Read The Heretic (Beyond the Wall Book 1) Online
Authors: Lucas Bale
The Heretic (Beyond the Wall Book 1)
Praise for Lucas Bale and The Heretic
“Lucas Bale’s debut novel is gripping, suspenseful science fiction. It seizes you right from the first word, and the chase scene at the climax of the story is some of the finest writing I’ve seen in the genre.”
Alex Roddie, author of
The Atholl Expedition
and
The Only Genuine Jones
“One to watch.”
Eve Seymour, author of
The Last Exile
and
Resolution to Kill
“An engrossing and tense post-apocalyptic adventure. Lucas Bale delivers in his exciting and brilliant debut that does justice to the Sci-fi genre.”
Nadine Matheson, author of
The Sisters
THE HERETIC
Book One
of
Beyond the Wall
by
Lucas Bale
www.lucasbale.com
The Heretic
by
Lucas Bale
Edited by David Gatewood Cover design by Jason Gurley
© 2014,
Lucas Bale
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
This book contains material protected under International and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorised reprint or use of this material is prohibited. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without express written permission from the author/publisher. This is a work of speculative fiction. Any similarity between real events, people or places is unintended and purely coincidental.
Produced by Lucas Bale www.lucasbale.com
For
Mette, Markus and Lukas.
A Universe of death, which God by curse
Created evil, for evil only good,
Where all life dies, death lives, and Nature breeds,
Perverse, all monstrous, all prodigious things,
Abominable, inutterable, and worse
Then Fables yet have feign'd, or fear conceiv'd,
Gorgons and Hydra's, and Chimera's dire.
Paradise Lost, Book II
John Milton
C
HAPTER
O
NE
SOMEWHERE OUTSIDE, the dog ceased its barking.
Caught up in the roiling of a dream, Jordi had woken suddenly to the sound of the animal’s distant baying. But almost as abruptly as he’d been roused, the noise had ended.
Awake, Jordi lifted a hand to his aching shoulder and kneaded the muscle. The acid still burned from the toil of the previous few days. The cold had descended early and without warning, and the whole village had scrambled to begin the Gathering and rescue the crop from spoiling in the glistening hoarfrost. Now Jordi lay on the low cot he had slept on for almost all of the fourteen years of his life, and shivered.
He glanced over at the fire. The pale embers smouldered gently amid the ash. Another log on the tiny hearth should see them through to morning, he thought, and perhaps a third blanket from the small cupboard in the hall. He glanced over at Ishmael, watched his chest rise and fall in time with the soft hum from his lips. Jordi smiled despite the cold. Even asleep, his brother wore a rakish grin.
Jordi swung his legs off the cot and pulled both blankets around his shoulders. A stabbing cramp pinched his muscles. Papa had been relentless, pushing both of them to cut and sweep more quickly than they had thought possible. From first light to the fall of dusk they had laboured without respite. Cutting, sweeping and carrying armfuls of crop to the waiting carts beneath a cool winter sun.
Again he shivered and closed his eyes. Back to sleep soon, he thought. There would be more to gather tomorrow. Carefully, so as not to wake Ishmael, he padded over the wool rugs laid across the cold wood floor and peered through the tiny window. This time of year, with both moons shedding silver and crimson across the fields and the forest beyond, the light was enough to see by.
The village was home to a handful of dogs, and he wondered which had been disturbed this deep into the night. The closest was Johanssen’s tiny mongrel, but it was so unassuming and guileless that Jordi found it hard to believe anything might disturb its slumber. Most likely it was Vaarden’s hunter. That ill-tempered creature could weed out a rat in a field of rape, and nothing living seemed able to dodge its attention. That was Vaarden’s doing. He’d sharpened the animal’s senses until Jordi thought it could almost read minds.
It left him wondering what might have disturbed the animal. It wouldn’t have been concerned enough to open an eye to a wandering grey weasel from the forest, he guessed. Vaarden wouldn’t have permitted that. He’d never get any sleep.
Jordi ducked a little and tilted his head to see through the window’s grime, across the field towards the Vaarden place. He could make out the roof and doors of their barn, and the curl of smoke beyond from the fire in their bedroom. There were no children; it was just the warden and his young wife from town.
Jordi had never warmed to the warden’s wife. She was not much older than him, but she wore her past affluence like a cloak wrapped tightly around her to keep the rest of the village away. She was far too good for the likes of
them
. Papa had often grumbled to Mama that whatever had caused Vaarden to want to wed her was a mystery. But Jordi understood fine well why: she was pleasing to look at. Her hair tumbled across her shoulders like a silver waterfall, and her green eyes glimmered as she took after him and Ishmael with a broom. On the warm summer days when she took to the fields in a light dress that did little to hide her olive skin and the curves of her smooth body, he experienced a stirring in a place he didn’t fully understand.
Ishmael spoke coarsely of her, and old Vaarden knew as much of his brother’s lust as he cared to. A few times Vaarden and Ishmael had exchanged tense words without mentioning her name, but Jordi knew what it was about. What else
would
it be about? Everyone loved Ishmael. Everyone except Vaarden. Talk in the village was that Vaarden couldn’t please his young wife, and turned his rage onto Ishmael for it.
As Jordi squinted through the dirty glass, he thought he caught a shimmer of movement among the shadows on the edge of the forest. He stared, tilting his head to improve the view, but couldn’t make it out.
Had he
really
seen something, or was it a trick of the light? The remnants of his dream dancing in front of his eyes and mocking him?
Jordi turned and made his way out of the room he shared with his brother, then along the hallway of their tiny cottage. The stove in the main room was cool and dark now. Only the bedroom fires were alight. He crept to the main door and silently lifted the latch; he had long ago taught himself the knack of opening the door without a sound. As the cold night air seeped into his bones, he shivered again, and his heart began to simmer in his chest. He pulled the blankets more tightly around his shoulders and eased into the shadows outside the house.
The woodpile lay to his left, but the fire was forgotten now. He wanted to know what he’d seen. Wanted to prove to himself that he wasn’t still dreaming. Perhaps he’d be lucky and spot a deer on a nighttime jaunt, or maybe even a wolf prowling for food.
He gazed into the darkness, but could pick out nothing. He felt a curl of disappointment. There was no movement amid the gloom on the fringes of the forest. There was no wind, so the trees were still. For a moment he stood and waited, but still nothing moved. He shook his head and turned towards the woodpile.
Then he saw them.
A handful of dark shapes gliding along the edge of the field, stooped and silent. Figures shaped like hunched men, cloaked in shadow.
Carrying guns.
Jordi had seen Vaarden’s rifle enough times to know what it was these men were holding. Vaarden owned a rifle because he was both warden and a hunter; he had a permit from the Magistratus. Ishmael had stolen it once, a foolish prank, and Vaarden had flown into a fury. He’d stormed through the house and dragged Ishmael into the street and beat him. Mama had called in the Watch from the town, but it was Ishmael who had been lashed. Vaarden had offered no explanation, and none had been asked for.
Jordi’s mouth was suddenly dry. He wanted to cry out, but the words froze in his throat. Why would men be approaching the village at night, with guns?
He knew the answer, but he refused to believe it. How could they
know
?
Run
, a voice inside his head screamed.
Vaarden’s dog. It had been Vaarden’s dog barking, and Jordi realised why it had suddenly silenced. Vaarden was a hunter and he owned a gun. If they knew that…
Jordi’s legs wouldn’t move. He pleaded with them to carry him inside, but they felt brittle beneath him. He felt his chest tighten and his hands begin to shake. Then, suddenly, he was running. Into the house and into their bedroom.
Over to Ishmael, fingers digging into his brother’s skin, shaking him, clawing, biting.
‘Wake up!’ he hissed. ‘Wake up, please!’
Ishmael’s eyes snapped open.
‘What the hell are you—’ he began, rubbing sleep from his eyes.
‘Vaarden,’ was all Jordi could say. His throat was so dry, it was agony just to speak. ‘Someone’s… coming. I think they’ve killed Vaarden.’
‘What are you
talking
about?’ Ishmael moaned, rolling his eyes. ‘If this is another one of your stories, Jor—’
‘Please, Ish,’ Jordi said, his shoulders trembling. ‘It’s no story, I promise. I
saw
them. They’ve got guns. Like Vaarden’s.’
Ishmael slid off his cot and sloped over to the window, still unbelieving. He ducked, rubbed his eyes and peered out. Jordi watched his brother’s eyes widen and his mouth sag. Then Ishmael turned and reached for him.
‘Grab some clothes,’ he hissed. ‘As much as you can carry. And put on your boots.’
‘It’s because of the preacher,’ Jordi said.
‘It’s too late for that now,’ his brother replied. ‘We have to go.’ He sprinted out of their room.
Jordi ran over to the small chest where they kept their clothes and began to pull out everything he could, shoving it into the shoulder bag his mother had once sewn for him out of burlap. He pushed in clothes until he couldn’t fit any more, then slung it over his shoulder.
He heard shuffling behind him and spun, his heart pounding. His mother stood in the frame of the door, her face pale and smooth in the moonlight. Her eyes betrayed her panic, and she reached for him, imploring for him to hurry to her. He pushed past her and she turned and followed.
Ishmael stood by the main door, almost silhouetted against the crimson and silver light of the moons. His face was tight, his lips pulled back over his teeth as he spoke, and his eyes were wide and danced with fear.
‘The back,’ he whispered and pointed. ‘I can see them at Johanssen’s place. They’ll be here next! We have to go.’
