Story for the Day: The Clan Fight -- Part 3

We're going to be bringing out a new Damson's Distress novella next month for all our readers.
If you've enjoyed the series, contribute a few dollars to our new campaign HERE on Patreon and receive the Clan Fight novella today, as well all subsequent novellas for free. And now, for the second half of the fight between Gaumhin and Vyrdin:

No swords in a Frewyn clan fight, but kilts are paramount.

The fight continued for sometime, the blows becoming laboured and strenuous, their blood seeping into the ground, the brontide of clan war soon giving way to the hiss of heavy breathing. Frames were broken, limbs hung in disarray, but it was a kick from Gaumhin that ended the contest at last. A few close blows and blocks were exchanged, a knee to the stomach and strike to the ribs followed, but just as it looked as though Vyrdin might win the contest, Gaumhin, with his thigh still bleeding out, brought his leg up. He steadied himself, drew his shin high, and as Vyrdin charged toward him, leaping for a last blow to the face, Gaumhin’s heel connected with Vyrdin’s abdomen, launching Vyrdin into the opposite wall. Gaumhin fell to his knees, panting and fatigued, and Vyrdin, conscious but unable to longer move, rolled onto his back in a haze of moving dust. He coughed, blood poured down the side of his face, and he remained on his back, looking over at Gaumhin with a diminished smile. The audience stood in silence, struck by the severity of Gaumhin and Vyrdin’s wounds. Someone called out for a cleric, another demanded they wait until the fight was called. Pain wracked Gaumhin’s limbs, and he leaned forward, collapsing under the agony of torn tendons and burning muscles, holding himself up with one hand, refusing to lie down until Vyrdin admitted defeat. He waited for Vyrdin to stand up, but Vyrdin could move no longer; he remained on his back, whelmed and wounded, his body broken, his features bruised and bleeding, and while his will was indefatigable, his conscisnce commanding himself to stand, his frame refused to obey. Fatigue had been more his enemy than an adversary like Gaumhin could ever been, and Vyrdin turned his head away from the stage and closed his eyes, ending the velitation with a sigh. The wikes around his bleeding lips formed into a smile, and the fight was called. Gaumhin was victorious, and his brothers and cousins were in raptures, racing down to the stage in a fulmination of Westren war cries.

“So much for a friendly contest,” said Alasdair, hastening down from the box to help Vyrdin.

“It was a splendid duel, Brennin!” Dobhin contended, following him. “Absolutely vicious! Did you see Vyrdin dislocate his own shoulder to break from the hold? Stupendous! No one else in would do that!”

“You have never seen a Hophsaas match, if you believe Vyrdin is the only one who would hurt himself to win a contest out of personal pride,” said Boudicca, joining them.

While many were regaling in the ferocity of so animated a contest, Rosamound was cherishing very different feelings. The fight had been friendly-- at least it had been to her eye-- but it would have ended sooner had Vyrdin allowed himself to be crueler than his respect and love for Gaumhin admitted. An eye would have been lost, or a few limbs would have been severed, but the fight would have been over, and Vyrdin would be in much less happy agony than he was now. Thought she knew well that Vyrdin was a seasoned warrior, having fought in many wars and won countless battles, it still distressed her to see him battered and unmoving, and when Dobhin, Alasdair, and Boudicca went down to tend Vyrdin, she followed, leaving Brigdan to help Aldus down from the box.

Aldus took Brigdan’s arm when offered and seemed disgruntled. “He had fight in him yet,” the old man huffed to himself. “He would never have surrendered so willingly were he fighting a real enemy. I should never wish for Vyrdin to be seriously hurt, do not misunderstand me, Brigdan, but you know as well as I do that Vyrdin would fight until unconscious. His limbs certainly were unmanageable by the end, but he could have crawled to the Captain by his teeth and hit him a few more times.”

Brigdan guided Aldus’s steps as they walked down from the box, and he smiled to himself. “I believe it’s better to have ended as it did. Vyrdin does not know how to stop fighting once he has begun. Every fight for him is one to the death,” and then, after a moment’s pause, Brigdan observed, “And, in his case, even beyond.”

Aldus glanced over at Vyrdin, who was lying motionless under the auspices of Dobhin and Alasdair. “Well,” he sighed, moving toward the keep, “I will notify Bilar and have the beds in the infirmary fresh arranged. You tend to my son-in-law and the good Captain, and get them to care as quickly and as safely as you can.”

Aldus was gone, running toward the infirmary with more alacrity than one expected of an old valetudinarian, proving that where his heart was interested, his passulated frame could answer with the celerity of a dutiful parent, for while Aldus might play at indifference for all the rest of the world, or for anything that was not tax ledgers and financial legistlation, he had a sincere attachment to those he considered to be his family. He held his hat to his head as he ran, and Brigdan’s heart gladdened at the prospect, pleased to see how Aldus’ concern could influence his steps. The Late King Dorrin had made himself Vyrdin’s guardian, Aldus had quietly accepted his charge when His Late Majesty had passed on, and while the royal treasurer should never deign to eclipse his closest and oldest friend in affection for Vyrdin, Aldus gloried in having Vyrdin for a son. His wellbeing now was all his apprehension, and while he suppressed his unquietness during the match, he could not but be disquieted now. Abetments and taxes on earnings were nothing where Vyrdin’s welfare was concerned, and Aldus entered the infirmary, severe and sore-footed, calling out for assistance and attention with a heavy heart. Litters were prepared, and Aldus directed a few of the cerns to carry them to the arena, managing about the bandages as Bilar and Merra prepared to receive their patients.

While the infirmary was in a bustle over sterile beds and boiling water, the families of the two combattans furnished their sides, Brigdan going to Vyrdin as Rosamound clung to her husband’s side, Vyrdin gazing at his admirers with a most satisfied smile.    

“I hurt him badly,” said Vyrdin, in a half whisper.

“He hurt you badly, Vyrdin,” said Rosamound, pushing the hair out of his eyes.

Vyrdin tried to shrug and failed. “I’ve had worse.”

“I don’t think you have,” said Alasdair anxiously, cleansing and off Vyrdin’s open wounds. “I don’t remember you looking half so dismantled during the Battle of Westren. You were injured, of course, and someone had stabbed you through, but nobody beat you like this.”

“Swords hurt more than fists,” Vyrdin reminded him. He coughed. “And I was referring to my childhood.”

Alasdair stopped and a pang struck him. “Yes…” said he solemnly, “… Yes,  of course you were.” He continued his work, his hands working diligently at tying bandages, his eyes low. “I apologize, Vyrdin. It’s easy for me to forget that, because I wasn’t around at that time.”

“I can never forget.”  

Quietly and gently it was said, but it was felt ever so much more than Vyrdin could conceive. Rosamound wiped the gash along his brow, Dobhin helped to set his shoulder, but Alasdair felt his sensibilities plague him. I can ever forget: it was felt with all the anguish that a loving nephew could admit, a declaration to silence Alasdair and leave him with sobering sensations all the rest of the morning. He turned away momentarily, to wipe the tears that a variety of feelings produced, and then returned to his work, wiping the caked blood from Vyrdin’s knuckles, relieving his heart of any lingering compunction.