The Heretic (Beyond the Wall Book 1)

by Lucas Bale

  ‘If I release you, will you calm down?’

  Jordi nodded slowly again.

  ‘If you go to the body and they come, you’ll kill us all. I will not let that happen, so I will shoot you. Nod if you understand.’

  Jordi looked, but could see no cameras. The snow obscured so much it was impossible to tell. He nodded. As the grip relaxed, Jordi turned to see who it was that had seized him. The stranger—the man with the ship docked at the Port—and the preacher knelt behind him, hoods pulled over their heads, soaked in shadow. Jordi saw the sadness in the preacher’s eyes. The preacher reached out to him, and Jordi fell into his arms and wept.

  When he felt another hand on his shoulder, he looked up. The stranger was watching him and spoke softly. ‘We don’t have time,’ he whispered. ‘You can grieve later, but if you want your brother’s death to mean something, we need to get everyone out of here before the Consul arrives. Take your anger and use it. Turn it on them. There’s more than one way to get revenge. You up to that?’

  Jordi stared at the man. He wanted to hate him for taking him away from Ishmael, but he knew the stranger was right. Jordi’s shoulders shook, but he hauled in a breath and tried to settle himself. He wiped his eyes again with the cuff of his coat and forced another nod.

  ‘What do I need to do?’ he whispered. The words snagged in his throat and he had to force them out.

  ‘For now,’ the man said, ‘just come with us.’ He held out a hand. ‘You can call me Shepherd.’

  Jordi took his hand. The stranger’s grip was firm. ‘Jordi.’

  ‘Okay, Jordi,’ Shepherd said. ‘Can you ride a horse?’ Jordi nodded. ‘Then let’s go.’

  Staying close to the line of the low buildings, they crept slowly, watchful. The horses were tethered in an alley between the stonemason’s and the supply store. Unhappy with the cold, they neighed softly. Jordi ran to one he knew well, a mare he had once named Dusk because of her russet coat, and stroked her neck. She nuzzled into him. He slid a foot into the stirrup and slipped into the saddle. His hand shook as they held the reigns and he glanced back towards the main street and his brother. The snow was too thick now—his brother was gone.

  Shepherd listened as Jordi explained. At first he had been sceptical, but as the boy continued speaking, Shepherd eventually realised that this youngster’s local knowledge might be useful. They were sat inside one of the tents back at the camp.

  ‘There’s a path which tracks the flank of the mountain and leads to a pass between the two main summits,’ Jordi explained. ‘At one point, the path is directly above the Port. It’s on a narrow ledge that the horses won’t be able to use, but I could.’

  ‘How do you know this?’

  ‘Ishmael and I used to climb up there and watch the freighters come in.’

  ‘Do the Peacekeepers know about it?’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ the boy said. ‘It’s not visible from below, and we found it by accident.’

  ‘How high above the Port?’

  ‘High enough that I won’t be seen, I’m sure of it.’

  ‘And climbing down?’

  ‘I can do it.’

  ‘You fall, and the whole thing is over before it starts,’ Shepherd said. ‘I need to know you’re sure.’

  ‘I’m sure,’ Jordi said, nodding emphatically. ‘The path leads downwards after the Port, and round to where the mountainside drops directly into the sea. After that, it goes on and over the pass. There’s a point where the climb down to the Port is short.’

  ‘How far to Soteria from there?’

  ‘Depends where she is,’ Jordi said. ‘But I can use the landing platforms to stay hidden.’

  Shepherd glanced at the boy’s leg. One of the women had kept the wound clean, and once the fever had broken, the infection had diminished significantly—enough for the boy to get himself into Herse. Now they were back, they’d changed the dressing and the preacher had given Jordi something to chew, something which he had said would numb the pain. But the gash still looked severe. The boy could put his weight on it and walked well enough, but climbing on it—that was another matter.

  On the ride back, the boy had been quiet. Shepherd wondered if seeing his brother strung up in the cold, beaten then murdered, was as much as he could take, but at the camp the boy had suddenly become adamant. He wanted to be the one to help get the villagers out. He told them he had a promise to keep.

  Shepherd remained dubious. But eventually, he nodded. ‘You can get to the cockpit easily enough when you see your chance. There’s a hatch behind the shoulder of the starboard nacelle wing. There are footholds on the main hull which will get you onto the top. Run along to the shoulder, pop the hatch, and you’re in.’

  ‘How do I open the hatch?’

  ‘Punch in the access code first. You’ve then got ten seconds. Turn the handle a quarter-turn to the right and wait. It’ll pop, then turn it all the way round. After that, pull hard. It’s noisy, but by then I hope the Peacekeepers will be focusing on something else.’ As he gave Jordi the instructions, he watched his eyes. The boy was eager to learn, desperate to serve. Just like Ishmael. Suddenly he remembered explaining the hatch to the main drive compartment to Jordi’s now-dead brother. He felt a sadness in his stomach.

  ‘One question,’ Jordi said. ‘What’s starboard?’

  Shepherd tried not to show his frustration, but silently he wondered if the boy had it in him to pull this off. He explained slowly, so the boy would understand. Jordi was sharp enough, he decided—but he’d lived a life sheltered from the reality of the Magistratus and the Republic; a life where the whims of a single Praetor governed each day. Yet that was about to change. Either he would live a very different life… or a very much shorter one.

  ‘What then?’ Jordi asked.

  ‘All in good time,’ Shepherd said. ‘Before you can do any of this, the Peacekeepers need to be sweating something else.’

  ‘And that’s us?’ the preacher asked. Shepherd smiled thinly.

  ‘And that’s us.’

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Ruse

  THE ROCK beneath Jordi’s boots was spattered with slick, wet snow. His progress was agonisingly slow because each footfall needed to be meticulously placed. As he picked his way along the track, which was no more wide than he was, he reached out with both hands continuously, groping for rock jutting out ahead of him to give him some semblance of stability. He huddled close to the rock face to deny the ferocious wind something to tug at. His scarf was wrapped around the lower part of his face and the wool scratched his lips. Above him, the mountain stretched upwards seemingly forever, disappearing into the swirling fog and snow. Below him, the flank of rock plummeted into darkness.

  He couldn’t climb with mitts—finding handholds would be too difficult—so he wore nothing on his hands, and they were beginning to stiffen with the cold. The muscle surrounding the wound on his thigh ached, felt hot to the touch. The preacher had given him something to chew back at camp, and it had helped dampen the pain to something approaching manageable, but the effort of each painstaking footfall gradually began to take its toll on the torn muscle.

  For an hour he inched along like that, skulking in the moiling snowstorm, until the Port at last crept into view. At first all he could make out was the dim pulsing glow of the strobes marking the cliff edge, followed by the red and green of the landing platforms. Eventually, huge shapes began to loom in the mist, and he knew the chimney that led down to the perimeter wasn’t far. He’d told Shepherd it would be an easy climb down to the Port itself, but that had been a half-truth. It might have been easy enough in the warm dry dusk, but in this weather, with his leg growing more painful with each step…

  Fear began to unfurl inside him. Not of falling—somehow he no longer feared death, and that fact scared him almost as much as he thought dying should. No, instead, the fear he so keenly felt was of failure. He had promised to protect his family and the other villagers; and failing to keep that pro
mise would be more than he could bear.

  He kept moving.

  As the path straightened out and tracked the perimeter of the Port, he gazed down, searching for Shepherd’s vessel. It was easy enough to spot: there was only one freighter on a landing platform, so that had to be it.

  Jordi found the craft to be both beautiful and wild; at once smooth and languid yet aggressive. He longed to be inside it, to soar through the skies above the planet and away into the vast, expansive freedom of space. For a blissful moment, the dream carried him away. For those few seconds, the terror and grief evaporated, and an incredible etherealness lifted him away from the mountain and into a warm place where a gentle breeze stroked his face with comfortable familiarity.

  This isn’t the time, Jor, Ishmael whispered to him gently.

  I know, but maybe, just for a minute, could I stay here?

  They need you, Jor. They’ve always needed you. More than they needed me.

  That’s not true. Mother and Father miss you. I miss you.

  I know they do, but they were always so proud of you. The smart one. I was proud of you, too. I still am.

  I can’t do it, Ish. I’m scared to leave this place. I miss you too much.

  I’ll always watch out for you. Now go.

  The spindrift suddenly tore at his face, and the wind snatched at him and tried to fling him from the mountain. His heart pitched as his body spun, wavered on the thin ledge, and he flailed wildly, grasping for something to hold on to. But the rock was slick and wet and he could find no purchase.

  He wheeled, desperately trying to retain his balance.

  His leg gave way and slipped downwards.

  As he clawed at the mountainside, his fingers at last snagged on stone, tearing his skin. He found a handhold and clutched it with every ounce of his remaining strength. At the same time, with his other leg, he pushed hard and hauled himself up.

  He was panting and his stomach weltered.

  He glanced downwards. A fall would have done more than kill him. It would have killed all of them.

  Concentrate!

  He moved slowly along the path until he came to the chimney that led down towards the perimeter of the Port. It was a short scramble, sheltered from the wind, but it was equally sheltered from the sun, so the rock was always greasy. He peered down into the void below, but could see almost nothing. The chimney was draped in shadow. He sat, eased downwards, searching for the first foothold. After a short while, he found it and tested the weight. It held firm. He slid off the path, grabbed for a familiar handhold, and found it. He let muscle memory lead his movements, and pivoted and bent his knee to slowly lower himself to the next foothold. After a few seconds of searching, he felt the firmness of the rock beneath his foot and he lowered himself again.

  This is okay. This is fine.

  Then the rock gave way and his legs dropped from under him.

  Shepherd watched Jordi disappear up the path. He tracked the boy’s steady climb until the snow enveloped him and he was gone.

  ‘Do you think he can do it?’ he asked.

  ‘He’s strong,’ the preacher said quietly. ‘But with what he’s been through in the last few hours, I really don’t know.’

  ‘If he doesn’t, this whole party will be for nothing.’

  ‘Then we’d best pray he does.’

  ‘You sure you can do this?’

  ‘I wasn’t always a preacher.’

  ‘I guessed that. You gonna tell me?’

  ‘We live through this, maybe I’ll tell you one day.’

  ‘Can’t wait.’

  ‘And you? You prepared for this?’

  Shepherd shrugged. ‘You haven’t given me a whole lot of options.’

  ‘Only so many times you get to hear me say sorry.’

  ‘You might well be saying it again,’ Shepherd said. He held out his hand. ‘Good luck.’

  The preacher took it and nodded. Then he rose and vanished into the snowstorm.

  Shepherd’s heart roiled in his chest as he crept towards the landing platform where he knew Soteria was resting. As he came closer, the shapes around her began to crystallise, and he counted ten Peacekeepers surrounding her. Beside them was a single armoured truck, like the one he had seen in the township. Beyond them, on another landing platform, lay the charred remains of another freighter—the only other vessel left in the port.

  Shepherd knelt and watched the Peacekeepers for a moment, his hands trembling. He rested his right hand on his pistol, seeking comfort from its familiar touch.

  He found none.

  It’s now or never, Shepherd. Let’s go get her back.

  He stood and began to run towards Soteria.

  Jordi fell. His legs flailed as he tried to find a foothold, but the rock was as slick and wet as the ice on the river when it froze. He snatched at anything he could, but found no grip. White-hot pain exploded through his leg as it snagged on something jagged and sharp and he felt the skin and muscle tear. The collision spun him round. He searched for something to grab, and his hand closed around a solid protrusion of rock. He grabbed it and held.

  It halted his fall.

  He was hanging from one cold, numb hand, and his fingers were slipping. He searched for another handhold, or somewhere to put a foot, and breathed a shaky sigh of relief when he found both.

  But h his breaths came in ragged gasps as pain overwhelmed adrenaline. He bit down on the sleeve of his wool coat and screamed. Tears coated his eyes.

  ‘You always were a stupid boy,’ a voice shouted from above him.

  Who? Who can that be? ‘Help me,’ he shouted back as he looked upwards. He could see nothing through the shadows and swirling snow and mist. ‘Please, help me.’

  ‘I’ll help you,’ the voice shouted back, barely rising above the wind. ‘Grab the rope.’

  Jordi watched as a thick, hemp rope slithered down towards him, a knotted loop tied in the end. He grabbed it, slowly released his hands from the rock, and began to climb. He found himself pulled laboriously upwards.

  As he reached the crest of the chimney, he was helped onto the ledge by a figure bathed in shadow. Once Jordi was again on solid ground, the figure reached down and picked up something long and narrow—it looked like some sort of tube—and brought it up to his face. It was pointed straight at Jordi.

  Jordi realised it was a rifle.

  ‘I’ve been waiting for this,’ the figure said, quietly.

  Even above the wind, Jordi recognised the voice.

  ‘Vaarden,’ Jordi said. ‘I don’t understand—’

  ‘That always been your problem,’ Vaarden hissed. ‘You don’t see anything.’

  ‘See what? You betrayed the whole village! Why?’

  ‘Your inbred brother,’ Vaarden spat. ‘And my wife.’

  ‘What—my brother? It was nothing. It didn’t mean anything. They were just—playing. He never even kissed her.’

  ‘Kissed her?’ Vaarden sneered. ‘You’re so blind to who he really is. He fucked her. Didn’t you know that? Your brother put his dirty seed inside my wife, and I watched him do it.’

  ‘You’re lying.’

  ‘I saw them in bed together and I just watched. What did I have left but to watch her? I hated him before that, but then—’

  ‘That’s why? You went to the Praetor! You know how many people they murdered because of you?’

  ‘’S’no more’n they deserve, harbouring that preacher. Listening to his words. It isn’t natural, what he’s been saying. The Praetor is who we believe in—he’s the one who looks after us.’ As Vaarden spoke, Ishmael’s broken body flashed in front of Jordi’s eyes. He was no traitor.

  ‘You know what they did to Ishmael?’ Jordi whispered.

  ‘Not them,’ Vaarden said, thumping a fist on his chest. ‘Me. What I did.’

  Jordi saw the lie in his eyes.

  ‘You don’t have it in you,’ he spat. ‘You’re a sad old man with nothing left. He’ll kill you too, and your wife.’
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  ‘No,’ Vaarden said. ‘He won’t. The Praetor will reward me for this. An’ Maarie will come back to me when I have coin and fancy clothes. You’ll see. Oh, an’ when the Praetor makes you tell him where they all are—I might like to watch that.’

  Shepherd blew through the mist and snow and sprinted towards Soteria, waving his arms in front of him. He saw the Peacekeepers tense and drop into firing stances. Rifles came up to their faces and arced towards him.

  ‘Help me!’ Shepherd screamed. ‘They’re coming!’ Shit guys, don’t shoot me. He continued running and flicked a glance over his shoulder.

  From behind him, two shots shattered the roar of the wind. Shepherd watched one of the Peacekeepers buck twice like he’d been punched and drop backwards. From his open hand, his rifle pirouetted onto the ground as he fell. Shepherd dived onto snow-laden rock and covered his head with his hands.

  Not me, him. Shoot him.

  A deafening cannonade crushed him as the Peacekeepers opened fire. The ground beneath him shook and a blaze of incandescent white erupted, soaking the air so he could hardly see. He crawled towards them, pulling out his pistol and shooting back over his shoulder wildly. He didn’t exactly know where the preacher was, so he aimed high and hoped the horse couldn’t fly.

  The truck growled and began to move, bathing the Port in light pouring from its powerful lamps. The Peacekeepers dropped back to the cover of the ramp up to the platform, and continued to pour fire over Shepherd’s head. Two of them sprinted towards the truck and jumped inside.

  Seven left. Is that too many?

  The truck thundered past him, kicking shards of frozen earth into his face. He turned and watched it sweep into the mist. When he turned back towards Soteria, he saw the Peacekeepers staring at him, weapons ready.

  He spat dirt from his mouth. Game time.

  ‘Don’t you move,’ a voice growled. One of the Peacekeepers approached him in front of the others. Taller than the rest of the unit; powerful and imperious. Horrifying. He issued another command as he approached, rifle unwavering, ‘discard the pistol.’