The Heretic (Beyond the Wall Book 1)

by Lucas Bale

  Then he caught the sound of the dog.

  He’d been wrong. Even above the roar of the river he could hear the barking seeping through the mist upriver. The dog had followed him to the place where he had stumbled and slid; Jordi that his scent would have faded in the mud and water, and that the dog would be confused. But Vaarden would not. He would know what Jordi had done. But he would not know whether Jordi had gone upriver or downriver.

  Jordi continued to move. He left no tracks now, as his feet were beneath the water, but Vaarden would search both ways, and Jordi’s progress was slow in the river. Vaarden’s would be quicker up on the bank.

  The crossing point was close. Jordi quickened his steps, slipping each time and clutching at roots as if his life depended on them. The barking continued, but he couldn’t tell which way Vaarden had chosen first.

  One of his feet gave way on the slick moss and slid deep into the river. The root in his hand came away from the bank, and he skidded downwards. The razor edge of the nearest rock gashed his leg, tearing the muscle deeply. He let out an involuntary cry, groped for something to slow his glissade into the surging flow of the river. He jammed his foot against a rock and slumped, the pain in his thigh washing over him in waves of dizziness and nausea.

  Looking down, he saw the wound through the tear in his trousers. Blood dripped into the water and was washed away. His hands shook, and he was too afraid to touch his leg. He stared at it, eyes wide.

  He tried to stand, but couldn’t. He lacked the strength. He reached for something to haul himself out of the water and into some sort of cover, but found nothing. The exposed roots jutting from the bank were out of reach.

  Above, the hawk cried again.

  It was over.

  I’m going to die here.

  Suddenly, the terrified faces of his dead neighbours and friends came to him like a dream. Strewn about like discarded rubbish. Their sunken eyes open and staring. Ashen skin pulled across bone. Crows tearing at their frozen flesh.

  Slaughtered.

  No! You are NOT going to die! something inside his head screamed. Get up, now! Stop crying like a little girl.

  You owe them. You survived. Don’t dishonour them by giving in.

  He refused to let the murderers win.

  Jordi glanced around, searching for the crossing he remembered. He caught sight of the arc in the river and knew he wasn’t far. If he could get himself up and moving, he could reach it. Maybe hide once he got to the other side.

  If he got to the other side.

  The hope galvanised him. He pushed hard with his good leg, ignoring the pain it caused in the other. He scraped his backside along the rock, pushing until he could reach the roots, and pulled himself up. Waves of pain made him want to vomit, but he hauled in a deep breath and began to move again.

  He moved slowly at first, and then found a rhythm, half-walking, half-hopping along the bank, clutching at roots. All the while, he shivered hard.

  The dog’s bark broke through the noise of the river again.

  They were coming.

  Jordi moved more quickly, until at last he edged round the curve of the river and spotted the crossing. He hauled the branch into his armpit and used it as a crutch. He could see the shallow rock beneath the water as it purled over the polished stone. He’d always done this before with Ishmael—slowly and in the summer when the river was lower, knowing that if he fell, he could just swim out and let his clothes dry in the sun as his brother laughed at him. The only injury would be to his pride.

  This was no different, he told himself. He tried to clear thoughts of Vaarden and the dog from his mind. Tried not to imagine the cold steel of the rifle, and the tiny, razor-sharp bullet within it, spinning through the cool winter air towards him, lancing through his chest and bursting out the other side in a spray of his own blood.

  He swallowed hard and closed his eyes.

  There was no time.

  He opened his eyes and began to walk. The rocks leading across the riverbed cut through the water and sent it sluicing down a short drop. This natural cascade was formed by the thin trail of exposed rock at the top; but almost everywhere else, the river was deep enough that it would knock him off balance. If he fell, he doubted he’d ever get up.

  Jordi led with his uninjured leg, placing his boot on the first rock—a confidence trick as much as anything else—and put his weight on the branch to balance himself. He pivoted and gently rested his other foot, his injured leg, on the next stone, still maintaining as much of his weight as he dared on the branch. The wood was sturdy and would take his weight, but it might easily shift under the push of the surging river.

  It held firm, and he allowed himself to put more of his weight on the injured leg.

  The pain was excruciating. He could feel his head begin to reel.

  He dragged the branch forward and jabbed it down, desperate for it to find purchase between the rocks. Before he could even ensure it was secure, he found he had lifted his weight off the injured leg and brought the other leg forward, searching for footing. But his good foot slipped, and he shifted quickly to try to retain his balance.

  The barking grew louder and more distinct. He forced himself not to look.

  Concentrate.

  He was halfway across the river, his injured leg hanging inches above the stone, shuddering as pain surged up and down in gushes.

  Two more stones.

  Again he placed his foot on slick rock, leaning on the branch as it perched in the deluge of the river. Water engulfed his boot and flowed up to his ankle, cold and sharp. The branch teetered, its position unstable. He tried to shift his weight, to maintain equilibrium.

  The bank wasn’t far but he could feel himself pitching, falling. Another step was all he needed. As he began to topple, he threw the branch and the injured leg forward and rocked on both. He veered and shuffled in equal measure—a collapsing rag doll, falling with neither control nor dignity.

  He fell, knuckles first, into the rock and mud on the other side of the river, scraping the skin, his hands too numb to even feel it. He lay there, hugging the mud, wet, bedraggled, his leg screaming in agony, reeling from the pain.

  But he was elated.

  Behind him, he could hear movement above the roar of the river. He glanced up and saw the dog weaving between the trees leaning off the bank. Its nose darted about the ground, searching for any trace of him. It looked a vicious animal, its lips drawn into a snarl, revealing yellowed teeth. Its grey fur was mottled with snow and mud. It looked, in the wildness of the forest, like a wolf.

  But it had not yet seen him.

  Jordi searched frantically for somewhere to hide—some hollow in the riverbank, or a way up the bank so he could hunker down behind the cusp of the ridge.

  Behind him, blood from his gashed thigh had spilled onto rock and moss. If Vaarden and the dog crossed, they would find him in seconds. He shuffled along the bank, darting glances back to the dog as it sniffed a path towards him.

  At last he found what he was looking for. A tiny crevice behind exposed roots and mud and rock—a small cave of mud and rock, big enough to take his body if he curled up tight. He backed into it, hunched low and squat, and rubbed his face again with mud, smearing the remainder on his hands and shoving them under his wool-blanket jacket. He could see them through the roots, as if he were imprisoned both by nature and the men defiling it above him.

  The dog was confused, unable to find his scent. The wind swirled above the bank, but at the river’s edge the air was still.

  Vaarden appeared next to the animal, searching. Slung over his shoulder was the rifle. Jordi could see the fury etched onto his face and, despite the fear, he allowed himself a tiny flicker of a smile.

  As he huddled into his cave, the wooden bars protecting him from the world above, they searched for him but could not find him. The cold closed around him and his eyes grew heavy. Soon, he could not feel his feet or his hands. The ache in his leg dwindled and his breathing slo
wed. Beyond him, the clamour of the river became a whisper as he gradually succumbed to the peacefulness that beckoned.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  An Obvious Truth

  FOURTEEN YEARS Earlier

  ‘This old girl’s in good shape,’ Barack said as he wiped his oily hands on a rag and stuffed it into a trouser pocket. ‘A little past her prime—now, she wouldn’t thank me for saying that—but everything works just fine. How long you had her?’

  ‘Not long,’ Shepherd said quietly. It was a subtle deceit—she’d been his alone for only a few days, but their history together extended back to his childhood.

  ‘Where’d you get her?’

  Shepherd’s chest tightened. The metronomic clank of metal striking metal echoed around the hangar. Over one shoulder, he watched a man with long arms like an ape’s, in greasy overalls and dark goggles, yank the starter on a two-handed angle grinder and bend it into a sheet of warped hull. Sparks flew across the stone floor, and the air smelled of grease and flame. His mouth was dry.

  ‘Won her in a card game,’ he shouted above the noise. Despite the practised rehearsal, Shepherd could see that Barack caught the obvious lie, which had seemed solid enough to Shepherd hours earlier.

  A nineteen-year-old with a freighter? Was there any lie that could convince?

  Despite the tiny flicker of recognition in the corner of the old man’s eyes, nothing more about it was said. Barack ran a small outfit, an outer-rim chop shop whose main clientele would have told more frequent, and more dangerous, lies. Doubtless the old man cared little for where his work came from, only that it kept him in coin.

  Barack glanced at the floor, then back at Soteria.

  ‘She’s been shot at before—there’s some scarring on the hull,’ he said as he laid a hand gently on the bulkhead, ‘but she’s armoured, and that’s holding up pretty well. She tried to hide a few of her systems from me, but I kept on digging until I found ’em. Not seen their like before—they’re older’n me. She might once have seen service with the Magistratus at some point—which would explain the armour and the medical bay—but that was a while ago and ’t’ain’t rare that old Magistratus freighters find themselves in private hands.’

  ‘What systems?’

  ‘Navigational and propulsion mainly. More’n likely obsolete technology replaced by the last owner or even before. Nothing to worry yourself about.’

  ‘I need her ready for work,’ Shepherd replied. ‘And I need any trace of ownership removed. Can you do that? I mean, any trace.’

  Barack’s eyes narrowed. For a while he didn’t answer. The angle-grinder had finished decorating the floor with orange spray, and the workman had lifted up the goggles to examine his work. Then Barack said, ‘I can do that. It’ll cost more’n I usually ask, though. And I’ll be wantin’ payment up front.’

  ‘That’s fine.’

  There’s enough to get her ready and keep me going for a little while. ‘I need you to make sure there are no tracking systems on her as well.’

  ‘It’ll be done.’

  ‘How long?’

  ‘A week,’ Barack said. ‘No longer. You stayin’ nearby?’

  ‘I haven’t decided.’ And I wouldn’t be telling you, even if I had.

  ‘Well, you come back this way in six or seven days and we’ll finish up our business. You’ll be wanting t’leave payment with me ’fore you go.’

  Shepherd nodded and pulled a pouch of coin from his pocket. ‘A deposit. We’ll talk about the rest when you’ve finished.’

  Barack eyed the pouch before he took it. It disappeared into the folds of his overalls and he turned without another word. Shepherd watched as Barack went over to the mechanic with the angle-grinder and began to wave towards Soteria, giving instructions. Shepherd hated to leave her in a place like this, alone and unprotected. He knew each scar by sight; knew every curve of her sinuous hull. She might be old, but she could still move.

  Basic fighter manoeuvres are all about energy, Raine. His father’s lessons echoed in his mind. Too much energy and you might get in range, but overshoot. Too little and you lose manoeuvrability if you’re defending. The right balance shifts according to where you are, who your attacker is and the ship you’re in. This old girl is heavy and fast, which is usually good, because you can bug out quicker. Smaller guys will have more manoeuvrability than you, if their drives are big enough. But she’s got surprises in her.

  The loading ramp was down and the hold drew Shepherd’s gaze. He knew the deck was clean—not a drop of blood would be discovered by Barack—but as he watched, a crimson shadow seemed to spill across the slick metal. A chill crawled up his back and he shivered. He closed his eyes, willing the image to dissipate.

  He’s gone, and they’ll come looking for the ship. So deal with it. You owe it to her to protect her.

  He shouldered his small pack and left.

  Shepherd reached into the pack, pulled out a bundle of rags and laid them carefully on the wooden counter. He was aware of the man watching him and wondered if the man could see the sweat gathering on his forehead. He unwrapped each layer slowly, taking as long as he could, dreading the moment when he saw it again. Terrified he might not be able to hold it together.

  As he peeled away the final layer, the bile rose in his throat. He rested his hands on the counter to keep them from shaking. The last time he’d held the pistol which nestled amid the folds of cloth, he had killed two men.

  He could smell the cordite on himself even now. The metallic taste of blood crept across his tongue. Two thunderous reports rang in his ears, and his hands, even pressed to the counter, felt the violent kick. He watched the two men buck and sway as the bullets punched through them; watched them fall, shock etched forever on their dying faces.

  ‘Are you listening?’

  What?

  ‘Hey, are you listening to me?’

  No, I need to leave. I shouldn’t be here.

  ‘Yes,’ Shepherd said, blinking. The man’s eyes were cold grey. ‘Yes, sorry. I was somewhere else for a minute.’

  ‘Look, you may got all day, but I ain’t,’ the man said. ‘I’ll give you an even hundred, an’ that’s me bein’ generous.’

  Too low. The pistol’s worth triple that. ‘I need something to replace it. Let me see what you have.’

  The man stayed perfectly still. For a long time, he said nothing, then he slowly wrapped the pistol in its cloth and placed it below the counter. He regarded Shepherd again, then turned away and pushed through the red curtain. When he returned, he was carrying a case stitched in brown leather. He set it down on the counter, opened it and removed three smaller, wooden boxes. He opened them in turn.

  Each contained a pistol.

  ‘All in good working order,’ the man declared. ‘All cleaned and oiled. Fine weapons, all of them. Take whichever one y’want, an’ I’ll accept yours in exchange.’

  Take the deal and it’s over. A new start. That’s what you wanted.

  No.

  ‘Try again.’

  ‘What d’you mean?’

  Shepherd picked one up. It felt light in his hands and he knew it would kick hard, would take time to re-aim. It was a complex unit—more moving parts made it more likely to jam up. Style over substance.

  ‘These are for dead people,’ Shepherd said quietly. ‘You know it, I know it. It’s like you said—we don’t have all day.’

  ‘An’ you need this weapon gone,’ the man replied coldly. ‘You know it, I know it. Take your pick.’ He fanned a hand across the three pistols.

  He’s right. You need it gone. ‘Go back in there, offer me something worth my time. Don’t make me ask again.’

  The man stared at him, wondering whether the boy was a threat. Shepherd balled his hands into fists and stared back. The man nodded slowly and turned away. This time he returned with a single box. He set it down on the counter and licked his lips as he moved to open it. Shepherd rested his hand on the box and the man looked up at him nervously. />
  Shepherd shook his head. He released the brass latch with his thumb and eased open the box.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Waking

  THE VOICES meandered like whispers on the wind. He reached for them, but they were fleeting, almost ghostly. He concentrated, pursuing them, but they were like echoes inside his head.

  Shepherd told himself to focus. To listen. To seize each word and hold on to it. To use them to pull himself back.

  Somewhere, in the distance behind the voices, a crow cawed.

  Slowly, as he fought to regain his consciousness, the voices became clearer and more distinct.

  ‘We didn’t know what to do,’ a man’s voice whispered. It trembled, was edged with what sounded like fear. ‘We removed his wet clothing and wrapped him in blankets. He was so blue, his skin was like rubber and frozen. We couldn’t understand what he was saying—he made no sense. He kept saying Vaarden’s name. Over and over again. Vaarden. Then he was gone.’

  Shepherd listened carefully. He didn’t know who they were talking about, but each word might teach him a little more about where he was, who had taken him.

  ‘You were right,’ another man assured quietly. His tone was calmer, the timbre much deeper, but Shepherd also heard weariness and apprehension. ‘You saved his life. For now. He has a fever from the infection in his leg. We’ll know more if it breaks.’