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The Abandoned Asylum of the Good Doctor Fangtasahd
And now here is a small excerpt from “The Abandoned Asylum of the Good Doctor Fangtasahd”. Enjoy.
THE ABANDONED ASYLUM OF THE GOOD DOCTOR FANGTASAHD
“HOW LONG ARE YOU GOING TO KEEP ME TIED up?” said a yellow-maned youth strung up to a fortified tree. “You’re going to have to cut me down sooner or later.” The boy struggled with the leather binding, rocking back and forth like a weightless hammock being bullied by the wind. “I’m prepared to do battle if that is what to come of this.”
Next to the boy was a stout horse, balancing itself on its muscular limbs. White as the snow that covered it, the stallion felt nothing but sympathy for the boy. In fact, it seemed as if the horse was beginning to side with the young lad as it turned to its master and used its eyes to plead for mercy.
“That’s not going to work, Dahkar,” said Vohro, who sat near a small fire--a tired traveler from an unknown land seeking the warmth of a few flames. “The boy has to learn that actions have consequences.” He said this with a muffle to his speech, for being deaf deprived him from expressing the totality of his voice.
Dahkar eyed him fully, and the horse knew that his master was nothing less than stubborn. He walked up to Vohro and used his hoof to softly nudge him on his shoulder.
“Careful with the wound, beast,” said Vohro, increasingly annoyed. “Fine then, stubborn mule. Cut him down, if only to be left in peace from the likes of you two.” Vohro grabbed for the blade snuggled on his left hip and lobbed it at Dahkar. Swiftly, the stallion caught it by the tang.
“Use my blade, Eturita, to snip that dead weight off the tree. It serves him right to suffer in discomfort, especially if he intended to steal my horse without repercussions.”
Dahkar moved up to the boy and used the blade to cut the bindings on his feet and hands. The youth dropped straight onto the ground like a big wet sack hitting the hardest stone. Dahkar leaned down and motioned for the boy to grab his neck, helping the lad up to his feet. He had the clothes of a beggar with some quality accessories accenting his dirt-ridden ensemble, suggesting some efficiency in thievery.
“It seems you have a friend,” said Vohro, who eyed the boy’s lips as he came towards him. “Be glad of that, for I’m not too fond of thieves.” Dahkar gave his master a quick glance.
“I’m nothing like a thief,” said the boy, his pride hurt. “It was your horse that asked me to ride him. It was his eyes. They lured me in.”
Vohro turned to his stallion, which was playing the ignorant one with his legs close together and his eyes to the stars, and then let out a great sigh, knowing he’d been deceived by his long-time companion.
“You know, I don’t know what gets me more into trouble, my sword or my horse,” said Vohro. He reached out to Dahkar and grabbed him by the chin. “Are you getting tired of me, old friend?” The white stallion brushed off his comment with a snort and then began to lick his right cheek. “Okay, enough already! The sun is rising. We must prepare to make our way north.”
The orange sun peeked across the sky just behind the translucent clouds in the distance. Dawn was settling in, and Vohro’s camp took form as the shadows dissipated towards the east. The snowcapped trees stood tall against the backdrop of a fortuitous mountain. Due north laid a path leading to a thick, frosty forest, bordering on the edges of a large but ancient village. That would be the traveler’s next stop.
Vohro rose up, and the strange warrior was revealed to the boy. He was tall and muscular, battered beyond lifetimes, with gauntly cheeks and handsome features. He wore dark clothing all over, and on his upper mass, the warrior had a rich, sleeveless garment with intricate designs, probably worth more money than the boy had acquired throughout his miserable life. On his forearms were silver gauntlets with blades sticking out of each one, gleaming against the moonlit dawn.
Vohro moved towards a large sack that leaned against a hefty, smooth boulder. Next to the sack laid his Rasplendur or his long blade--the deadliest of all his steel-engrossed brood. He grabbed the blade just near the guard with the hilt exposed. Roughly cut and abused, the hilt was made of a shimmering silver, glistening beyond the shadows of the dusk. The silver encapsulated a small vial made of smooth glass inside, housing a dark and syrupy liquid. Vohro twisted off the cap at the end of the hilt, releasing some of the liquid into the darkness of the winter earth.
“What’s that?” said the boy as he approached the traveler. But Vohro didn’t answer, for he was in a trance-like state, muttering sacred words beneath his chapped lips. The breathiness of the words, though silent and weak, seemed to slice through the icy air like lightning piercing the dank, gray clouds of a storm; it was electrifying.
“Is that your blood?” said the boy as he saw the deaf warrior turn to him.
“Speak to my eyes and not my body when you utter words, for I cannot read your lips if you don’t.”
“Oh, I see,” said the boy, caught off guard with the warrior’s deafness.
“And yes, boy, blood it is,” he said. “It’s mine, taken from me a long time ago.”
“Why do you spill it?”
“It’s my duty,” said Vohro, capping off the hilt and raising himself up. “I’m bound by my oath to only spill blood in defense of others. If there comes a time where I spill blood in defense of my own interests, I must spill some of my blood here in this vial. It is the Davinian way. Just a few days ago, my hatred got a hold of me and I drew blood gratuitously, simply out of selfish lust, but I will speak of that no more.”
Heeding the warrior’s words, the boy kept to his interest on the blood. “What will happen when it runs out?”
“Then I am no longer Davinian.”
“What does it mean to be Davinian?”
The inquiry from the yellow-maned boy drew a grin from the weary traveler. “To strive to be more than you are and ever could be,” said Vohro with an ancient knowledge.
“Sounds difficult.”
“The path that we are all called to travel is never the easiest path,” said Vohro as he strode up to the boy. “If ever you find yourself strolling down the road of life, know that you are truly lost.”
“Well I for one don’t stroll down my path,” said the boy with eyes of a bruised, abandoned soul.
“What is your name, child?” said Vohro as he made his way to Dahkar, packing his things on the horse’s saddle and turning back to the boy.
“Ehtan,” he said, slightly insecure.
“Ehtan you say?” said Vohro, his eyes opening up with a fiery anger. “That’s a thief’s name! It’s no wonder you took off running with the horse. Well, Ehtan the Thief, what are you to do now?”
“Am I not to go with you?”
“Ha!” scoffed Vohro. “And do what? Your path is nothing like mine.”
“The thing you said about being a Davinian, wanting to be better than you are--well I want to be that,” said Ehtan. “I don’t like my life as it is now.”
“Being a Davinian is not an excuse to feel good about yourself, child,” said Vohro as he took his Rasplendur and sheath it down the middle of his back. “It’s a road of sacrifice, constantly exposed to the true evils of the world.” Vohro reached inside his poncho-like garment and suddenly took it off with force, revealing a magnificent leather vest, housing a number of radiant blades. “It’s a life of discipline through steel! You don’t choose this life to happify yourself. The Davinian life chooses you for the cultivation of your soul. Your state of happiness comes from realizing this
transcendent goodness.”
“I don’t see how it could be any worse than it is now--a boy with no parents, no coin, no future, but only the wind and the trees to keep company with. At least with you there’s adventure.”
“No, Ehtan,” said Vohro. “With me there’s exposure to truth. You’ll be privy to great beauty, but to get to it, you must cross great horror. Besides, to become a Davinian you must attend the school. And that, boy, is far away from us.”
“Can you not take me in?” said Ehtan, pleading. “Let me be your servant for now.”
“No, Ehtan. I serve the people of the land. No one serves me.”
“Let me prove myself,” the boy continued as he stepped closer to Vohro.
“You’ve already proven yourself to be a thief,” said Vohro, “by taking a joyride with my stallion, regardless of whose idea it was or if you were innocently lured into it.”
Ehtan sighed, receiving a blow to his sense of self-worth.
“Don’t take pity on yourself, boy, lest you get defeated by the harshness of life.”
“So what am I to do?”
“I will take you as far as my next stop, which is a village northward of here in the Province of Neu. There, I will pay for three nights’ shelter. After that, you’re on your own.”
Ehtan nodded reluctantly and accepted his fate. “You’re right. It was wrong of me to ride your stallion. You’ve been too kind already.”
Vohro stared at
Children of a Sunless Land (The Deaf Swordsman Series No. 1) Page 7
