Episode 7: Gundar the Swineherd

"Mayhap it's all for the best that all my crew was lost," Gundar muttered to himself as he hauled a pail of slops to the pen where Arca's offspring awaited him with eager squealing. "It would disgrace me forever to be remembered in the scauldir's lays as Gundar the Swineherd."

Since his arrival at the swine-herder's hut, he had spoken to no one but his host Petros and his buxom but intellectually limited daughter Marcelle. He had heard enough pig lore to last a life-time. A cartload of slops arrived from Arestasis' palatial residence daily, but the driver considered the new assistant swineherd beneath his notice as he chatted with Petros about the latest agricultural trends, interspersed with the occasional bit of gossip, while Gundar unloaded the full containers from the cart and replaced them with empty ones.

The work was dull, the food plain, and the bed lumpy. The clothes he wore were shapeless and scratchy. All these Gundar had endured before in his life. But the humiliation he suffered was enough to drive him off to brave the unknown with neither coin nor weapon, save for the fact that he had given his word.

His oath of fealty bound him body and soul, will and fancy, might and main. To break even the smallest part of his troth meant forfeiting his greatest treasure: his honour. Every evening, as he put another pebble in an empty bag he had found, he asked himself if he should have chosen death rather than leave himself vulnerable to the whims of that maddeningly unpredictable mage. He would be adding his fifteenth pebble before sleeping tonight. The remainder of the year lay before him like an eternity. What benefit was there to be had in this life when he could be sporting in the land of dreams with Lili? When Baldur spoke of adventures to come, he surely had not meant a tourney with slop-pails and swine.

Gundar lifted the pail over the fence and dumped the slops along the trough for the seven young pigs. A small litter, but vigorous, and growing fast. Gundar did not pause to admire them, but trudged back to fetch another pail.

The pig-herding business was more complex than he had thought at first. The herd consisted of twenty-four sows, a resident boar Petros had named Edigg, and a nameless boar who had been brought from afar to impregnate the younger sows who were Eddig's daughters. Seven of the sows had litters still nursing; nine had been separated from their progeny and were waiting to be bred again; and eight were in various stages of pregnancy. The oldest and largest of the sows, Rosalyn, was due to farrow at any moment, and had to be watched carefully. The pigs were fed grain, grasses and table scraps according to precise measures determined by Petros, and let out of their pens daily to root for grubs and bathe in the mud of the nearby slough. The various litters were inclined to fight with each other, even to the death on occasion, and had to be kept separate. It took all day to release the pigs in groups, keep them from straying, and herd them back into their pens.

By the time the day's work was finished, Gundar was more than ready to sit and take his ease with Petros while Marcelle prepared their food over an open fire. The first day he had felt on the verge of swooning, but his strength was returning quickly. The scratches and bites had turned into itchy scabs which tormented him until they fell off, but Arestasis' spell had done its work, and there was no sign of infection. The sores that remained were the result of Gundar's impatient scratching. Petros had advised him that the mud of the slough had healing properties and would soothe the itch, but Gundar had been too proud to make use of it.

Petros treated his charges like family. To Gundar's untutored eyes, one pig was like another; but Petros had named them all and could distinguish them at a distance. He spoke to them tenderly, checked them for disease and wounds, caressed them like pet dogs and knew their whole history. He never failed to shed a tear when the butcher came to claim his next victim for the banqueting table. Gundar had tried to draw him out on the subject of the larger world beyond the pig yard; but somehow the conversation always turned back to Petros' darlings.

"We have to watch our Rosalyn carefully," Petros said for the hundredth time as they waited for their supper to finish cooking. "She has large litters and mothers them well, but she's likely to be agitated at first and lie on her young. You have to keep well back from her, but keep a sharp eye and be ready to rush in if need be. An' don't be surprised if she takes a chunk out of you! She's older than she was, but her temper's no better."

Gundar was relieved that Petros did not pull down his leggings again to show the scar on his thigh that Rosalyn's teeth had left years ago. Petros had a number of marks on his body left by pigs and others left by passing soldiers or impatient masters. The worst of them was a deep gouge in his calf left by a boar's tusk which had done enough damage to spoil his gait. He wore them all with pride, like battle scars, and was never shy to recount how he came by them.

Marcelle brought the men fresh bread and a savory stew concocted from some local bird she liked to snare. Better fare than usual, Gundar thought after slurping a mouthful of the liqud from the bowl, taking care not to burn his mouth. He speared a piece of meat with his knife and held it up, grinning appreciatively at Marcelle. She blushed and looked away. Gundar jerked his eyes away from her cleavage and popped the meat into his mouth. This one would be easy to take, but he had not forgotten his vow of loyalty to Lili. In any case, it would be wise to abstain until he knew more of the local laws. He had heard more than one horror story of travellers who acted as they did at home, and endured dire penalties as a result.

"My girl and I be on our way to market in Calligena first thing in the morning," Petros said. "We be staying for one night at least, maybe two. The pigs be yours to tend 'til we return."

Gundar continued spearing morsels from his stew and mopping the gravy with chunks of bread, his mind wandering while Petros meticulously detailed the care each and every pig must receive.

"Can you remember all of it?" Petros asked. "Or must I tell you again?"

"Fear nothing," Gundar said hastily. "All will be well. You'll see."

"You do seem a little slow-witted at times," Petros fretted. Marcelle hid a giggle behind her hand.

Gundar's muscles bunched, aching to add another wound to Petros' collection. What right did this churl have to criticize his wits? "All will be well," he repeated in a sharper tone.

"Hello the house!" a cheerful female voice cried outside the door of the hut. Without waiting for a response, the new arrival opened the door and stepped inside.

Petros' face brightened. "Mistress Lexa! Will you share our food with us?"