The war party had been assembled – seven strong men, and Chief Togeg. It was as many as Togeg was willing to spare for this effort. He’d even left his first son, Gharazet, in charge of the village while he was leading the band, alongside an enemy no less. They had first met up with the party from Chief Khardi’s village. Togeg had warned them the day before of them, and the men had been most receptive. They knew that the men under Khardi’s control had wronged them, and that they would betray them at the first opportunity.

The meeting of Togeg and Khardi was curt. They simply agreed that they would camp together, and march together. Beyond that, they hadn’t spoken a word to each other. The men from both villages could feel the tension and the hatred in the air. Twenty three years of hatred between these two villages. The elders said it was the longest blood-feud they’d ever heard of.

And yet, here the two chiefs were, working together.

The men had been told what happened to the village down the valley. A raiding party of near a hundred men had attacked, without warning or any indication that they’d even existed. Whispers began being exchanged between the rival men, and then by the end of their second day of collective travel, they had begun to stray further from silence. All except Togeg and Khardi. Their hatred knew no salve.

On the third day, there were heated arguments from both sides about the history of their conflict. None of the warriors were twenty-three to begin with, all between the fifteen and nineteen year threshold. Good, strong boys, but Khardi and Togeg were younger than they were when the feud started. Misremembered tales from the elders and exaggerated accounts made puzzling out what happened all the harder, and tensions flared again. Bad things were said.

On the fourth day, nobody spoke between the villages.

And on the fifth day, they arrived in the village by the valley, and both of the men were surprised to see how much bigger it was. The Mekhe’s grotto was more than the size of Erezo’s and Garot’s put together: Mekhe Yariti truly lived like a demigod. The collective war party had come from a dozen villages, and numbered one hundred and sixty. The eighty-six-man band had been the largest party in memory, that is until this one.

Khardi spoke first, so he spoke for their band of sixteen, “Who leads our men?” he said to the collection of commanders.

“I do, Chief Khardi” said a young man, no more than fourteen, and only with the barest suggestion of a beard.

“And who would you be,” said another commander – Devekhū, his name. Burly and tall, his build.

“I’m Tunsar, the chief of this village now,” he said. The last one had died during the attack.

“You’re what, fifteen? Isn’t there someone more… seasoned we can speak to?” said yet another commander, from a more minor village..

“I’m twenty-two,” said Tunsar.

“You’re short.”

“I see you noticed, Chief Jayut.”

Togeg grunted in amusement, and said, “It does not much matter who we follow – in my experience, we will not listen to eachother beyond directions anyways. Let us pierce the matter at hand: how do we scale Zato-gaem?”

“I feel that if we fight as one unit, then we would be more effective in combat,” said Tunsar.

“I feel that simply isn’t going to happen,” said Togeg, “No man commands my people but me. I cannot let someone who does not know them put their lives in danger.” A chorus of agreement (that Khardi did not join, but also did not disagree with), and Tunsar rolled his eyes.

“Then I suppose I’ll be alone in my sentiments. Very well. We shall rest up here, have our meals, and set out with our sacred one at dawn,” said Tunsar.

Devekhū guffawed, and another chief named N̄ūraf did a double-take, and said, “A mekhe? On a battlefield? That’s a strange joke, boy.”

“Chief N̄ūraf, please. We do things differently around here. He will not be fighting – him and his apprentice will be joining us to ensure that we may heal our wounds, and perhaps fortify us for the battle.”

“But to leave a village without a Mekhe…”

“I do not plan for failure, Chief, and this is not my first war. There are other apprentices here that can attend the village while we’re away.”

N̄ūraf slouched, and said “Spirits forbid something happen to us, then.” Many of the other chiefs looked nervous, but were ultimately unwilling to defy this as they had with the centralized command. And perhaps yes, things would go according to plan.

Togeg and Khardi looked at each other. For once, their look was not one of hatred.

At dinner, there was some speaking of strategy, and Khardi and Togeg were speaking in the same conversation. It unnerved some of their men, but perhaps this signaled the beginning of cooperation between the two. After all, if after all the blood and all the hate they still chose to work together for this, perhaps it was indeed time to plant the tree over their grievances.

On the morning of their departure, Mekhe Yariti introduced himself, and his apprentice Patsu. He told a story about a well-known legend, that of Avumi, the wanderer, who had allegedly been born there, and asked the spirits to fortify them as they fortified her. It was somewhat comforting, and so they set off on their trek. Yariti warned it may be a long one.

They had brought no pulukh, as it would merely slow them down. As the spirits prescribed, they hunted down trails in the general direction of the mountain Zato-gaem. On the third day of what Yariti believed would be eight, Devekhū and two of his were gored by a boar. Though they did eat boar meat that night, Yariti spent the time trying to heal the trio. Devekhu had died, but both of his men recovered enough to be sent home. “Perhaps it was a good idea to bring a Mekhe,” said Jayut, to which N̄ūraf was annoyed and Tunsar pleased.

The remaining five days went by without note, besides that Togeg and Khardi were speaking with eachother more often. Strange tidings.

Before noon on the eighth day, they finally scaled the high pass of Zato-gaem, and before them they found an inscription along one of the mountain walls:

𐤂𐤀ᛒ𐤋ᛏ ᛒ𐰚ᛣ ᚹᛒ 𐤂𐤀ᛏ𐰚

​

“What does that mean?” said one of the men from Togeg’s village.

“It means fuck off, child,” said Yariti, eliciting a number of snickers from the men who heard. Snow had begun falling, though it was but early fall. This village was high up, and now the tops of their ponchos earned a sprinkling of white. The wind whistled, like the spirits themselves were warning “Turn back! There is no hope here!”

“We should be able to see it from the top of this slope,” said Yariti, and Tunsar said, “Then perhaps we should send our sharpest to the top, so they may see the place. Rather than let them see our full force.”

“It’s likely they already know we’re here, Tunsar. It is difficult to hide the movements of this many men,” said Togeg.

“Even still, it’d be good to let some scouts go up,” said Khardi, and Togeg nodded in agreement. Yariti cocked an eyebrow, and the chiefs selected a set of five men to clamber up the slope. The air had become so thing that they were panting, and a poorly-timed wind bit through their ponchos like the bite of a wolf.

When they reached the top, they saw something they weren’t expecting. They quickly came back down, and reported, “The village is torched.”

“What?” said another minor chief.

“It’s a pile of ash” said a scout.

“That’s impossible,” said the Mekhe one.

“Sacred one,” said a scout, “there is no more village.”

“Show me,” said Yariti.

A brisk walk over the slope revealed that the village was nothing but charred husks. The gathered bands combed the ruins, but there was nothing but blackened wood, burnt skeletons, and bloody stains. Eventually, Yariti entered the Mekhe’s cave, and the rest of the army waited outside. None could enter without the permission of the Mekhe grotto’s owner. And when Yariti emerged, he shook his head. No survivors, no sign of the Mekhe, no clues.

“Well, what the fuck happened?” said Jayut.

“Someone beat us here?” said one of his men.

“And defeated eighty-six fighters, at least?”

“This village wasn’t even large enough to hold eighty-six people, let alone fighters.”

Togeg and Khardi remained silent, as Tunsar assembled the warleaders. None could come up with a certain answer, and any tracks they found turned out to be those of pulukh and dogs, who escaped the carnage.

From there, the war leaders decided to dissolve their coalition, and return home their separate ways. Tunsar vowed to send out further parties, and begged the warband to stick together. But the only thing he got in return were hollow words and hollow faces. All knew something was amiss, but none wanted to commit to spending an indefinite amount of time away from their villages in search for a potent and mysterious foe. They stayed one last night together in the ruins of that village, though Jayut’s band left early, and then split off.

Togeg and Khardi’s bands walked together in relative silence, with most of the men puzzled. The largest warband assembled in the history of history, arriving at their target to find it already killed. How did that make sense? Why did the spirits deign vex them so?

Togeg and Khardi spoke with each other for the days they returned to their villages. They spoke with each other away from the other warriors, and there was some speculation on what it was of.

On the day they would split and return to their respective villages, Togeg grabbed Khardi’s shoulder, and looked into his eyes. “Stay safe,” he said.

Khardi nodded, and returned with, “You too. If we do not hear from each other, the harvest festival?”

“Agreed,” said Togeg, and from there they split off. Togeg’s men and Khardi’s men, having become amicable towards each other, said their farewells and followed their chiefs, now only thinking about what could have possibly made Togeg and Khardi end their feud, and the promise of dark days ahead.