The Heretic (Beyond the Wall Book 1) (13 page)

And even now, after the lies, Jordi
still
believed. Despite everything, he still believed that there might be something better.
Freedom
.

But he couldn’t live that life without his brother. He couldn’t leave him behind. Jordi knew the preacher and the newcomer—the man the preacher said would take them away—would never have let him go to find Ishmael. So he’d waited until everyone believed he was asleep, until Mrs Ingmarrson had left to deal with her husband, who’d succumbed to the cold and was feverish with sickness himself. Then he’d slipped off the cot, dressed silently, filled his burlap sack with spare clothes, another dressing, some food—because Ishmael would be hungry—and taken his slingshot and the knife. These last items he’d tucked into his belt.

When he reached the fringes of the township, silent and still in the light of the moons, his muscles hummed with anticipation and fear. He crept through the shadows between buildings which now seemed alien to him, and the howling wind masked the sound of his footsteps on ice and snow. With his hood pulled over his head and the straps to the sack cinched tight so it wouldn’t shift, he moved slowly and quietly, hunkered low.

There was no way to reach the Watch station except through the side streets of the township. He knew not to touch the main street—the Watch might be patrolling, or others might see him, recognise him and hand him in—but he could still see the main street from the route he had chosen. This deep into curfew, the township was quiet but for the clamour of the rising storm. Yet he knew the real risk came from one of the monstrous hovering ships that cast dark shadows over the township and dragged away those breaching the curfew. He would hear it coming, of course, but it wouldn’t matter. He couldn’t outrun it, and there was nowhere to hide from them. Ishmael had once told him that they could see in the dark. He believed it.

As he moved through the shadows, he glanced again at the main street, and something caught his eye. Perhaps forty yards away he saw the outline of a tall, thin shape through the fog of snow. Like a huge pole had been thrust into the ground. He couldn’t say why, but he suddenly felt compelled to see what it was. Something about it drew him, and he crept slowly towards it. As he approached, and began to see more through the snow, he could see something bulging from it. The spindrift stung his eyes, and he wiped them with the back of his cuff. As he drew closer, he realised the shape was a thick wooden post, twice the height of a man. Some sort of animal was hung from it by two of its legs.

He glanced around, but could see no one; nothing moved except the continual snowfall. He kept as close to the buildings as possible, where the snow was thinnest and his tracks showed less.

As he moved closer, he realised that it was no animal which hung there.

It was a man.

Thick lengths of hemp had been snaked around his wrists, which had been hauled upwards and bound to the top of the post. And there he hung. His head lolled forward onto his chest and a mop of dark hair had fallen across his face. At his ankles, his legs yet more hemp bound him to the post.

He was naked.

His mottled skin was vivid blue and purple—both from the cold and from where he had been so badly beaten. There were dark lines across his chest and legs where he had been flogged repeatedly. The snow beneath him was dark with blood. The word “TRAITOR” had been branded across his chest.

For a moment, Jordi pitied the man.

Then, the terrible realisation crept over him and his chest grew so tight he couldn’t breath. He clamped both his hands over his mouth and screamed into them.

His legs, already weak from running, gave way, and he collapsed to his knees. He looked away and closed his eyes.

It can’t be. It’s not him.

You know. You know who it is.

I can’t look.

You must. You owe him that.

Eventually, through the blur of tears, Jordi forced himself to look again on the figure, desperately hoping he was wrong, but knowing, in the darkness of his anguish, he was not.

Ishmael.

Shaking uncontrollably, Jordi shoved a fist into his mouth and screamed again, so hard he could feel his teeth drawing blood from beneath his skin. Rage welled up inside him, shattering the fear and filling him with hate. He forced himself to his feet.

‘I’m coming, Ish,’ he whispered. ‘I won’t leave you here.’

As he started forward toward his brother’s body, something hard and strong curled around his throat, choking him. His arms were pinned roughly to his sides, a hand clamped down over his mouth, and he was hauled backwards.

Jordi fought. Kicked and bit and tried to scream. But the hand and the wind drowned his furious cries. He struggled, trying to free himself, until a voice whispered harshly into his ear.

‘They are waiting for you, you fool.’

For a moment, he stopped struggling.

‘There are cameras all over the place, trained on the body,’ the voice whispered. ‘If you go to it, they will come for you.’

I don’t care. I won’t leave him.

Jordi struggled again, trying to free himself, but the hands held him tightly. He could still see Ishmael’s body and wanted so desperately to go to him.
I can’t leave him.

But eventually, as his energy leeched away, he succumbed and tried to nod. It was difficult, because the hand on his mouth was clamped so tightly he could hardly move.

‘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.’

C
HAPTER
T
WELVE

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 promise would be more than he could bear.