The Tale Teller

Ch 12

 Nestled at the foot of the mountains, in the opening of the valley, were two villages. Clearwater was to the west and Brinevalleybell to the east.

Branoff and Lissy were from one of the villages but Vaun couldn't remember which. What he did remember, and wasn't sure if he could ever forget, was how their village was at war with the neighbouring one and had been for as long as anyone in the land could remember.

Some would say that it started over a maiden's love, other's swore it was over land and cattle, though some insisted that it was sheep. No one knew, and frankly, few cared.

The mountain villages were disconnected from most of the land as they overlooked the great lake, with the mountains all around them. As long as the wheels kept turning on the carts that brought the mutton and wool to the rest of the country, everyone left the rivalry for the mountain men to deal with themselves.

A part of Vaun wished to ask just which village was home to Branoff and Lissy, but he feared Branoff's next punch might hold more force behind it than what he could take.

He had asked the man to teach him some fighting skills, for he was from the combat-loving mountains after all. Branoff had seemed rather flattered by Vaun's request, but he was perhaps just a little too keen about the idea. He had tugged Vaun to an empty beach outside of Whitwich, before making sure to strip them both of their shirts for a man-on-man wrestle. When Vaun had spent more time on his back with his head between the other man's thighs he had called for a change of plans. The wrestle had been scrapped and a punch-up had been arranged instead.

Lissy sat upon the wagon's bench, gasping with every fist thrown and every kick delivered. She seemed more concerned about her brother's attacks than Vaun's, but Vaun's hadn't the likelihood of doing much damage.

He ducked as Branoff came at him, fists flying with a strength he knew was far from the man's full capacity. Branoff was going easy on him, and it only made Vaun more determined to reach a point where he shouldn't have to.

"Ye're getting better, Fawn!" The nickname brought with it a punch of Vaun's own. It hit Branoff's open palm, and Vaun knew the pain in his own hand was much greater than that in Branoff's.

The man was built like a rock, like a slab of stone, a cliff side. He was as strong as Vaun imagined The Father himself to have been.

Vaun tried to mask his expression, to keep his calm exterior and not let the building pain show. He refused to shake the pain from his fist, but as Branoff squared up ready for the next hit, Vaun knew he couldn't do it anymore.

He was covered in a thick sweat, hot and sticky. His hands hurt, as did his legs, and the spot on his chest where Branoff had punched him after he had failed to catch the man's fist. It was beginning to hurt so much as to leave him short of breath.

With an exhausted sigh, Vaun let his body drop to the sand. Branoff stood for a second, fist raised, ready to punch the air where Vaun had once stood. "Ye done?"

A single nod was all Vaun could muster up.

"Lissy! Get ye'self over 'ere!" She soon came running, with two flasks of water for them both.

"Ye hurt him!" She glared Branoff down -or rather up, as he stood a good head, shoulders, and half a chest, above her. His flask was thrust into his hand whilst Vaun's was passed carefully, as though he were wounded enough to need a healer to rush to his aid.

He shook his head at her, in hope it might ease the worry on her face. The lines on her forehead didn't disappear though, in fact, they only increased as Vaun drowned half of the flask before laying back in the sand. Without a word she dropped down beside him, laying down with a look as though waiting for something to happen.