White Stag of Winter

Archive name: stag.txt (M+/F+, FF, inc, orgy, medieval)

Authors name: Koji (gokoji@hotmail.com)

Story title : White Stag of Winter

An ancient clan is about to vanish. The forest is about to go barren. Rory Rolfson is desperate to help his people. The secrets of the Great White Stage of his ancestors and the fertility rites of winter could save his people. If only he knew them.

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 war band 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 war band 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 well room.
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 wind room, then the outer door. The wind room 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, you 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 wind
room 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 war band 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 Wind room,
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 you 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 your 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 figured 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.

*

Gweneth felt a strange urge to go out into the woods. She
could have sworn she heard Rory’s voice calling her, but
surely nothing could be heard through the log walls or
above the bawdy din. She couldn’t help it anymore. She
handed the spit to a servant, slapped on her wool cloak
and plowed through the snow, cursing herself all the way.

Someone, a girl by the look of it, had walked into the
woods ahead of her. Gweneth looked back and could see
Morgawse the elder walking in her path, using Gwen as a
snow breaker.Gwen followed the girl’s’ footprints into
the tree line and saw the god. The Great Horned One stood
there; his hide was as pale as the moon, and he wore and
absurdly large horns upon his head like he was born to
them. His chest was bare, colored with dried blood.
Stream rose up his body. In one hand he held a spear of
ash wood tipped with antler. At his belt he wore two
knives. It was just as her grandmother had always said.

Allanna knelt in the snow, prostrate, licking the Horned
One’s left hand clean. Behind the god, her son’s pony
waited faithfully. Where was her son?

Her son WAS the god. The Great Stag possessed him. In
every real sense, he was no longer her son but the
embodiment of the virility of the woods. Gwen bowed
immediately in the presence of the King.

Old Morgawse arrived suitably unimpressed. “SO you
finally decided to show up, have ye? About time. Where
did you go? And why the hell did you leave us to these
savages?”

The Stag took no affront. “Any forest’s herd grows thin
on its own. Rogue bucks from neighboring woods wander in,
bring fresh blood. Our people are old, inward turning.
Chieftains had begun to shun new blood. We needed new
stock.”

Neither of the two senior women brought up their kin’s
death. To the Horned One, death or life, it was all the
same. Allanna was lost in idolatry. Her young life had
been spent in depravation. Now her faith had been
restored.

With her son’s voice, Gwen heard the god speak again. “A
generation has passed. It is time to reclaim the herd.
The old buck’s time is done. I will slay my rivals and
take the all the hinds.

My host has warned me of my rivals’ might. You will aid
me, as your mothers did.” He held out the sack with the
old Stag’s intestines in it. “First, give this to the
bard.”

*

“Wine? Where have you been hiding this woman?”

“In the secret caves, my lord and husband. I hid it there
in the days when the village was becoming a Stedding.”

“Why bring it out now?”

“Since the Romans introduced my family to it, a Sol…
Yule feast has never been without it.”

“Is this all of it?”

“No, my lord and husband. There are many barrels. My
family traded with Aquitain often.”

“Humph. You will show me these caves when we are done
here.”

Gwen bowed.

Rolf stood. “Landsman, warriors and honored guests. I
have a special treat. I have brought, as no small
expense, real wine to our feast. Wenches!”

The crowd cheered in appreciation. Allanna led the host
of young serving women in from the larder with pictures
and pictures of wine. Drinking bowls and drinking skulls
were quickly emptied to make room for the deep red
vintage.

Two hours of drinking and feasting later, the war band
was growing ugly. They were used to mead and ale, not
wine. Fists flew on more than one occasion, but usually
ended harmlessly. The wenching was getting serious. Rolf
enjoyed the wine’s effects on his men or himself. In the
safety of his new Great Hall he let himself enjoy the
scene.

“I can see why your family liked wine at your solstices,
nasty orgies that they were.””Oh this is nothing. I could
perform the dance for you.”

“Dance?”

“Yes, it’s a celebration of life, it tells the story
of…”

“Ha! I’d like to see you dance. You’ve been a sour faced
old bitch ever since they day I took you. You’d think a
chief’s daughter would be a better sport about such
things.”

“Very well. I will dance.”

“How, the scald has already feinted from the wine.”

“Fleance knows the old tune well enough.”

“Bah! A harp is no real instrument. It’s soft and
womanly.”

“He has put on new, strong strings that will make a very
manly sound. Besides, the mistrals will follow him.”

“Very well.” The sodden chieftain swayed and stood while
Gwen spoke to the Bard. “Landsmen, warriors and honored
guests. My wife would like to dance for us. It’s some old
pagan dance, but we might be amused.”

The servants refilled all the cups and blows, then left
the pitchers beside the warriors. Then they cleared the
hall away. Gweneth Ahern stood at the end of the hall and
waited for Fleance to begin.

The music began frolicsome, as Rolf has expected. Gwen
leapt, pranced and skipped down the hall. She seemed
twenty years younger. Long legs extended from her skirt.
She slewed her hips from side to side, flirting with
every Saxon, until his eyes didn’t leave her.

The music grew more intense, more urgent. Rolf found
himself growing a pole and by the heavy breathing of his
men, he was not alone. Gwen leapt on the table and
increased her gyrations. Her laces came undone by
whirling or her nimble fingers. Her black ringlets of
hair flew from side to side.

Finally, her bodice slipped down to reveal two pale, full
and heavy breasts.

The music increased its pace. No man in the hall wondered
what the dance was being performed before them. It was
re-creation of the Dance of Life, or the dance of making
life. Gwen bent her knees until her haunches rested on
the tabletop.

Undulating her hips with increasing fervor, breast
bouncing, head whipping from side to side, she humped an
invisible lover. The music matched her fiery lust.

In crescendo, Gwen lifted her head skyward in ecstasy.
She hunched her back convulsively, winding down in
intensity.

The foreign men pounded the table in appreciation. The
wenches simply replaced non-full pitchers with full ones
and continued with their cleaning. But the dance did not
end.

The music took on a gentle quality. Gowned in a simple
white shrift, young Allanna slowly walked forth. She
climbed onto the table. Gwen stood, spread her legs and
lifted her skirts. The girl crawled underneath.

Gwen’s body moved in mock pain and then the young girl
emerged from beneath the curtain of skirt, naked. She had
discarded her simple gown.

Allanna’s curly chestnut hair waterfalled to the small of
her back. Her skin was smooth and without blemish. Her
teats were modest. Her hips could have been fuller, but
she was very fit. Slowly she arose, Gwen’s arms welcoming
her. Allanna tenderly took a nipple and sucked on the
woman’s right breast.

Between sucks, Allanna whispered to Gwen. “I am going to
mate with your son, mother.”

“So be it. Share his couch. Make many grandchildren. Now
drink of my life.”

Allanna framed Gwen’s head in her hands and kissed her
fully, passionately on the lips. Their tongues entwined
like serpents. Then Allanna slid down Gwen’s front, her
destination was obvious.

“That’s enough!” Rolf roared. “Damn pagans! What is
this?”

“Why husband and lord, it is the dance of life. Performed
every solstice.”

“Od’s blood it is! It ends tonight, now!”

“But you haven’t seen the end.”

“I don’t need to see the end.”

“Oh, but you do. You see it ends in death.”

Rolf was never so drunk that he failed to recognize a
threat. He looked round the room. The musicians waited,
patiently. The oldsters stood in clump by the wind room
door. The serving wenches and lads were gone. And all the
weapons and shields were missing from the walls.

“It’s a trap! Alarm! Alarm!”

The drunken warriors looked about for a threat and saw
none. “The doors, you fools! Guard the doors!”

The door flew open and winter walked in with the Great
Horned One. From across the room he threw his great ash
spear and impaled Rolf Outlaw to the back of his oaken
throne. The antler point protruded just where the stag’s
phallus had once been. Morgawse handed him a Saxon boar
spear and the slaughter began.

*

The serving lads and wenches trembled in the larder and
well room. The screams and sounds of killing permeated
the larder door. The lads made a brave show of
brandishing knives and crude clubs but they were not men.
Only Rolf’s men were permitted in the Great Hall, until
now. Then hall went silent.

The knock startled them. “Open the door. It is only I,
old Morgawse. It is safe.”

The people removed the wedges from the door and opened it
cautiously. It was only Morgawse. “Come on young’uns.
There’s work to be done before the play.”

As the young one’s entered a mighty sight greeted them.
Against the table, beside the corpse of Rolf, the Great
White Stag humped a blissful lady Gweneth while the naked
maiden, Allanna, bathed the two in caresses and licks.
“What’s the matter? Haven’t you seen a woman mounted by
the Horned One before? Get used to it younglings. Your
fathers and some mothers may not remember the ancient
Ways, but we elders do. And this Solstice you are going
to start it all anew.”

Lady Gweneth suddenly arched her back and gave a great
shout of joy. The old woman smiled with nostalgia. Then
the Stag thrust his loins in forcefully and grunted.
While the buck savored the moment, the doe-eyed Allanna
placed her hands on the table lip and presented herself
to the new lord’s servicing.

The new lord withdrew from Gweneth. His phallus was huge,
dark and dripped with hot semen. The girls gasped with
awe at the gigantic member. Without skipping a beat the
Stag, shoved his massive cock into Allanna. Gwen, legs
limp, folded to the floor.

Allanna first yelped, then sighed, then shouted vulgar
words of praise and encouragement to her mate. Little
drops of blood fell from her womb and speckled the honey
colored oak floor. Gwen was still weak from the onrush of
rapture. She simply wrapped herself around the Great
One’s leg and kissed it.

“Well, enough witnessing. Come on, we’ve got work to do.”
The avatar had killed or subdued everyone in the room.
Most of the war band was dead. Some few were stunned,
dead drunk or too wounded to move. The armed elders and
musicians held all the Saxon women and children in the
corner.

The children were led into the root cellar and bolted in.
The Saxons who could walk were forced to carry the dead
out into the snow. When the last corpse or drunk was
removed the outer door was bolted and they were left to
the wolf pack.

“That skald cannot even scream on key,” laughed Fleance.

“Bring two barrels of wine.” Ordered the new lord.
Allanna and Gweneth were licking his phallus clean,
savoring each drop of life-giving seed. The servants
rolled two barrels in promptly.

“Upturn them.” The butler and his steward obeyed. The
Stag disengaged his mates and walked towards the kegs.
With his elbow, he smashed in the ends of both. Then he
picked up one of his leather sacks, the smallest one. He
untied the pouch and showed its contents to all present.
It was the male part of the first stag. With the flint
knife, he slit the deer’s sack, allowing its milky goo to
drip into a keg.

Then he let the organ follow, dropping it into the red
vintage. He picked up a bronze tankard, poured out its
remainder and shouted. “Every man here drinks!” he
scooped up a cup and gulped it down between breaths. The
he refilled and made way for his kin.

The elder men went first. One by one, to keep and eye on
the prisoners. Every youth followed. They dared not
disobey. The bloody new King cast a baleful eye on anyone
who did not fill his tankard to the brim with the first
dip. Most men could not swallow so much at one time, so
they drank while the Stag executed his next instruction.

He picked up a larger pouch and set it on the portion of
the table directly opposite from the girls and women. He
untied the oilskin and revealed a large, raw whole liver.
“Eat. A bite will do.”

Morgawse’s eyes grew wide with greed. She took a step
forward. “No! Her.” He pointed towards Dorcas.

“Absolutely not.” Dorcas was ever the chieftain’s
daughters, even when held prisoner.

“I don’t know what got into you Rory Rolfson, but if you
think we are simply going to…” Then Dorcas saw sparks.
When she looked up from the floor, Gwen, now standing and
strong yelled down at her.

“You heard the King you miserable harridan. Now do it!
Eat the liver.” She kicked the prostrate girl. Then she
grabbed a handful of hair and pulled her closer to the
table.

Allanna began to beat, pinch and pull Dorcas in a similar
manner. The serving girls joined in the fun.

She was bent over the live in short order. “Eat it!” The
people demanded. The girl whimpered and cried. “Eat it!”
Dorcas tried to get away with a nibble. “No! A whole
bite, you foul sow!” A serving girl spanked her with a
handled wooden tray until she gave into the inevitable,
bit into the black and swallowed.

“Now cage her in a faggot basket. I will have use for
them later.”

The big girl screamed and resisted, but the other girls
had worked their whole lives and so were too strong for
her. “Maybe we’ll throw you on the hearth!” The girls
teased. The lid was tied on the wicker cages. Then the
elixir of the Great Stag’s liver hit the female’s
bloodstream. Dorcas Rolfsdotter fell into a stupor.”

Crones, sliced up the remainder into hearty bites. Women,
prisoners, people, then crones; you will all partake of
the Great Stags liver. Throw the rest into the second
barrel and then drink of the mixture.”

To avoid the same beating the prisoner wives, daughters,
sisters and kin ate the liver the crones offered. They
were not so proud and they had eaten liver before, though
the Rolfdotter’s stupor did not encourage them. All the
rest partook and the remains thrown in the second barrel.
The wine washed it down.

All the women fell into a sleep, which is not what the
men wanted. All the men, from the youths to the oldest,
were panting heavily. Hard members tented their clothes.
Their feet twisted into the wooded floor as they watched
the women’s breasts slowly rise and fall with each
breath.

“Come. Brothers, bathe. The doe’s will awaken soon. You
there, save these two barrels and bring in the rest.”

The men ran to obey their King. After the wine had been
moved, they melted snow and washed themselves. For Rory’s
body, the caked blood was hard to get off at first. But
the trail dirt and sweat wiped up easily enough. His hair
was sticky and he wiped that too. Then he redressed
himself in his pelt. “You played the Song of Life well,
bard. Can you play the Solstice Dance as well?”

“Yes, my liege and may I say you have blessed me with the
finest harp strings imaginable.”

“You are very worthy. Ah. They awaken. Man your harp.”

The women, starting with Gweneth and Allanna began to
rise. The younger and more vital women awoke first. The
elders awoke last.

The women stretched and looked about for the men. The
divisions between captive and guard were forgotten. They
were women, plain and simple. They cast for the males
with slow smiles. The men began their panting.

“It is so hot in here.” One of the girls groaned and all
the rest echoed her plaintive cry. Slowly, in full
knowledge of what they were doing, they slipped out of
their garments. Then they stretched. Everyone one of them
smiled, savoring the delicious knowledge of the effect
they were having on their big, handsome men.

Already naked the stag advanced. It didn’t matter which
one he took; they were all his herd. Thanks to his liver,
they were all in season. And all the men were in the rut.
They scattered. It was Morgawse he grabbed first.

As he mounted her, she was amazed. She had gone trough
the change ten years ago, but now her womb was as slick
and fresh as a maiden’s. The liver had worked its magic.
Morgawse thought she was beyond the age where life called
her to create, make her a Mother. What a wonderful
discovery!

“Ughoooo!” Morgawse thought she would split open. Goddess
the stag was huge. In and out he slid inside her. She
could feel his hot breath in his ear, feel his hands grab
her teats. In and out. In and out. She used an old trick
from the days when boys begged her for a roll in the hay.
She used her inner muscle to clench down invader of her
body.

The Stag laughed in approval. “Ha! I see you have spirit,
woman! Good! Use all your skill, tonight is for joy!” He
renewed his thrusting and she began to loose control.

Something more was filling her. She threw her body about.
She ground her haunch into his loins. She screamed, she
yelled and she begged the great Horned God not to stop.
She wanted him to fuck her forever. Something like a
great flood was building. She desperately didn’t want it
to stop building and she desperately needed release. In
the end, the damned up emotion had to burst open. She
remembered howling with joy; the rest is a blur.

All around the Great Hall, naked females allowed
themselves to be chase by naked, rampant females. When
they finally caught them they humped in any one of a
dozen positions. Or they didn’t use their loins at all,
but just used their faces. The wine flowed. As a
demonstration of his prowess, Fleance kept the charmed
magic in the air, while he pleasured a doe at the same
time. Two more females awaited his attention.

“Women always like Bards.” The Great Stag remembered.

He had removed himself from the orgy and sat on the
bloody ruined throne. He was letting his people have a
good time. There were twice as many does as bucks, but
that was fine. As soon as a buck pleasured one doe, he
moved on tot another, never minding if another buck had
been there first.

The females did not mind that fact that the men were
constantly hard and ready to rut. After she exhausted a
man, all a woman had to do was present herself to a youth
and he serviced her with the energy of his young years.

Two pairs of does pleasured each other in the manner of
lovers. One poured wine over the other and licked the
juice from her breast. The other two had their mouths
locked on each other’s sex and kneaded each other’s
behinds like bread dough. Moans of love emitted therein.

Saxon or People, it mattered not. Now they were simply
men and women. It amused the Stag no end how people
thought they were anything else. Amused him, that is
until Rory intruded with a memory of how much strife it
caused.

Hours of intense fucking and midnight was near. The
people were winding down. The stag ordered the restocking
of the fires, bathing and feeding of themselves and the
children in the cellar. Then he approached Dorcas. It was
clear that the baskets were not to keep her in, but the
others out. During the orgy, she had screamed for a good
rutting until her throat grew hoarse.

But whenever a buck approached, the Great Stag warned
them off. She knew she was being saved. But for what?
Human sacrifice? She did not care. She did not fight it
any longer. She was a woman, like these other women,
sisters. All the silliness, vanity and pride at being
something she was not had left her. It was a like a great
weight had been lifted from her spirit.

The Stag’s time was ending. He called all his people, new
and old near. Even as they listened intently, they reach
out and caressed each other’s unclothed flesh. “You will
always be my People, you newcomers as much as the
old.Remember to bring new blood into the herd. This new
mortal king is a good man and Rory Rolfson has a plan for
dealing with him. Listen to him.

I have left you two barrels of wine, imbued with me
essence. Place a tincture of them in each new solstice
barrel so you will know life still wanders the wood.
Remember that I love you, always.”

Then the Horned One draped his pelt over the throne sat
down and rested his head. When he looked up again, the
people roared, “The King is dead. Long live the king!”

All but an echo of the Great Horned One had left Rory. He
had witnessed and taken part in all.

Gweneth spoke up to her son. “What now, my lord?”

“Now we rebuild. This hall is a good refuge. We will be
gamekeepers for the King. We will use him to guard the
woods.

I will keep the name Rolfson, so as to not breed
suspicion. But the Stedding will be renamed to Herntown,
to remind us of our real allegiance.”

“And me, my lord?” Rory’s beautiful half-sister, swayed
through the crowd. She held her hand behind her back,
showing off her udders. Her hair was red-gold both above
and below. Her hips were full but not fat, she was ready.
“You know I always thought you were handsome.”

Rory’s blood grew warm and he felt a stiffening below. He
looked down. Dorcas followed his gaze.

“Ohh, my lord.” Unabashedly, she wrapped cool fingers
around the base of the shaft. Her other hand could have
wrapped around it too, with room to spare.

“Apparently no all of the Great Horned One’s might has
left, my lord.”

This was the first time Rory, just Rory, was confronted
by the fertility magic. It was his half-sister. He
hesitated. The People almost stopped groping each other;
the tension was so great.

“Do it, sir,” Hissed Morgawse. “Mother, sister, maiden.
It is The Way of the Triple Goddess.”

“Join with her, my son,” whispered Gweneth in his ear.
“The people need new blood.”

“Fuck her, my love.” Spoke Allanna, triumphantly, “No
woman can resist my man. If you want her, take her.” Rory
met her lips in a kiss. Her mouth opened to receive him.

A servant brought out a bed of furs so when the two
lovers descended to the ground, it was ready for them.
The rest of the people moved towards their own favored
partners. The earlier screams and barks now moved into
gentle sighs and quiet moans.

Morgawse, Gweneth and Allanna stayed with Rory, caressing
the two lovers with hands and tongues. The two young
people slithered up and down each other’s body. They
sucked in each other’s body heat.

Rory found Dorcas’s lips to be more intoxicating than any
wine. Her breast sweeter than a honey and her sex, her
sex was a peach, a juicy, sweet, nectary peach.

He lingered to savor the juices. Dorcas ran her fingers
through his dark curly hair and her sweet whispers of
“Oooh my lord, that feels so good.” swiftly rose to a
shout of joy, “Oh ya! Ya! Yaaaaaaaaa.” He wiped his chin
on her thighs.

When he stood, she scratched him against her. “I love
you. I love you. I love you. Oh bed me now, please bed
me!”

Gently, Rory lowered her onto the bed of fur cloaks.
Allanna laid our Dorcas’ hair so it spread around her
head like an aura. She impatiently spread her legs and
Rory slipped in to her soaking wet nether lips. She
sighed. He hunched his back so they could kiss with the
other set of lips as well. Then he bent his hips forward
and back in rapid succession.

As the tension built, she broke the kiss and shouted.
“Ya. Ya fill me up. Fuck my cunt. Ah my cunt is burning!
Fill me up. Och, you are so big. Aya aya ya Aya!!!” Rory
arched his back at the same time, spewing his seed deep
inside his half sister.

In the afterglow of the lovemaking, Dorcas thought about
how lucky she was, how the Stag had saved her form a
bitter, fruitless life. She realized, now, that her sex
was not a coin. Rather, it was a gift, to be shared with
loved ones and celebrated.

As for Rory, he was satisfied he had found a strong, near
fearless woman to lead the People, as well as share is
bed. Both now belonged to each other.

Mother, sister, maiden, Rory took them all to his new
bed, the chieftain’s bed. Each woman and all his children
brought something to his household. The bounty of babies
in the Fall kept the midwives buys.

The king was well pleased with his new gamekeeper and the
village that supported him. The Rolfson clan flourished
as the Woods prospered. And every Winter Solstice, a bit
of the Old Wine was mixed with the new. And thought he
effect was not as dramatic, it was still very, very,
magical.

END

White Stag of Winter
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2020-03-06 12:42:38

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