl was building up in the back of his throat and his slash was completely off balance.
The instant Haeran’s swing passed its apex, Banon dug his toes into the matt, and, using his exceptional reach and the new grip his feet provided, he darted forward, throwing his free hand straight towards Haeran’s face.
The moment Banon felt his fingers tighten around the loose strands of hair flinging towards of him in the wake of the unsuccessful attack, Banon yanked with everything he had. Haeran was so caught off guard by the sudden change of momentum that he didn’t even manage to put his hands between their bodies to form some kind of defense.
Banon’s fist crunched into the smaller Ooura’s forehead with a sharp crack.
He went limp for an instant, his half-formed strike barely grazing Banon’s side. Then as he was stumbling back, blinking his consciousness back, Banon ruthlessly pursued him.
The immediate kick he followed up with took Haeran off his feet and knocked his Orux skull from his head after he hit the ground– Banon’s punch probably loosened it, and he probably also broke his knuckle doing so.
Banon fell upon him before Haeran could shake off the disorientation and mount a defense. He elbowed the boy again and again, watching the deep gashes form and blood begin to pool. He didn’t stop until Haeran’s head was sunken almost a foot deep into the green, weedy mat from the force of everything he threw at him.
His next thought was to turn his attention to Tema, wholeheartedly expecting him to attack the moment his son fell. Banon was surprised to find Tema on his knees, held under the blades of two knives perched next to either side of his throat. The knives belonged to Poh and Brahman, who had obviously taken it upon themselves to restrain Tema at one point or another.
Tema’s guttural cry crackled through the air. He struggled once, rising halfway to his feet, only to be pushed down by the other elders surrounding him.
“Your son struck first. It was his choice,” Poh said. “The price he paid for the advantage of surprise is now your price to bear. There will be no revenge, Tema. If you disagree, you know the consequences. I will not hesitate to put you up in the pecking box until you are ribbons of blood and flesh attached to a skeleton, but make no mistake, you will still be living to feel it.” Poh’s voice sounded so strange making threats, like a monkey making bird song.
Banon only spent a moment lingering on the shuddering scowl of madness wrapping Tema’s features before turning his attention back to the Pyathen princes, who, to his surprise, was still standing right where she had been, looking more impatient than anything. Banon stepped over the unconscious body and then took his place, sitting where he had been before, his large knife cradled neatly in his lap because, in honestly, his hand was cramped around it so badly he was probably going to have to pry one finger at a time away. Banon slapped his legs in resignation before realizing a quick movement and the sharp noise it caused were both good ways to get shot. Thankfully, no crossbow bolts or acid peppered him, so he smiled good-naturedly at this continued streak of good luck.
The streak that was still yet to be broken since the day he turned ten and caught plucked his first bird of prey all on his lonesome.
After meeting her conflicted stare for long enough to tell she was well and truly disgusted with what she had just witnessed, and perhaps feeling a great many other things given the different way their peoples viewed such outward displays of violence between allies, he took a deep breath, then gestured vaguely, mimicking an opening and closing beak with his free hand. “The birds chirp awfully loud today. I apologize for you having to endure their calls. I promise they are just as sharp on the ears of the better minds among our kind as they are to you.” Banon paused, sure he caught a flicker of something in her eye. Amusement? That wouldn’t be a grim enough of a word as he would use, but it was something. Something strange indeed.
Banon allowed himself a small smile in response to her reaction. “Let me assure you,” and Banon slipped the rolled-up leather sling from his waistband, holding it up to show her, “that I am quite the sparrow hunter.”
That did pluck a string deep enough for the corner of her lip to flicker, if only briefly. Banon seized at the moment to ease her back into his hand. “Now, let us talk.”
“Before we do,” she replied without missing a beat, “I should ask to who it is I am speaking. Are you the chosen representative of all Ooura?”
“I am the future emperor.”
“Future?”
“That,” Banon pointed back at Poh, who still held Tema down by the tip of his blade, “is my father.” He wasn’t sure she would take that on its face and be happy to proceed, given she didn’t even know who Poh was, more than likely. But the dozens of Kothai arranged in a half circle guarding them seemed to speak to its own kind of authority.
She stared for a moment before proceeding to introduce herself, which was an unnecessary notion given the Ooura’s spies had given them far better knowledge of the Pyathen than they likely expected. Even if Ooura could not climb their spires, their cities were located in the middle of open clearings, with massive tree walls surrounding them, and Ooura ears could hear the flitting of butterfly wings from twice the distance an arrow flies.
She certainly didn’t need to know that, though. So he acted as if it was all new.
When he made her pause to re-pronounce her name again for him, he was fairly certain he irritated her at how badly he was butchering it. It was hardly his fault, though, when your full title was ‘Princess Pressasca.’ Something about the way the p’s lined up with one another just rolled around in his Ooura mouth wrongly.
***
Banon came to three agreements with the Pyathen princess during their preliminary negotiation that was really, in less words, just a quick and dirty arrangement to not kill each other immediately.
Firstly, they both agreed upon keeping the Pyathen war encampment on the edge of the clearing as not to rub up against the Ooura going about their lives in preparation for the seventh night’s apex. Secondly, they agreed, of course, to shove Tema’s son down a hole and leave him there for good. Or, to the same effect, being that their agreement was actually just for no Ooura to approach their camp besides Banon or Poh without invitation or be sprayed by liquid fire on the spot.
The third, and final, and strangest revelation was that the Pyathen would be joining them tomorrow night in the chamber of rites for the second and final stage Banon and the other eighteen-year-olds among them would need to undergo to become Kothai. This third agreement was one Poh had interrupted to stipulate. Since the Pyathen had come during their most sacred time, Poh declared they either participate, or not be engaged with at all.
Banon had hidden the smile that had caused him, though his amusement had only been half for Tema’s unseen expression in reaction to it. The other half had been that Banon genuinely thought it was a fantastic idea, a perfect front since the Pyathen knew at least one thing. The Ooura stuck to their traditions like a boa coiled around prey.
It played precisely to the kind of naivety the Pyathen likely expected from them, especially a more excentric emperor, which Poh was normally most certainly not. Yet, he played the role without hiccup.
It was genius, Banon ruminated.
What his intent really was, Banon expected, was to put them on uncertain footing, literally in the case of the fact they’d have to climb to the chamber of rites to get up there. But also in the fact that during every stage of the upcoming negotiation, the princess would have it in the back of her mind that she was under their ceilings, stuck and unable to leave unless the Ooura let them. Even if they were able to fight their way out, they would be slaughtered in the majority.
Banon had held in his shock when she had accepted the offer, but it was there barely restrained. It had only been after watching the Pyathen retreat to the edge of the trees to form their camp that he had realized why she had.
Because the Pyathen were desperate, for some reason which he had not yet considered, or possibly because his previous thoughts on it had been far more true than he could have imagined.
Maybe he was reading too far into it, but, underneath her projected appearance, there were cracks in thinly veiled seams and rumbles of crumbling foundations. Something was wrong with the way she was acting. Though, then again, maybe he was the idiot for expecting her to feel anything besides fear during this whole endeavor.
Maybe he was the idiot for thinking about how she felt at all.
The unending hate between their peoples was so absolute it had polluted every part of both of their societies, Banon imagined. Even if tomorrow there was a sweeping peace agreement, the very name of Ooura would still turn knots of fury in the stomachs of Pyathen, and likewise for his people in response to the utterance of theirs.
And yet, Banon couldn’t help but wonder how things might be if they were otherwise.