Servant of the Moon #1 - unedited draft

A Celtic Tale by Adrian von Ziegler

Three years later...

Comhnyall’s father was running him through twice the usual training drills since he and Moire had been caught sneaking to Mamó’s again. The rogues had been sniffing the New Wemyss territory borders and the Alpha had ordered all non-warrior to stay in the Keep. This time they were taking her cookies on the autumn equinox. That was a month ago.

Miora’s máthair chríonna lived in a cave, a hidden den really. It was built into a hill generations ago for the first Alpha’s sister, who had been the first Oracle of this land. Mamó also was an Oracle of the Moon Goddess and a healer. She wasn’t really Moire’s grandmother, but her great-great grandmother and no one living knew how old she really was, only that she was born before the century turned.

Fourteen year old Comhnyall shrugged out of his fur tiredly, as his father said, “Again.”

All but two of the younger warrior wolves were sitting on the ground panting or plain passed out. Cullen, who was 5 years older, glared at him, and Comhnyall knew the Beta’s son blamed him for the extra hard workouts. Tempted as he was to just fall down, Comhnyall put on his fur and picked up the heavy metal bar, and began unning through the obstacles and back. Every third or sixth obstacle was a fighting dummy, that he had to shift into his skin, punch three times and shift back before moving to the next. It was grueling and exhausting, but he knew better than to complain. His father’s methods had been handed down for generations and had made the wolves of the stone caves the most feared warriors of the wolf world long ago. A reputation well deserved in fang and claw, the skill of the legendary Wemyss wolves were revered on two continents.

He staggered past the field line and collapsed into his skin, the other warrior didn’t even finish. The Beta’s son Cullen was still glaring at him, but Comhnyall was too tired to care. Cullen had size and strength, but he had no endurance, no swiftness. Comhnyall’s father was always saying to them, ‘brute strength would not win against a skilled opponent’. Cullen was also slow to combat shift, something Comhnyall had mastered at a year ago.

“Tha’s enough fur today laddies, get yur teeth en some meat an’ rest yur bones, tomorrow we do posting,” the giant Master-of-arms announced, a chorus of groans followed.

Posting was a jumping and shifting exercise which often resulted in many broken bones if one landed wrong, or fell the ten feet to the ground while shifting. Master-of-Arms Lyallfr Gaelimir insisted that shifting should be done quickly and controlled with no thrashing about by either males, or females. All combat shifters were expected to be able to shift while jumping from one post to another. It was the most grueling and tiring of the training exercises and required perfect control of one’s shift or pain would follow.

“Aye, quit yur whinin’, if ye wanna be pups go back ta ye mother’s breast, if ye wanna be warriors be here at moonset so we can sing goodbye to our Goddess before we spill our sweat and blood in Her honor.”

As the others filed back toward the pack house, Lyallfr held up a hand to Comhnyall. He waited, and Cameron, Cullen’s youngest brother, waited with him.

“Comhnyall, move tha fighting dummies ta tha wall, change their hay, and hang them fur tha she-wolves training on tha ’marrow,” his father ordered sternly.

Comhnyall bared his teeth at his father for a moment, “But tha will take till midnight, Tha Sullivan show is on tonight.”

“Tha’ picture box is nay concern of yorn till ye can learn to obey yur Alpha and not follow yur mate’s wishes like a love sick pup,” Lyallfr scolds him. “Cam, off with ye or shall I have ye pushing logs the length of the lake?”

The young strawberry-blonde stammers, “Nay, Master-of-arms!” Under his breath, he whispers, “Sorry, Nyall,” before he runs away.

Comhnyall stares after him, then shakes his head. He looks up to see his father eyeing him expectantly. Silently, he goes to the barn for the bales of straw he will need to stuff the 15 hide and canvas body forms. Nathairi, and Sionn are just finishing milking the cows, he gives them a slight nod.

Nathairi’s 16th birthday is next week but she acts like she’s 20, and all she talks about is finding her mate. Comhnyall finds her really annoying. As usual, she is dressed in a crazy, brightly printed mini-dress barely longer than a shirt. Not the kind of clothes for doing chores, but definitely the kind of clothes for getting the attention of unmated males, like Cullen and Breagen.

Every time Comhnyall sees her, her hair looks lighter, now it is almost platinum blonde. It is odd looking with her heavy black outlined eyes and artificially pink lips. As he hauls a bale of straw to the training area, Comhnyall secretly hopes Moire never decides to wear make-up or color her hair. He loves her freckles and coppery hair.

Three Dummies later, he heads back to the barn for another bale. He is thinking about what he is going to get Merida for their 15th birthday when he bumps someone in the hay loft. Nathairi is standing in front of him, naked. He wrinkles his nose at the way she smells. She rubs her hands on her body and smirks at him.

“Like what ye see, handsome?” She is talking in a weird way. Her voice all deep and raspy.

“Uhh, what are ye doing, Nathairi?” Comhnyall asks, backing up as she advances toward him like a predator after prey.

“Don’ be bashful, Comhnyall. I ’ave see the way ye look on me, I know ye want me,” she answers.

Comhnyall has no idea what she is talking about, then he realizes she is looking at him the way the unmated males look at her.

“Nay... nay Nathairi, I... I... h.. have a m... mate, and I n... not be lookin’ on ye in... in... in any way,” he stammers.

Nathairi’s face scrunches up and tears fall from her eyes, she hangs her head as if in shame. “I knew it, I knew I was ugly. I’ll never ‘ave a mate an’ I’ll spend meh life alone.” She starts to sob as she sit down on a bale in front of the loose fodder.

Comhnyall doesn’t know what to do, he can’t bear to see a female cry. He did not mean to hurt her feelings. He sits down next to her and awkwardly pats her forearm. She is naked and not his mate, he really can’t touch her anywhere else without it being disrespectful.

“Please don’ cry Nathairi, yur very pretty, yur mate will be very happy when he meets ye.”

Nathairi peeks at him through her fingers, her eye make-up has run down her face in great black streaks, she looks terrifying. “Do ye really think so, Comhnyall?”

“Aye, ye be very pretty, an’ will a good mate too,” he lies, not knowing what else to say.

She hugs him, rubbing her naked chest against him, “Oh thank ye Comhnyall, ye are so kind an’ so strong,” as she shoves him off the bale and into the soft cushion of the loose fodder, laying almost on top of him before he can roll away.

“I want to thank ye,” she whispers in his face. He can smell ale on her breath.

“What are ye doing?” he squeaks, his voice cracking.

His body feels strange as she pins him down. He can’t push her off without touching her and the more he squirms, the more she smells. It turns his stomach. He jerks his head to the side when she tries to kiss him, getting an oily smear of pansy pink across his jaw.

“Comhnyall? Aire ye here?” Moire call from down below.

Nathairi smirks. She calls out in the strange tone she used earlier, “Oh Comhnyall, ye be so strong.”

He hears Moire’s startled gasp as he shoves Nathairi away, growling, “Get off!”

Moire is standing on the ladder to the loft, staring at them, her voice a ragged whisper, “How could ye, Comhnyall?”

“Moire! I did nah a thing. Moire, wait!” He desperately struggles to get away and go after her but Nathairi grabbed his arm.

“Stay with me Comhnyall, ye said such sweet things an’ I want ta thank ye. Ye do nah need ta chase tha child.”

“Nay, an’ get ye away from me, ye stinkin’ bi*tch,” he snarls as he tries to get around her to the ladder without touching her again.

She slaps him as she screeches, “Stinking bitch?!?”

“Aye stinkin’ bitch, ye smell like rotten fish an’ half the unwashed crotches in tha pack an’ I woul’ nah ’ave ye if ye were tha last female alive. I ’ave mo Miora,” he snarls.

“And wha’ es so special abou’ tha’ ruddy lil’ mutt?” She hisses.

His claws close around her throat and he slams her to the floor, his wolf howling for her heart, how dare she insult their mate. Nathairi gives a frightened squeak as she stares at him through terrified eyes. His words come out as dark as his eyes, but truthful, “She smells of sunshine and dawn, far better than ye, an’ if ye insult her again, I’ll rip ou’ yur bloody throat.”

He left her laying there on the floor, and jumped down from the hay loft to chase after his upset mate. Outside he inhaled the air but could smelling nothing except Nathairi’s rancid scent and perfume in his nose. He stuck his face in the water trough, shaking it violently then tried again. He dropped into his golden wolf and ran as if his life depended on it. He could feel Moire’s heartache and feelings of betrayal, it made him want to stop and retch. He would find her, she would believe him that nothing had happened between he and Nathairi. She had to believe him, she had to, but first he had to find her.

Comhnyall followed Moire’s scent across the wetlands, towards to sea. They weren’t supposed to go in this direction since his mother and several she-wolves and a few children had been killed on the shore. But Nyall and Moire had gone this way many times every summer since they were young. They wrote messages to his mother and sister in the sand for the Moon and tides to take to them. Both loved swimming in the ocean, and together they had a secret stash of seashells. Ones they had found or traded to fishermen and sailors for. Someday they were going to travel and lay in the sands of distant beaches and swim in the waters of every ocean. Travelling the world was Moire’s dream.

He ran down the sand toward the jetty. A strong onshore wind filled my nose with the scent of the sea. The stars shown like unmoving fireflies against the vast darkness of the sky. The moon rose gracefully above the constant to and fro of the waves. He could feel her heartbreak so close as his wolf carefully navigated the rocky surface to the shoreman’s notch. Moire sat in the small flat area, sobbing. The sound of his mate’s sorrow broke his heart.

‘It was my fault, I hadn’ realized what Nathairi meant ta do,′ he thought.

“Moire?”

“Go away, Comhnyall,” she said halfheartedly, turning her body away from him.

“Moire, please, let me tell ye what happened,” he begged.

“I saw enough, I don’ wanna hear ye tell me more,” she sniffed.

“Moire, I swear by my life to tha Goddess, nothing like tha’ happened. She was naked in tha loft an’ talking all strange, an’ she smelled of ale, then she started crying, sayin’ she was ugly an’ woul’ never find her mate. I din’ nah know what to do. I jus’ sat next ta her, an’ patted her arm. I felt bad fur her, I didn’ know it was a trick.” He stop for a breath, Moire’s head was cocked toward him listening so he kept going.

“She pushed me back in tha fodder an’ laid on top a me, I couldn’t get her off without touchin’ her smelly body. I didn’ wanna touch it, an’ tha more I squirmed, tha more stinky she became, she tried ta kiss meh...”

Moire’s loud growl caused him to pause then blurt out the rest in a rush.

“I did nah let her. I turned mo head, she looked atrocious an’ smelled so bad. I should nah have tried ta be nice ta her, an’ lie ta her tha’ she would be a good mate when she was cryin’. I’m sorry Moire, I did nah know she wanted ta hurt ye.” He knelt in the sand next to her, his hands folded as if in prayer, pleading for her to forgive him silently.

“Was she really tha’ stinky?” Moire asked in a quiet voice, looking at him with her dawn-colored eyes that glowed golden in the moonlight.

“She smells like rotten fish an’ dirty crotch, it made me wanna hurl my dinner if I’d had any,” he explained willingly.

Moire smiled slightly. “She always wears so much perfume... How could ye smell past it?”

“Oy, a male can smell past it. I dunno why tha other males seem to like it, but it made me wanna vomit,” he said again.

She leaned into him and smelled his skin, then leaned back satisfied that Nathairi had only touched his clothes with her nakedness. “It really hurt when I heard what she said an’ saw her... layin’ on top of ye.” She said in a small voice as she looked out to sea. “I mean, I ‘ave brothers. I know males like ta chase tha wagon, an’ if ye need ta then I’ll try ta understan’.”

He seized her hand, and turned her face toward him. “Moire, ye aire tha only thing I will e’er need ta chase, an’ I promise I will chase ye to tha moon and back.”

She looked at him carefully, then leaned forward suddenly, pressing her lips into his. His heart stopped at the contact, then galloped like he had run at full speed the breath of the peninsula. His arms were around her warm body as they pressed together in their innocence. He did not noticed a change in his body, in his desires, they were spurred on by his wolf’s wants. It felt so good but it was too soon. He barely managed to lift his lips from hers.

“Moire, we need tah stop, we be too young for what my wolf wants ta do ta ye,” he whispered huskily, his voice suddenly sounded deeper to him.

Her honeyed eyes stared up into his with wonder and love, her voice a hushed whisper, “I know, I feel it from my wolf too, but I coul’ nah let another she-wolf steal your first kiss.”

He traced her jaw in the moonlight, amazed at how pearly like inside of a seashell her skin seemed, “My first everything is yurs, Moire, I swear by tha moon.”

She giggled suddenly. “Don’t let Mamó hear you swear by tha moon, she’ll get yur ear.”

He grinned at her. “We should be off ta hume. Or your mum will ’ave more than meh ear.”

“Erh hem, Comhnyall,” Moire looked up at him innocently, “Ye ’ave ah not so wee problem.”

Comhnyall looked down and was mortified, THAT had never happened around Moire before and he wasn’t sure what to do about it with her standing right there.

She smiled at him sweetly, “If we go back, I’m sure Nathairi will help ye with et.”

His eyes widened in disgust,. “I woul’ rather tear et off mah body than put et en either end of tha’ she-wolf.”

Moire looked at her extended claws and clicked the ends of them, her eyes suddenly cold and dark as gave a mischievous look and said in a devious tone, “Good, than I won’ ‘ave to take et off slow an’ painful mehself. Ye know I do nah like ta share, Nyall.”

He swallowed, knowing she wasn’t kidding about the slow and painful part, he felt the blood leaving it. “Ah would ye look at tha’, it took care of its wee self for meh.”

Moire burst out laugh and Comhnyall joined, embarrassed, but relieved to keep his anatomy. Together they shifted and their wolves made their way back to shore.

Across St Margs Bay, they could see the lights of Peggy’s Cove, twinkling on the water like the stars overhead. It was a beautiful autumn night as they ran toward the Black River Lake and home.