He Who Listens to Demons
A Hunters' Moon Story
The cycle of The Hunters’ Moon continues with a new story following the wisest of the Gilded Kestrels, the shaman Red Ears. In the midst of solving a mystery of a restless spirit, he is wrongfully imprisoned and must rely on the inexperienced newcomers to the warband, Maelos and Voth, to free him and find the answers he seeks.
“I look into the Soul Wherein there flows the might Tempered by the breath Honed by the eternal Spiral; The Spiral turns and ebbs Thro’ this being and body To lengths beyond unknown With elder knowledge unheard.” —Second Stanza of the “Litany of the One who Gazes into the Depths”
The cold, damp pall of the tomb stifled Red Ears’ breath. He wheezed in the back of his throat as he pulled draughts of fetid, foul air. His guts protested the corruption his allowed into his lungs, but his mind fixed on the inquiry he had slithered into the grave with—who killed the corpse he lay beside? Conversation with the dead could spell doom for the caster who attempted it, especially in such close confines and if the dead did not rest easily. Those spirits who were restless, however, were easy to meet in their slumber. Red Ears needed to imitate such a repose, as close as he could muster while his lungs drew breath and heart beat still. He needed to make their rhythms as scarce and silent as he could. He needed to become a corpse.
As he set a firm yoke on his breath, his heart thumped slower. When he had first entered the tomb through its womb-like tunnel that pressed against his back and chest, it beat wildly for fear he might become trapped in the earth and stone. Such fear would have allowed his mind to wander from the journey it needed to undertake. The passage into the tomb also require him to “change,” though he had not yet discovered the secrets of changing skins, he needed to embody the creatures that crawled within the earth in mind and movement—the serpent, the worm, the root. He could not change his body, but he could imagine his transformation to complete the journey to a place where no human dared venture to complete an inquiry none among the living could accomplish.
The corpse leeched the warmth from Red Ears’ bare arms, yet its own clammy flesh could not enjoy it. He resisted shivering or shuddering, else it would disturb his careful breathing. Then, in a voice no louder than a thought within the skull, he began to chant a spell of invitation:
“I seek the soul,” he said. “I seek the soul lost within the spiral. With roots still buried in this world. I have heard your laments in the halls of sleep and dreams; you remain waking for a wrong holds you to this world. I have heard and I will listen. Speak.”
Red Ears ceased his breath to hear the corpse’s answer, for the dead’s voices were but a sliver above silence. He heard the shuffling of a head and hair turning through the earth, then the soft, moist popping of lips forming words. The voice which came on an icy, reeking breath seemed pulled from the festering pit within the body.
The corpse answered thus, “The soft bud of a noble flower kissing my throat. Cruel thorns curling ‘round until the wind of the gods is denied to me. I cannot escape this shell, for my way out was closed off.”
“Who closed it?” pressed Red Ears, minding his tone in each word. It must not sound so urgent, lest he let his shallow breath slip.
“A face,” said the corpse, “hidden by shadow—like a beast in the dark—and marred by anger—and sorrow—but only in the eyes. I wrapped my hands round as in the throes of love and felt the blasphemies of the worm on the back.”
“What are the blasphemies?” inquired Red Ear. Though he had heard tell of such furtive arts from men both mad and wise, they never told him of their nature.
“They whisper around me,” continued the corpse. “Here, in the deep. I am surrounded, but sequestered, by the writhing ring of the beasts that slither. I am cursed and captured in this realm—sunless, shadowless. They tell me the truth of the dark and what becomes of those confined to it. Free me.”
The corpse’s voice, breathless and forced at first, cracked on the final two words. The sorrow native to life returned to her breath for but a moment.
“I will,” vowed Red Ears, though part of his mind protested the act of making such oaths to spirits. He emerged from his deathly trance and, with his toes and fingers alone, pushed himself around the corpse until his head found the passage leading out of the tomb. From there, he continued slithering out towards the starlit night. As his head and shoulders emerged from the passage, his tangled hair caked in moist earth, two pair of hands seized him from either side and rent him from the tomb. Red Ears tumbled onto the grass, flat on his naked back, shaded figures of several men looming over him. He shivered as icy spearheads prodded his chest.
“We have caught the ghoul, Eroner,” one of Red Ears’ captors announced.
Another shaded man asserted himself between the sentinels above Red Ears’ head and spoke in a soft, yet stoic voice, “Were I the lawmaker of my tribe, I would have you killed here for desecrating my dear sister’s tomb.” He knelt and locked eyes with the shaman, his mouth as flat and sharp as a sword. “No matter, however, for your punishment might as well be death, if not worse.”
The man nodded to his companions and they pulled Red Ears to his feet. With hands dug into his arms and shoulders, they hauled him away from the tomb. He shut his eyes and repeated the words of the corpse in his mind—the blasphemies of the worm. Here? he wondered, heedless of his captors’ nails digging into his arms. Even as they yanked and shoved him to whatever gaol awaited him, Red Ears looked within his own mind for answers. Such meditations he reserved for silent, unspoilt groves or the nighted spaces beyond the cooking fires of his warband. His captivity, however, would have to serve just as well. Though he was jostled, jerked, and thrown flat onto a cold earthen floor finally, he continued to seek out truths behind the shade of his eyelids, within the darkness of his skull, along the spiral of his memories. He slowed his breathing down again and listened for the whispers from any spirits that may come to him—witnesses of the slaying or helpful attendants from beyond.
No answers came with the dawn.
***
“He was here three days ago,” said the goatherd, pointing to his beasts grazing on the craggy hillside. “He did not speak to me and I hesitated to go near him, for his face, white as it was, made me think him a ghost.”
Trenuir nodded contentedly. “And did you see where he went afterwards?”
The goatherd moved his finger towards the horizon in the northwest, fixing it on a low hillfort. “Sometime after sitting amongst my herd, he sprung up and ran towards King Oengustos’ fortress as though he were racing death itself.”
“We are in King Oengustos’ lands?” Trenuir asked, pleasant surprise inflecting his tone. “I have not been here since I was your age, lads.” The warlord looked down at a pair of shorn-headed boys, the twins Maelos and Voth. They carried his war gear and food although he had little need of either at present. The brothers nodded, mouths clamped tight as they dedicated their minds to listening to their leader.
“Indeed,” replied the goatherd. “The land flourishes, but a great sadness befell him of late; his only daughter, Belsneyg, went on to the underworld.”
Trenuir cast his gaze groundward, hiding his mouth with one hand. “Belsneyg,” he echoed. “I will give my condolences.”
“Blessings of the Sky Father upon you and your troop, wanderer,” bade the goatherd. He raised his right hand skyward in salute.
Trenuir returned the gesture, then looked over his shoulder towards his warband of nearly thirty. “Kestrels,” he boomed. “Onward.”
Maelos and Voth rushed back towards the band, retrieving Trenuir’s horse before the rest of the host passed their warlord. He took the steed from them without a word and leapt onto its back. They mounted their own shared horse and followed behind.
The Gilded Kestrels passed through rolling green plains, moist and lush from the early spring rainfall of the night before. Grey and black clouds dominated the sky in still waves, the heavy scent of storm laced thick throughout the wind. Farmers and herdsmen made way for the warband as they marched through their little plots, set at ease by sheathed swords and spears pointed down. Likewise, following their leader, the warriors thanked and blessed the landsmen for passage through their properties until they reached valleys beneath the hillfort. A small host of riders emerged from the open timber gates and descended to meet the Kestrels at the base. Trenuir bade his fellows to halt as he dismounted and stepped forth to receive the party.
The riders were headed by a tall, woody-haired youth with dark eyes and a thin beard. His scarlet tunic denoted his royal heritage along with the large sword hanging from a scabbard on his waist. The men alongside him too bore elegant gear, likely his best friends and kin from similar noble standing. He brought his horse to a canter as he approached and regarded Trenuir with a hard look on his unscarred face.
“Is that Eroner?” wondered Trenuir aloud. “Lest my eyes deceive me?”
“I am,” answered the regal youth. “Are you friend to Oengustos’ kin?”
“Indeed, for I rode with him nigh ten years ago.” Trenuir gestured to the warband. “Ere I had lead of the Gilded Kestrels. Do you not recall our time here?”
Eroner nodded, his expression unchanged. “I remember well, though I was but a boy. What business do you have in these lands?”
“It is rude to burden a host with inquiries before his hospitality is met out,” said Trenuir. “Time with your father taught me that well; your race is renowned for welcoming wanderers.”
Eroner grimaced, shifting his gaze across the Kestrels. “Even in his time of mourning, my father would fear rankling the gods if he turned away guests.” He turned his horse towards the hillfort, bidding the warband to follow.
“Stay in order,” Trenuir demanded of the Kestrels. “We might be guests but we are not making a mess of the place.”
At his behest, they rode in file, silent and steadily, through the gates of the fort. Their horses were stabled and their arms were taken for cleaning. Eroner guided them to the main hall, a smoky longhouse illuminated by tallow candles. Slaves cleaned at the peripheries while the king’s wealthier tenants drank and palavered in low voices, pockets of them scattered amongst the long benches and tables. A coldness gripped the atmosphere of the abode, gloomier than the sky upon that day.
The figure of Oengustos slouched in his throne at the far side, draped mostly in shadows. He lifted his greying head towards the approach of his son followed by the whole warband.
“What is this?” he asked, the three words alone booming enough to fill the entire hall with little strain on his throat.
“Guests that claim a friendship with you, Father,” replied Eroner.
Trenuir stepped alongside the prince and bowed. “King Oengustos, you may not remember me for I was blind to battle and beardless then, but you must recall the name of this warband I now lead—the Gilded Kestrels.”
Oengustos sat taller and leaned forward. “I do,” he said. “Your warriors helped me drive off the southerners encroaching on my lands.”
“We did. At present, an errand brings us into your lands by chance; I recall that you swore an oath of friendship with us, and if I may invoke it to find respite for my people.”
The king rose and saluted. “Your company is welcome, friend!”
***
The hall itself changed with Oengustos’ bestowal of his hospitality; cooking fires filled the central pits, roasting whole boars drizzled with honey. Voices ringing with laughter and song surged through the warm, savory air. The king himself no longer hid away in shadow, but grinned broadly, laughed loudly, and sang merrily, arm-in-arm with Trenuir at the same table and from the same cup. The Kestrels and the tribal champions who answered the invitations for the feast all made friends, whether they had been together at the time they drove off the southern raiders or not. The twins, however, were made to sit off to the side with the slaves and servants.
“Like it was back home,” Voth grumbled as he rocked on his feet. He stared intently at the boar as it turned, the patrons’ knives slicing off thick cuts of its glistening red flesh.
“There is always a lesson,” said Maelos. “Though I wish Trenuir gave us permission to eat.”
“He has had too much wine to remember us.” Voth sighed and took a seat, bowing his head. “And why doesn’t he just ask about the shaman? We might have found him already.”
“Remember Father mentioned once it was rude to let business get in the way of hospitality? Mayhap that is the reason why palaver dominates.”
A small slave-girl with pale blonde hair sidled up to the twins, regarding them with large grey eyes. “The shaman was taken as prisoner,” she whispered, turning the brothers’ heads at once.
Voth leapt to his feet. “What? How would you know?”
“People talk about all manner of things in front of slaves as if we are not here,” the girl responded.
“Though we are not slaves, we know that sentiment as well,” said Maelos. “What is your name?”
“Everyone calls me Mús,” she answered. “I know the secret ways around here. I can show you to the shaman.”
“Bring us to him,” said Voth, excitement raising his voice. Maelos grabbed his brother’s arm for fear of being heard, but no one in their merriment took heed.
Mús nodded and gestured for the boys to follow her away from the feast. The three made their way through the shadows along the far wall and out the open doors. Chill gusts buffeted them as they stepped out into the thick shade of the overcast evening. Mús guided Maelos and Voth alongside the longhouse’s eastern lawn until they reached a set of stone steps carved into the slope of the hill. These descended to a rocky ditch with sharp sides, at the bottom of which lay a thin, curled form. The twins rushed ahead of their escort and leaned over the lip of the hole. The figure within stirred, lifting a head of shaggy blonde hair, stained with earth. He looked up at the twins with a white-painted face, the makeup marred by time and the elements. Red paint covered both his ears.
“We found the shaman,” Voth breathed with relief. His stomach growled at the thought and hope of Trenuir allowing him and Maelos to some food for their efforts.
“Perhaps all my waiting has done some good after all,” Red Ears croaked, his throat dry. He shifted onto his knees and locked eyes with the twins. “There is something wrong in this tribe, and I cannot leave until the answers are revealed.”
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“He Who Listens to Demons” © Ethan Sabatella 2025 – Current Year, All Rights Reserved. Reprinting or replication of this work in its entirety in any form (written, audiovisual, etc.) without express permission of the author is prohibited. Excerpts may be used for review or promotional purposes with credit and acknowledgement of the author. This piece cannot be used for training of Artificial Intelligence programs.