It was Winter Solstice, Yule in the Saxon tongue. Great iron skewers of geese turned on spits in the great Hearths. The drippings caused the flame to lick up and spit. The chieftain's warband roughly handled the serving wenches who brought them freshly tapped tuns of ale, cheese and barley bread. A great roar filled the hall, and the three days of Solstice had only just begun.

This was the first Yule Feast the new Great Hall had seen. The chieftain, Rolf the Outlaw, now Rolf the Hunter, had built a grander one than even his eldest brother had in the old land. It was constructed of notched whole logs with waddle filling in the gaps. The roof was laid thatch that held in the heat well. The oaken floor was his crowning achievement, one that elicited much comment by visitors.

There were other parts to the axe-shaped building, the chieftain's quarters, the root cellar, the larder, the pantry, the stalls for the cows, but the Great Hall, the "handle of the axe", that was the center of Stedding life. It was three tall timbers long, with room enough for two cooking hearths and a U-shaped head table. The chieftain's kin, landholders and senior warband ate with him at the table. Warriors, servants and the like sat and slept on benches along the walls. How close you were to the chieftain and the food was determined my one's rank.

Progressing down the hall from the East to west, one had the larder and well room the room that connected all. There were two big doors that led into the Great Hall. The head table was closest to the larder and wellroom. Past the table sat the first hearth in its stone ring. Then the second hearth flamed in a similar ring. Smoke was supposed to rise up throughout the covered smoke holes above, but the hall was constantly in a fog of wood smoke, especially on windy days. Beyond the second hearth, on encountered the inner door. Then there came the windroom, then the outer door. The windroom was designed to give people a place to hang their wet things and to make sure no one let in the cold wind. The construction of the inner and outer doors was special and had cost Rolf a small fortune in silver.

The doors were joined oak and bound with iron belts and recessed iron hinges. The doors would neither split nor shatter nor be pulled from its frame. It would that the sturdiest raiders days to hack through them. In his outlaw days, Rolf had used such tactics on sleeping families to great success, now he feared someone to use it on him.

In the Great Hall, all judgments and laws regarding the inhabitants of the Stedding were proclaimed, disputes settled, foreign merchants bargained with and even the King's men received. Sometimes duels were fought. But tonight was a great feast. The goal was to outdo one's kin in eating drinking, storytelling then boast of great feats of prowess.

Rory Rolfson did not feel like feasting, he felt like fighting. The things he saw in the hall burned in his blood. The skald sang like he had a mouthful of bread, while the honored bard, Fleance the lame, was left squatting in the corner, with the common troubadours. The warriors lathered and bruised girls of good family; soon the raping would begin, all in sight of the warrior's wives and children.

Rory tried not to retch whenever a warrior passed, so did they reek. Greasy food and worse stained the beard of every one of them. Their breath was fetid. They believed that bathing caused The Scourge and ate with the same hand they wiped their arses with. They had more fleas than their dogs and more nits than dandruff fells from their oily hair. But every man jack of them was a master butcher. Between them all they killed more men than the pox, so Rory kept his comments to himself, for now.

Rory considered having such swine, even dangerous swine, at his family's table, a personal insult. His mother, Gweneth, could see the boy's rage rising. "Rory, the fire needs more faggots. Help me gather a basket, outside." Rory grabbed a great wicker basket; the kind used for carrying stacks and followed his mother outside, to the woodshed. As he piled the faggots of alder into the man-sized basket, he and his mother spoke.

"Rory, you have to control that temper of yours. I did not shelter you all this time to have you slaughtered by your brother's now."

"Half-brothers. Did you not send me away to my uncles' to learn how to fight?" "No, I sent you to your uncles' to learn The Old Ways, the ways of our people. Half brothers indeed! Next you'll be talking about bastards. They are all our people."

"Our people, our people, always our people! Is it part of the way to tolerate the abuse of my kin? Forced to be servants and serfs when they were once freemen of the land?" He snapped three sticks at once then jammed them into the basket for emphasis.

"Patience is the Way of our people. Our great ancestor, Hern, will protect as always."

"Protect us? The White Stag? Where was he when the king drove Rolf the Outlaw into our lands? Rolf slaughtered my grandfather and raped you when you were barely more than a girl. Then he bought his majesty off with an oath of fealty for him and his forty warriors. It is too late for protection."

"My father had that temper. He refused the king's offer of protection. Rolf saw his opportunity and took it. That's what that temper of yours got our people."

That slowed Rory down. "I am useless."

His mother approached. "Sixteen years ago I sent you to your uncles to keep you safe. Look at us. We have Ahern black, curly hair. We have Ahern green eyes and coloring. In all things, your are Ahern, except you have a bit of Rolf's cool cunning in you. But the cunning is not visible to Rolf.

His other two sons and his daughter are all blonde and blue eyed. He sees you and he sees Ahern. It fills him with dread. You have noticed how he looks at you?"

"Ay, mother, like a wolf watches for a rival."

"Yes, and your brothers are not much better. Harold is an idiotic savage and Wulfgar...wheels in wheels, that one. I suspect him of poisoning. All three men would seek your life."

"But I cannot hide forever."

"Nor do I expect you too. But I do expect you to hide for now. Even the Great Stag uses camouflage."

"Very well mother. I will use my cunning and bite my tongue."

Rory and his mother shook the snow from their boots as the guard re-barred the great door. Then he left the windroom for the Great Hall. The noise was greater if that was possible. The skald was trying to sing to drums now. His mother went to oversee the geese. Rory dropped his basket next to the others and took his place on the bench, at the end of the head of the table.

Only his father, Rolf had a chair, it was the old great seat of Aherns. On the back of the chair, the carved emblem of a stag rampant had been mutilated. After raping the chieftain's daughter, Rolf hacked off its phallus with his great, broad knife, the traditional, Saxe. It amused him to keep the great oak chair as a reminder to all the local idiots that he was the chieftain now.

Rory scanned the room with cooler eyes. His half sister, Dorcas sat at Rolfs' left hand. Rory had to admit, she was a beauty, with waist long red-gold hair and pale skin. She was tall and shapely, with breasts that could have given a dozen children suck. Already foreign men of prosperity had come seeking them for marriage. She flirted with them all and favoring none. Rory pitied the man she married. Sex would ever be a weapon with her. Her children would live only as tools of her personal ambition. Still, he bet she was hot in bed.

So deep in "thought" was he that he did not see Wulfgar coming. "I hear you've become quite the hunter."

Rory had visited the Stedding enough to know that the weasel of a boy could not hunt, fight or do anything useful and he usually scorned anyone who could. Why was he being friendly now? He tried to use some of the cunning his mother said he had. "Anything I know, I owe to my family."

"Yes, your mother's brothers. Been with them a long time, haven't you?" Rory could tell Rolf was listening, even though his eyes were elsewhere.

"I cannot learn to hunt here."

"Oh? And why is that?"

"Woods are all hunted out." That last part was a thinly veiled jab at Rolf, for it was he who hunted the game to paucity.

"Just as well. I prefer goose and swine for feasting."

"I prefer venison."

"Venison? Don't care for it much myself, but it is our father's favorite. What say you get him some? Prove to our father you are useful in some way."

"Very well. I meant to bring something to the feast."

Triumphant, Wulfgar stood atop the table, putting one foot on a tray of flatbread. "Everyone, the night's first boast! My little half-brother here has sworn to bring a deer to the night's feast!"

The Saxon's cheered but the servants, Rory's people went dumb with shock. Gwen, his mother, dropped her ladle.

Wulfgar was far too happy. Rory wonder just what he had done. Rolf laughed and clapped him on his back.

"Fetch my brave son his gear! At least I have one son who won't force me to eat goose for Winter Solstice!" Other members of the warband congratulated him on his bravery and wished him luck on his hunt.

Bravery? Was there a board or bear in the woods he hadn't heard about? Bravery?" Rory was over his head. He accepted the praise as graciously as he could, but he could see that his mother was at the entrance Windroom, impatient to speak with him. She and two minor kinsmen held his furs and gear.

"Foolish boy! Did I not tell thee to mind thy tongue?" She cinched on his rucksack a bit too tight.

"But mother it is only a simple deer hunt." He belted on his good Moorish knife, water skin and fire pouch.

"Simple he says. In your woods, it is simple. Not here! Here all deer belong to the King and it is death to hunt one. Poaching!"

"How can the King own all the deer?" He slipped on the tether to his short bow and quiver.

"Because he is the King. And to stop fools like Rolf from hunting them to extinction."

"So if succeed, Rolf drags me before the King and is free from kin slaying. If I fail, I am disgraced. Who would follow me then?" He paused to reflect.

"Well, the woods are scarce with deer. You can just go for a long walk and claim that you could not find any."

Rory looked at his mother levelly. He would not do that. He would not lie. He had said he would bag a deer and he would, hanging or no.

"Foolish boy! That temper of yours, just like your grandfather. Damn you men and your pride." She left in tears, dreading the idea that her only son would end his days as a landless villain. Only the two servants remained, an old woman, the other a little more than a girl.

"Is there anything else you require, sir?" The old woman spoke on the Old Tongue.

"Yes. I will need food for my hunt and oats for my pony. Do your still grow fresh herbs in pots?"

"Ay."

"I will require a small pot of those. Keep them in dirt, please."

The old woman left and the girl produced a very odd thing from her apron pocket. Her head remained bowed, under her woolen hood. "Sir, please take this. It might be of help."

It was a flint knife. Rory knew that her family must be very poor indeed if this was the girl's only kitchen utensil. It was very large, about a foot long with the dull base wrapped in buckskin as a grip. It was the kind used for hunting and skinning by the meanest sort.

Rory picked it out of her outstretched palms. It was sharp enough to shave with. There were no chips on the stone or stains on the suede so it must have been made that day. Still, it was heavier, clumsier and more brittle than his prized Moorish crescent. He tried to hand it back. "Keep it. I have a knife of steel."

"But sir, you are hunting a solstice stag, only a flint blade will do."

"Who are you? Let me see your face."

She pulled back her hood. Chestnut curls framed her lovely round face. Her eyes were black as two onyx stones set into her ivory face. Rory noticed she smelled like herbs, rosemary? "What's you name?"

"Allanna."

"Allanna. You're right. If I am going to die, no half measures. Let's do this Old Way." Rory pulled out an arrow and frowned at one of his copper tipped arrows. "I used to be proud of these. Now I'd trade them all for one of Uncle Edden's flint "elf darts."

"Wait here, sir." She pulled her hood back on, ran in the Greta Hall. She was back in flash with a great ash spear. It had an antler point.

"You do know the old Ways" Bless me, a Great Spear! Where ever did you find it?"

Allanna simply blushed.

"It is fine thing to have at least one person aiding me in my fool adventure. How can I ever thank you?" He touched her shoulder. She shivered, but not from the cold.

Before Allanna could answer, the Old Woman returned with the poke of the supplies the young man asked for. The matron sized up the situation in a glance and shoved the small sack, partially filled with stinky cheese, into the young man's face. "Your food, young gentleman."

Rory remembered his manners. "Thank ye, goodwife. Now I go. At least I'll escape the stench of the Great Hall. Take care you two." Then he walked into the snowy forest.

When Rory made his boast, he knew it would be fine night for hunting. The moon was full. The sky was clear. The knee-deep snow would illuminate forest and tracks. He rode upwind from the Stedding. When he figure he had left all signs of man behind, he left his pony, old Hob, in a meadow with a sack of grain to keep him fat and content. Hob was used to long waits.

At the creek he turned stalked along the ridgeline, keeping a sharp eye on the southern slope. If any deer were to be found, it would be on the slope where the day's sun had exposed sprouts. Hinds would keep to the forest line beside the creek. Every seventh step he would stop, bend and look for moving legs. Movement was always the first thing that gave prey or predator away.

He hadn't seen any sign of any game. Only in his grandfather's time, the woods teamed with life. The Oaken Land was a resource for the whole tribe. In less then a generation Rolf had hunted these woods out. It broke the young man's heart.

There. Was that steam rising above that boulder beside the stream? Rory flattened. The steam was too high up to be a wolf or boar. It might just be stray cow.

The hoarfrost had made the snow as crunchy as walnut shells. So he slipped into the creek, thigh deep and waded to the sign of breath. He used the banks overgrowth to screen his outline from his prey. He was cold, wet and very patient in his approach. Any deer to survive so long would be skittish indeed.

Gods! It was the White Stag. Full fourteen hands high he was. Nine points of antlers at least. His hide was as white as the moon. Just like the stories said. He was just pulling up some grass and began to chew. Then he turned.

The great White Stag didn't look AT Rory. He looked THROUGH him. He considered the young hunter with his eyes, black as jet, then as a show of contempt, he simply sprung across the creek.

Rory's mind reeled, "Impossible! It was impossible that any stag was so huge. It was impossible the White Stag had seen Rory, beneath the overgrowth. It was impossible that any deer could leap so far from a standing start. Impossible."

The stag paused at the top of the hill, like he was letting the young man appreciate his power. Then he sprung off.

Rory's breath was taken away, but not by the frigid, running water. That stag was magnificent. He would never be able to catch it. His blood raced with the idea of the challenge the buck represented.

All deer, even monstrous white ones, have a favorite track. Rory interrupted the great ones route. He lifted himself from the creek. He sucked on some willow gum to thin his blood while he studied the beast's sign. This one was clever. He could see where his kicked his pellets into the reeds, to hide his spoor. He walked on rocks to avoid making tracks. But this was his path all right. He would be back.

Rory re-entered the creek and paralleled the stag's track. Occasionally, he checked to make sure that the deer's path did not leave the gallery forest. Feeling had left his legs long ago.

Two hours walk until he found good ground. There was a patch of bare rock and a no trees for five paces. Rory could get in a spear thrust. But there was also no cover to leap from ambush. If he had a bow, this would be easy. But he could have to use his wit.

A small snowdrift laid only a stride away from the place of ambush. That would have to do.

Rory took the herb out of its pot. It was pungent and smelled a bit like leeks. He laid the greens on the bare patch of stone. Then he got on his belly and, beginning with his feet, carefully wormed his way into the snow bank. In the end he shook his head a little, collapsing snow over his face. Rory gripped his ash spear and waited.

Fears plagued him. "Did I scare him away?" "Suppose he does not come?" "Suppose he smells me on the herbs?" "On the stone?" "He will see me. Gods, he saw me through brush thick enough to hide an army." The cold crept into his bones. He flexed his muscled to keep from sleep or cramps.

Dawn was not far away when the King of the Woods made his appearance.

He came into Rory's vision. Proud and very, very, cautious. He scanned the area, sniffed the wind and slowly bent to sniff the green herb. The man's plan was to pounce when the animal grazed.

Suddenly, the Great One reared its head in alarm at the scent. Rory sprang in desperation and he threw his spear. But after so much cold and inaction, his muscles betrayed him. His easy toss went short and low, clattering across the stone.

The pole of the spear tripped the stag, ruining his retreat. He stumbled and stood face to faced with his enemy. The stag lowered his head and charged. Eighteen daggers, pushed by two hundred stone drove at Rory's face.

Reflexively, the boy grabbed the antlers and twisted with all his might. Hooves slipped on the icy rock and the buck his the ground with a mighty burst of wind. For the moment, Rory was happy to be alive. He gripped the antlers like a madman. Then the buck began kicking him.

The hoofs cut as they hammered him. The beast's legs moved incredibly fast, inflicting half a dozen serious wounds in a span of three heartbeats.

Rory knew he was loosing. Throwing his weight on the deer's neck, he fumbled for his favorite steel dagger. The buck now scored hits on his legs.

Time slowed. Rory considered the steady, healthy, steel dagger. He dropped it and took out the flint one Allanna had given him. Then he plunged it into the Stag's neck. It slit the hide beautifully and the hart's lifeblood spewed, steaming, out onto the stone and the Rory.

The stag thrashed wildly, its eyes rolled back to stare at him in panic. Rory kept it pinned. As it's struggles subsided, Rory spoke to it. "Sorry, old man. You were beautiful. So, sorry, so sorry." Finally, the blood fountained no more. The King of the Forest was dead.

Rory knew the lore, his uncles did teach him well. Still with flint, he slit the old King's belly open and feasted on his raw, smoking heart, like it was an apple.

The vision came upon Rory with power, a rape of sorts, unstoppable, brutal, and unapologetic. Hern himself stood before him and within him. In an instant, everything he did, everything he was, and everything he would be stood out in stark clarity. There was no point in asking the god any questions; it would be like talking to oneself.

He wrapped his wounds in moss and leather, and then set about butchering the Great White stag. He prepared the stag's intestines, sweetmeats and innards in separate oilskins. He skinned him and dressed himself in its pelt. Rory removed the old King's lower jaw, smashed in his small bones and wore his head as a helmet. It fit remarkably well, but he still lashed it to his chin with leather straps.

Using his hatchet and rope, he lashed together a hunter's sled of birch and ash. Then he pulled it to old Hob. The pony took the towrope well enough, but Rory was confined to walking. It turned out it was good thing that the pony was weighed down.

A pack of wolves, so starved the hunter could see their bones paralleled them. They were drawn by the smell of fresh blood. Only the fear of the supernatural kept the beasts at bay.

Rory was about meet the road. It was icy and his progress would be smooth. But then the lead she-wolf, the one with cubs, blocked his path. She was desperate. The lead male snarled right behind her. The rest of the pack waited.

"Peace. This is flesh of my flesh. You may win it but your dwindled pack will be ended. The vitality of the forest will perish. Be patient but a little while. Come with me. You will feast on the meat of your persecutors. This is Wyrd."

The wolves actually appeared mollified. The lead pair followed and the other four fell in behind them. Fresh snow began to fall, dusting their gray fur.

Winter Solstice was a three-day feast. The First Day Approaching was ended. The Second Day Here, the real solstice was today. He would arrive mid morning. By midnight, either he or the Saxons would be dead and the land be shaped according to the victor.