The Blasphemies of the Worm
A Hunters' Moon Story
Maelos and Voth have found Red Ears, shaman of the Gilded Kestrels, imprisoned by their host. He tasks them with seeking out the truth behind the mystery behind the murder he was investigating before his is given an unjust sentence. Who is the killer? And why would they allow the blasphemies of the worm upon their own body?
Check out the previous chapter to get caught up!
“Shall we raise you from this pit and bring you to Trenuir?” asked Maelos.
The shaman shook his head. “I would certainly be killed for escaping captivity and you boys might suffer a flogging. We must win my freedom properly.”
“Who must we put the blame on?” inquired Voth, leaning further over the pit.
“We are not simply blaming anyone,” said Red Ears. “We must learn the truth of how Oengustos’ poor daughter was slain.”
“Belsneyg?” Maelos recalled the name spoken by the goatherd. “Are they trying to put her death upon you?”
“Eroner is quick to blame me; I understand his reasoning since he found me crawling out of her tomb.”
The twins recoiled, their faces folding with disgust. “Why should we help a corpse-botherer?” Voth said, sticking his tongue out.
Red Ears scowled. “I was speaking with her spirit. I swear I laid no hand upon her.”
“You can speak with the dead?” Maelos leaned forward, interest reignited. “How?”
Red Ears tapped behind one ear. “It is a gift I have had since I was a boy. I got stuck in a well for three days, during which voices of the dead and other spirits whispered to me. It is actually quite difficult to speak to them, but their words come to me easily.”
“What did Belsneyg’s spirit tell you?”
“She did not see her murderer’s face, but claimed she felt the blasphemies of the worm upon his back.”
Voth laughed. “That sounds like whatever it is you committed in her tomb.”
Red Ears shook a fist at the boy. “I told you that was not what I went in there for, you whippersnapper! The blasphemies are a furtive form of worship for a black god that lives deep beneath the earth.”
Maelos nudged Voth. “It sounds like the stories Father’s wiseman would tell us when we misbehaved, that some forgotten god’s worms and snakes would drag us under the earth while we slept.”
“No doubt there are many stories like that amongst the tribes of the world,” added Red Ears. “The name of this god is seldom spoken, even among the wisest magicians and priests—for they know what is good for the minds of the people. However, his domain is the rot, the worm, and the snake; he is master of all things that creep and slither from the blackest pits of the earth the sun has never warmed. Those who do let him into their minds cannot be saved.—
“The true killer is still within the tribe. Unless we can find him quick, the whole of the people are under threat of death or worse, a shackling of their spirits to the slaver beneath our feet.”
“Where must we begin looking?” Mús’ soft voice sounded between the twins. She peered over their shoulders, down at Red Ears with wet, wide eyes. “Belsneyg was good to me. I wish to see her spirit rest.”
“And hers will,” vowed Red Ears. “You three are of the unseen, the ignored.”
“We are training to be Kestrels.” Voth puffed his chest outward and raised a fist. “We ought not to be ignored.”
Red Ears chuckled. “Do not act so important, lad, every Kestrel before you has been in your place. It is not such a bad role to fill, for you can gain secrets as easily as you gain wind for your lungs. You ought to use that role to listen and look for signs of the murderer.”
Voth frowned and exhaled.
“Who might you suspect is the culprit?” asked Maelos.
Red Ears thumbed his chin and answered, “Someone Belsneyg knew. My impulse is to frame her brother, but he threw me in here rightfully for entering his sister’s tomb. Still, her murderer was not a stranger; she knew him by his touch and in death she recognized the blasphemies of the worm upon his back.”
“How can blasphemies be on someone’s back?” asked Voth incredulously.
“The worm burrows in flesh as well as earth,” said Red Ears, “and it leaves a trail of foul scars in its wake that sink into the mind and soul of those it bestowed such blasphemies upon.”
“But worms favor dead flesh,” added Maelos.
Red Ears nodded. “Indeed, the dead may also obtain profane knowledge if they lay long enough.” He waved a hand. “But that is not important for today. Return to the hall ere anyone notices and seek out the one with the blasphemies upon his back.”
Maelos, Voth, and Mús went away from Red Ears’ gaol and slipped back into Oengustos’ hall. The feasting and drinking had carried on well in their absence; the guests took little notice as the youths folded back into the throng.
“Belsneyg had several suitors,” Mús explained to Maelos and Voth in a low voice. She took up a pitcher of wine, giving the impression of her resumption of her menial duties. With slight nods of her head, she indicated two men on opposite ends of the hall. They were both tall and well-built, wearing rich, blue-dyed tunics and adorned with simple, yet striking wristbands and torcs of gold. One had wild brown hair, lightened by lime, and a thick moustache. The other was clean-shaven with loose locks of dirty blond down to his smooth, sharp chin.
“They were the most passionate ones to vie for her affection and Oengustos’ approval,” continued Mús. “Although they loved her, mayhap one decided no one could have her if he could not.”
“How shall we strip their shirts?” wondered Voth.
One corner of Maelos’ mouth turned upward. “I know what to do; fetch a fresh horn, Voth.”
Following his brother’s lead, Voth took up horn brimming with wine. Maelos did the same and gestured to the moustachioed man. “Deliver him the wine and attend to him,” he directed. “When the blond man comes over, remind the other of preserving his honor.”
“All right.” Voth nodded and went to the man as instructed. He eyed Maelos weaving through the crowd towards the blond man. Mús slipped into obscurity amidst the patrons.
The moustachioed man needed little persuasion to take Voth’s offering; he rent the horn from the boy’s hand and quaffed it. No sooner had he downed the drink than he returned to boasting and laughing with several other strong men around him. Voth remained at his shoulder, silent, looking over at Maelos as he spoke to the blond man. A snarl formed on the mouth of Belsneyg’s fair-faced suitor as Maelos pointed over to the other contester for the late princess’ heart. He sprung to his feet and strode across the hall, pushing through his fellow guests and drawing all eyes in his wake.
The moustachioed man did not even take heed until the blond man loomed over him and seized the collar of his tunic. With froth flying from his lips, the blond man roared, “What was it you said of Belsneyg?”
With a momentary masque of shock, the moustachioed man bared his teeth in resolve, gripping the blond man’s bedecked wrists. “I said nothing of her! I would never violate her memory; I would never dream of doing so in her father’s hall!”
The blond man wrenched his rival to his feet. “What did you say?” he demanded.
Across the crowd, Voth spied Maelos nodding towards the rising argument.
“Will you let him treat you as such?” Voth asked, drawing the moustachioed man’s attention. “He is drunk off wine and lies; he hurls accusations of dishonor at you. Will you let him do so this easily?”
“I will not!” declared the moustachioed man. He clasped his hands about the blond man’s head and pulled downward. As his opponent bent over, the man twisted out of his grip and curled one powerful arm around the blond man’s neck. He followed through with several blows to his captive’s belly. The blond man coughed and sputtered as his grappler’s knuckles hammered his wine-filled guts.
The guests nearby all watched dumbly, forming a ring about the combatants as they proceeded to grab, pull away, and strike at each other with their bare hands. The patrons roared their approval, stamping their feet and raising their drinking horns to the air.
The blond man, after breaking free of his rival’s grip, retaliated by pulling the bottom hem of the moustachioed man’s tunic up over his head. Voth darted around the ring of people to catch a glimpse of the man’s back. It was hairy and broad, but had no queer scars upon it. Before he recovered from the trick, the blond man returned the flurry of strikes to his rival’s middle, sending him onto his seat.
Gasping for air through his tunic, the moustachioed man wriggled out of the confines of the garment just as the blond man fell upon him. He reached up with fingers bent like claws and tore at the blond man’s tunic and skin. Strips of fabric and drops of blood rained out of his repeated grabs. Again, Voth circled around but saw only the smooth skin of the blond man’s back, slightly marred by the new scratches from the brawl. He looked over to Maelos and shook his head.
The twins convened in a corner away from the growing commotion. Several of the Kestrels went over to the swelling crowd gathered about the passionate suitors.
“Neither of them is the blasphemer,” said Voth. “I say we try to get the brother to show his back.”
Maelos frowned. “But the shaman does not think it is Eroner.”
“He is being too kind. While he did bother Belsneyg’s corpse, I would think the prince could still have something to hide.”
“And what do you suppose that is?” Trenuir’s voice sent the twins hopping backwards. The warlord crouched before them, slightly swaying from the drinks he imbibed in, but his eyes remained ever firm upon the lads. He glanced between either of them and asked, “Why are you two hiding away here?”
“Well,” started Maelos, “we thought it best to keep out of the way of the brawl.”
Trenuir laughed. “Out of the way? Nonsense! All the more reason to keep serving up drinks. Now get back to work.” He rose and turned back towards the crowd. After several steps, however, he spun on his heel and set the twins in his gaze again. “What was that about the prince, just now?”
“He might know something of Belnseyg’s death,” blurted Voth.
Trenuir’s expression turned dire; he frowned and his gaze grew hard, all signs of drunkenness evaporating. “She died of a fever,” he said, “Eroner knows as much about it as anyone else in this hall. Were you doing your duties and listening, you might have heard as much from the king’s mouth directly.”
The twins cast their gazes groundward. Trenuir stepped up to them and patted their pates. “Back to your duties,” he bade, then slid back into the crowd.
***
Between serving the king, the Kestrels, and the other patrons of the hall, the twins and Mús had little chance to look what Red Ears had charged them to find. Late into the night, the three slunk away from the dying firelight of the central pit; the laughter had faded and soft strings of instruments and the droning voices of drunken guests dominated the smoky, wine-scented air.
“None of the other suitors I could find had the scars on their backs,” said Mús.
“Our leader kept us close,” Maelos said. “We could not stray from him until now.”
“I still think we ought to see if Belsneyg’s brother is the murderer,” Voth interjected.
Mús shook her head. “It cannot be him.”
“How will we know for sure?” asked Voth.
“Eroner has been quite low since Belnseyg died,” explained Mús. “Where once he was as cheerful as his father, he cares only for carrying out his father’s word and warding his sister’s tomb.”
“Then who else could it be?” Maelos scratched his shorn head. “And has he already left?”
A booming laugh from Oengustos’ throat rolled through the air, drawing the trio’s gazes. Voth furrowed his brow as he glanced at the king. “How has your overlord’s temperament been since Belsneyg died?” he asked, turning towards Mús.
The slave girl tapped her first three fingers upon her lower lip, eyes averted as she gathered her answer: “He is merrier tonight than he has been since she was entombed. Not once, however, have I nor anyone else seen a single tear spill from his eyes.”
Maelos shrugged. “He is a king. It would be proper for him to keep his grief private before his subjects.”
“Trenuir said he heard how Belsneyg died from the king, did he not?” added Voth. “Mús, who first declared the princess had died?”
Mús looked up towards her liege as he loosed another hearty laugh. Her mouth hung open before she spoke, “The king.”
Maelos grimaced as he glanced at Oengustos. “Then we ought to examine his back.”
Mús shook her head. “It could not be him! He is so good to everyone under his eye, even his slaves. Why would he kill lady Belsneyg?”
“We do not know yet, but whatever magicks he consorted with may have changed his mind and very soul.”
With her gaze groundward, Mús asked, “How will we know?”
Voth jabbed a thumb at his chest. “I will get him to change his shirt. You two follow him into his chambers and spy on him from there.”
Mús wrinkled her nose at the plan. “But that is not proper!”
“What is the charge for whippersnappers looking at a king’s bare arse?” Voth said, shrugging. “If he is not the blasphemer and he sees you, what worse could you get than a shout and possibly a beating?”
Maelos sighed, fighting back a grin. “He is right. I am willing to ride on a sore seat for a few days if it means learning the truth of this murder.” He nodded to his brother. “Go and dirty up the king, Voth.”
Stepping out of the shadows, Voth seized a half-full pitcher from a table on which lay several sleeping men. He hurried to the central firepit where Oengustos entertained Trenuir and his own champions with stories of his past exploits.
“More wine, o king?” inquired Voth as he skidded to a halt beside Oengustos.
The king turned with a smile on his broad, bearded face, drinking horn in hand. Voth turned the pitcher over and the wine sloshed out all over the king’s deep scarlet tunic. Oengustos spat and oath, leaping up and sending droplets across the floor. Trenuir rose as well, glowering at Voth.
“Have you been taking the wine yourself?” Oengustos bellowed and slapping the pitcher out of Voth’s grasp.
“A thousand pardons, o king!” Voth fell to his knees and bowed his head.
“I will discipline him in whatever way is fitting, Oengustos,” said Trenuir.
The king waved a hand. “No, he is just clumsy and this is just a shirt. I will retrieve some drier clothes.” He tapped Voth’s shoulder with his toe. “Stand up and have some more wine ready before I return.” With a hand rested on the arm of his chair, Oengustos stumbled around it and walked towards the rear of the hall.
Voth rose up and offered Trenuir a sheepish grin. The warlord shook his head and sat back down, reviving the palaver with the champions.
Meanwhile, Maelos and Mús watched from the shadowed edges of the hall as Oengustos navigated to his quarters. They followed, waiting at length for him to move first before going along his trail themselves. He slipped into a dim threshold at the end of the hall, covered by embroidered cloths of deep blue, purple, and scarlet. Maelos and Mús flanked the entrance and slowly lifted the flaps as Oengustos paced within.
The king lit a tallow candle in a sconce upon the wall across from his bed. He mumbled to himself as he tugged at his tunic and plucked his thick, leathern belt. At last, he sat upon his bed, back turned towards the threshold, and gripped the collar of his shirt, pulling it over his head slowly as if injured. Mús let out a small gasp as the candlelight fell upon Oengustos’ naked back. A series of grey scars riddled his flesh; they were small wounds making up a tapestry of puckered, knotted skin. The king slid one hand over his shoulder and one around his side, caressing the scars. He continued to mumble and groan as he touched the hideous injuries. Suddenly, he paused.
“Someone is watching?” he asked, as if in conversation with someone. Slowly, he turned his gaze over one shoulder.
Read the next chapter here!
The Last Night of a King
Maelos has discovered the person possessing the mysterious blasphemies of the worm. Will he, however, be able to convince everyone else of this bizarre truth and reveal the culprit behind the princess Belsneyg’s murder?
Thanks for reading this week’s chapter! Be sure to leave a like and a comment, and share it with friends and family who might enjoy these types of stories! Stay tuned for the next chapter, “The Last Night of a King” to witness the conclusion and terrifying truth behind Belnseyg’s murder!
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“The Blasphemies of the Worm” © 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.