Leaving the Nest - I
A Hunters' Moon Story
This story is a a prequel to a yarn I published in Crimson Quill Quarterly’s fourth volume in October 2024, titled “The Hunter and the Horned Princess.” Taking place in a fantasized early Bronze Age period, this serial follows the exploits of a nomadic warband of young fighters in their journeys across the world. This story chronicles how two brothers dreaming of a life away from the contempt of their father find purpose among those living beyond the safety of a tribe.
This post will begin my new format for Senchas Claideb where I’ll release a short story or serial chapter on Saturdays on a fortnightly basis. As my series go on, I’ll be keeping an index for each story and their corresponding serial in their own dedicated tabs on my main page.
“Riders from the west!” shouted the sentries’ boy-servant as his sandaled feet slapped against the heavy stones set into the base of the royal hill fort. He sprinted into the squat timber edifice, dodging slaves as they carried food and drink to and from the grand table in the middle of the hall. His cries of alarm warred against the raucous laughter and chattering of the feasters—family and cohorts of the tribe’s King. They sat on embroidered cushions and thick pelts, keeping their clothes and flesh layered above the cold stone floor. Wine-hazed eyes turned to the boy, layered with a glower, as his words pulled the host out of their stupor.
“Riders,” gasped the boy-servant as he slowed to a halt before the table. “From the west. They have made camp before the gate.”
“From whence do they hail?” demanded King Hron.
“They bear no settled nation’s colors,” answered the boy-servant, “but fly the banner of an outlaw warband.”
The host murmured to each other words of concern. Several bold enough suggested the King, with his champions, drive them out of his borders.
“I will even challenge their warlord,” offered his own son, Kenattos, a light-haired youth with a rich, scarlet tunic on his pudgy frame. “I will not let you down, Father.”
A pair of boys emerged from behind a timber pillar near the grand table. They were twelve years old and identical in every manner of their appearance. Their tawny locks tied in singular braids danced behind them as they rushed out of the shadows. Their blue eyes, of like hue as their tunics, blazed as they locked, unblinking onto the boy-servant.
“Which banner do they fly?” inquired one as he and his twin met the lad.
“Do they carry the heads of their foes on pikes?” asked the other, grim glee forming in his gaze.
“Maelos! Vothartaikos!” roared Hron, rising from his seat. The twins retreated at the blast of his voice and watched as he strode around the table. He rested his chin upon one fist and decreed his plans to the host and nearby stewards, “I will meet with this warband to inquire of their intentions within my borders. They might be here with an offer of their swords.”
“And let them take freely from our stores?” Kenattos followed the King from the table. “You may as well lay down and ask these brigands to pillage the tribe.”
Hron halted and shot a hard, dark expression at his son. “I do not intend to make friends with them. They may simply be useful soldiers against the Scythians and Eastern raiders.”
“You don’t know what champions they have among their ranks, Father,” said the boy who asked about the warband’s banner. He approached the King, speaking as an advisor might.
Kenattos sneered. “Begone, Maelos! You know nothing of these wandering pariahs.”
“I know one of them alone has likely killed more men and bedded more women than you have this past year,” Maelos retorted.
With his palm, Kenattos struck the child on the back of his head. Maelos tumbled forward onto his knees in the wake of the blow. He ground his teeth and clenched his eyelids shut, fighting back tears.
“Don’t touch my brother!” cried the other boy. He rushed forward and leapt up to meet Kenattos’ height. Before the Prince could react, the boy slammed his tightened fist into his nose. Blood gushed over Kenattos’ lips and dribbled onto his tunic.
Hron stepped before Kenattos as his son reeled away, cursing the day the twins were born. The King seized the unruly boy’s braid in one thick, calloused hand and yanked him up onto the tips of his toes. The boy grunted in pain through his teeth and swung feebly at Hron’s burly, broad chest.
“This is not your place to act, Vothartaikos,” growled Hron. He turned his gaze down towards Maelos who stared back up with watry eyes. “Or yours, Maelos.” He looked up at a plump slave-girl in the shadows and barked, “Loigedellia, bring them to bed.”
The slave-girl lifted her skirts and bustled over to the boys. She cooed and helped Maelos to his feet; he sniffed and stood behind her. Loigedellia gently set her hands on Vothartaikos’ shoulders as he gave up his assault. “Come now, Voth,” she said softly as Hron released his hold.
“To me!” Hron waved towards the open threshold of the hall. His stewards and champions assembled behind him, gathering up their weapons and armor. The twins stared back at the precession and both met the glower of Kenattos as he wiped at the blood still pouring from his nostrils. He flashed a cruel smile as he stepped outside and descended with the host.
Maelos and Voth reluctantly let their nursemaid guide them to their small room at the rear corner of the hall. A thin tapestry hanging in the threshold segregated it from the rest of the hall. The twins had shared a bed since birth and the one in their quarters took up most of the space, laden with furs and wool blankets. A few wooden toy swords, spears, and shields hung on racks along the walls. Without protest, they climbed under the covers and let Loigedellia tuck them in; at the very least, her soft humming soothed Maelos’ pain and Voth’s rage. She sang several cradle songs to them, then moved towards the threshold when she finished. “Have a wonderful rest, little warriors,” she bade them with a gentle smile before slipping behind the tapestry.
Soon after Loigedellia departed, Voth tossed his covers off himself and stood up. He removed his wooden shield and spear from the wall, sliding his arm through the straps on the former.
“What are you doing?” Maelos asked in a low voice.
Voth looked down at his brother with a furrowed brow. “Getting ready to meet the warband,” he answered. “Aren’t you coming too?”
Maelos sat up and looked at his toy armaments, then back at Voth. “Father forbade us from going.”
Voth scoffed. “He never said we could not see them, just that he wanted us to go to bed.”
“Mayhap we can see them in the morning. Father may be in a better mood by then.”
“Why do you listen to that man so much? He has never taken pride in a thing we have done.”
Maelos frowned and gestured towards the tapestry where muffled voices of the feasters sounded beyond. “He gives us a home to eat and sleep in, teachers for instruction in war and wisdom, and lets us bear his name as sons of the King.”
“The second, bastard sons,” Voth amended. “When Kenattos becomes king, I think it unlikely he will give us more than a few scraps—that is, if he lets us live. I will not sleep tonight if I cannot even glimpse the warband’s banners.” He moved over to the tapestry and peered outside, then looked back to his brother. “Are you coming?” he asked, a tone of finality punctuating his inquiry.
Sighing, Maelos rose and took up his spear and shield. He crouched on the other side of the threshold and surveyed the dimming hall. The remaining guests imbibed in the diminishing food and drink; the way they joked and sang indicated the wine claimed their heads for the night. The slaves all stood near the table, their sullen eyes awaiting further orders. The entrance to the hall lay open still and absent of any wardens.
Maelos and Voth glanced at each other and the former whispered, “Stay close to the wall. Run once we reach the doors or if we are spotted.”
Voth grinned and nodded. He followed Maelos into the shaded space at the edges of the hall. The twins walked slowly, heel-to-toe towards the doors, their eyes turning between the feasters and the slaves. Their steps quickened as they neared the entrance; neither could help but take bounding strides towards escape. In their excitement—and perhaps deafened by their heartbeats in their heads—the boys failed to notice their noisome footfalls as they reached the threshold.
“Maelos? Voth?” Loigedellia’s voice froze them in place between the hall and the fresh, open evening air. The twins looked over their shoulder to meet the troubled gaze of their nursemaid. She shuffled away from the table, arms outstretched. “Come back to bed, you two.”
Maelos and Voth exchanged a glance, then looked out towards the many timber huts below the hillfort; and beyond that the walls and gate segregating the tribe from the wilderness; and beyond that still the open steppe. Somewhere, out of anyone’s sight, a bird of prey issued a call on the wind.
“Don’t you dare…” Loigedellia said, her tone inflected with frustration; her pace quickened.
The twins leapt out of the hall and dashed down the steps leading up to Hron’s hillfort. Having raced each other up and down that path dozens of times before, they descended with ease. Loigedellia called out to them, then for aid from the other slaves. Several sets of feet thundered out of the hall, and male voices boomed down at Maelos and Voth by the time they were already halfway down the steps. Once they reached the dirt base at the foot of the hill, the twins took off through the squat dwellings of the tribe. Behind them, their pursuers cried out, promising reward to those who safely returned the King’s sons. The tribespeople milling about their houses and pavilions seemed deaf to the slaves’ words. They took great leisure at this twilit hour among their friends and kin, drinking, sporting, and making music in the thoroughfare and alleys. The twins slipped easily between the crowds and wove around the pedestrians who each gave them little heed.
“The gate is still open!” Maelos pointed forth as he and Voth reached one of the more open gathering places of the tribe. Once every month, travelers and merchants from far-off places congregated there to sell wares and spin tales. For the rest of the year, villagers used it to mingle outside their homes or stage performances for their holy festivals and rituals to the Sky Father, Chieftain of the Gods. It was situated a few hundred yards from the gates, which were swung inward and revealed the steppe and darkling horizon beyond. The twins hastened, the youthful fire in their hearts, lungs, and minds spurring them on towards their goal.
A cool wind rushed in from the yawning doors as the twins emerged from them. The long grass mantle of the plains, grey in the gloaming, shivered and sighed in the wake of the blast. Maelos and Voth’s attention fell upon crowd several hundred yards from the gate. Torches and several campfires shone their yellow light upon almost two dozen figures and their steeds. Even from so far away, the twins spied the band’s glinting bronze spearheads, the round shields painted with the faces of demons and beasts. Several carried tall poles with cloth banners snapping in the wind. The symbol upon them depicted a series of crescents forming a bird of prey in descent, its beak and claws open to strike. The twins halted and marveled at the warband.
“I do not know of these warriors’ banners,” Maelos said. “They truly must have come a long way.”
Voth looked over his shoulder and pushed his brother forward. “Let’s find out who they are before we’re dragged back home!”
The rankled faces of Hron’s slaves appeared out of the crowd. The twins rushed forth onto the plain, hearts hammering hard as they scarce took their eyes off the warband. Hron and Kenattos, along with the chief stewards and champions, sat around a central campfire in conversation with a man perched atop a squat stone.
Maelos and Voth, for all their youthful vigor, soon breathed in shaky, ragged gulps of wind. The bite of copper bloomed in the backs of their throats, trickling onto their drying tongues. The slaves’ footfalls beat with the drumming of their hearts in their skulls; their grasps hovered nearer to the boys’ backs. One of them seized Voth by the tunic, his fingers bunching up the cloth covering his shoulder. With a cry, the bullheaded brother pressed; he grit his teeth as the collar choked his throat, the seams of the semi-regal garment tearing. The slave uttered a baffled cough as Voth bounded away, leaving only a scrap of cloth in his grip. The tattered tunic fluttered off the boy’s rangy frame.
The commotion drew the warband’s attention towards the newcomers. Hron and Kenattos scowled as the twins stumbled into the firelight. The pair leaned on their toy spears, legs trembling yet staggered forward. They gasped, lungs screaming for unfettered wind, and searched the bemused crowd’s eyes.
“We…” huffed Maelos, “the sons of King Hron, wish for audience with this band’s warlord.”
The man on the stone by the campfire rose. He was young, no more than twenty, with black hair and a short beard. A hide shirt covered his broad frame; the few exposed parts of his tanned skin rippled with muscle and scars. His storm-grey eyes met the twins’ hopeful gazes, then looked up towards the slaves jogging towards the camp and they halted.
“What business do you have with me?” the man asked, spreading his arms. “The warlord of the Gilded Kestrels?”
Read the next chapter here!
Leaving the Nest - II
Twin brothers Maelos and Voth escaped from the fort of their father, King Hron, to meet with a nomadic warband at the gates of their tribe. The youths have dreams beyond the confines of their home and believe even one chance to meet the wanderers of the world can change their lives forever.
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“Leaving the Nest” © 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.
'Tis a lovely tale full of worldbuilding and charactercraft! I'd like to know more of the boys's nursemaid, Loigedellia. Among all, she was quite the interesting character, laden with perceived mystery.
This was gorgeous! I love the Indo-European influence (having the main characters be twins is a nice touch). Just out of curiosity, did you name Maelos after Manu (one of the divine twins in the PIE creation myth)? His character stood out to me particularly. I was also intrigued by Loigedellia, she seems like someone who could benefit from having her own story.