The
lack of planning in my spontaneous decision began to bare its teeth
as Sandbark sailed away from me. Since the first time I'd sailed
towards the Everglade with mom and my siblings, I'd contemplated how
difficult it'd be to swim from the mainland to Delphajor, or if I'd
succumb to fatigue halfway and drown. All the analysis in the world
hadn't given me an x yet, and I wasn't keen to find out so I was glad
the ride was not a long one by boat. Delphajor was visible from the
mainland. The galley crested on wards, ignorant to the parasite clinging off of its oars for survival.
Describing
the pain my body was wracked with seems pointless and impossible, not
due to its intensity (though it was, in a word, agony) but due to the
intriguing sensation that a writhing muscle provides. Naught like a
cut, naught like a lash, and naught like a bruise, the rising
crescendo of my muscles' violent protest rose to a deafening pitch;
each fiber strumming a dissonant note that only pain could harmonize
- the only vocals in this ensemble were the grunts and gasps
spluttering from my mouth. The oars had achieved synchronicity; they
now cut the water smooth like a dull knife - and, a quiet knife. It
was a wonder the consorts couldnt' here me groaning.
By
the time the dock to Delphajor grew more distinct, my entire body
felt as if I'd been dealt fifty lashes. Each joint hissed in disdain,
each muscle throbbed. Despite the pain, I could fall back on the fact
that I'd bested the Consortium, and I'd bested the dock man's false
sense of authority. The both of 'em can get fetched.
That
being said, I still hadn't a clue how I was going to make a safe
landing without raising a ruckus. Surely nobody upon Delphajor’s
docks was expecting a dripping (albeit unarmed) swordsman to be
hanging off the ship. They would point fingers, Consortium members
would follow the fingers with their eyes, and I'd be discovered.
Promptly killed, too. Or worse.
Yet,
that was the least of my worries.
The
wind had been gentle today; the only sounds - aside from the
occasional blatting of a lazy gull - was the churn of the oars, my
own haggard breathing, and the whisps of conversation I'd overheard
from two Consortium members who'd wandered below deck to scry on the
slaves.
“Not
something they deserve. Not this many."
“Hush
yourself. Our orders are our orders.” Classic words to suit anyone
who was more than happy not to have to think for themselves.
“It
is too powerful. Too unholy, this imbusion.” Imbusion? A term I’d
never heard before. One that I now wish I had never heard at all.
“Yes.
Dangerous if untamed, and incredibly powerful if used properly. This
is where we come in, brother. We are the tamers of imbusion.”.This
was where my worry stemmed – a massive group exacting the wishes of
holy fanatics, of the Militia, claiming to possess wild and dangerous
powers. If anybody but the Consortium had spoken those words, I would
have dismissed them as a fool.
A
consort was born into impunity - to my knowledge, a civilian could
not join the Consortium. The Militia? Sure, but not the Consortium.
The Consortium was tightly tied to the empire and - prior to what I'd
seen earlier - were never known to even speak to citizens. Perhaps
the man who'd spoken to the dock man earlier had served as the
group's messenger; perhaps the dockman was more connected with the
Empire than I’d thought. They had to communicate somehow.
Regardless, the Consortium were engraved with scars of executions,
relocations, kidnappings, and the ensuing ransoms. The recruitments
for Vistah's Militia were enforced by the Consortium. If the King
wanted something done that went against his own facade of morals, the
Consortium would do it for him.
Everyone
had something of a different opinion of the Consortium’s doings,
but the general consensus was they had grown into blasphemous
murderers. Alas, these days we weren't even to speak badly of the
Consortium – Impugned as they were, a Consortium member could take
any utterance of their actions as an act of conspiracy; those who
were accused could be apprehended, beaten, or slain on spot. Aye,
most sane men would stay silent about the Consortium, and even more
silent around them. If even these pages were discovered, I would
certainly be jailed for conspiracy.
Our
fears were not unfounded. It would not be strange to turn down a
different street if a consort walked your way; to keep your doors
locked for a day or two after you had heard they were in your
village. Where the Consortium went, death would follow. They left
misery behind them like a streak behind a slug, and the story was
sure to be the same here. At least, these days. I heard tell that
when I was a child, the Consortium had not been as bloodlusted as
they are now. They'd served as something of a discreet security
force - not the King's mercenaries, but a national source of safety.
Their hands had always been stained with blood, but years ago, it had
been for just reason. At least, it had seemed so.
“It
is as good a place of any, brother. We have come to a village with a
disposable population.”
Disposable?
“You speak as if their lives are worth less than any others.”
"They
are, Maluk. The King has decreed as such."
A
dejected sigh was the only response.
I
didn't like that, and I didn't like how much sense it made.
