The Heretic (Beyond the Wall Book 1) (6 page)

Something jerked inside him—something alien and unknown. It surged towards the pain and ripped through muscle and sinew. His legs weakened and gave way beneath him, but the arms held him and gently lowered him to the cool ground. The pain subsided, faded to a distant ache. The wood dropped from his mouth. Something pressed against his side and he felt wetness on his skin. He was weak and tired, like he imagined he must have been as a newborn—when the implant was first placed inside him.

But now it was gone. Torn from his body, leaving a grisly wound.

‘Well done,’ his father whispered into his ear. ‘It’s over.’

The rest was a blur in his memory. He remembered someone—Mrs Ingmarrson, he supposed, for she was an apothecary—dressing the wound. He remembered muffled gasps and screams around him, as others had their own implants removed. Once he could see clearly again, and the ground around him ceased churning, he realised he was on the cart as it bumped and rocked through the forest.

‘Papa,’ he whispered.

‘He’s not here.’ It was the preacher’s voice, and Jordi turned to see him seated at the front of the cart, driving the horse. Two other figures, he could not say who, were laid out flat beside him; another was seated, head bowed. Beside them, piled high in the cart, were dozens of burlap sacks of all sizes.

‘What happened?’ he asked.

‘Some find the process of removing the implant harder than others,’ the preacher said, watching the way ahead of him. ‘It was easier to lay you in the cart and let the others walk.’

‘Where are they?’

‘A little way behind. We’re going to make camp up ahead.’

‘We don’t have shelters.’

‘We have enough,’ the preacher said. ‘Can you come and sit up here? I want to speak to you.’

Jordi nodded and pulled himself up. Between his ribs, on his right side, he could feel the wound. Yet the pain was distant now, like an echo. ‘I don’t feel much,’ he said.

‘I gave you something to eat for the pain. It won’t last for long though, and you’ll need to keep the wound clean and dressed. Someone will show you how.’

The forest ahead of them was veiled in snow, hued in grey and crimson. The trees looked tall, bleak and haggard, and appeared black in the dusky half-light shed by the moons.

‘What happens now?’ Jordi asked.

‘I need to talk to you about Ishmael.’

Jordi felt his stomach pitch. He took in a deep breath and held it.

‘You have a part to play now, Jordi,’ the preacher said, still watching the forest ahead. ‘Everyone in this group must work together if we are to survive. If you go and look for your brother, you’ll risk all of us.’

‘We can’t leave him,’ Jordi said quietly.

‘We must, at least for now.’

‘
I
can’t.’

‘These people are relying on you. I have tasks I can entrust only to you. If you leave and search for your brother, you will be found. And as soon as that happens, the Praetor will find us. It would be inevitable.’

‘But you’ve removed the implants. How can they track us?’

‘There are ways, and I must remain ahead of them at all times. Which means I need you to do as I say. Do you understand?’

‘Yes.’

‘I have to go into town, and when I do, I will look for your brother. I promise. You must trust me.’

‘I do trust you,’ Jordi said. He studied the preacher for a moment. Questions surged inside him. Questions he had been too afraid to ask before, preferring instead to leave the important decisions to his father and the other elders in the village. Now, he knew he could not wait. ‘Why does the Magistratus hate the preachers? Why is the First Concession so important?’

If the question had surprised the preacher, he didn’t show it. Instead, he appeared not to even hear it, and continued to drive the cart through the forest. Too nervous to repeat his question, Jordi waited. His heart thumped in his chest and he played with the threads on the wool blanket. The preacher closed his eyes for a moment, then began to speak, softly and slowly.

‘The First Preacher tells us that belief in something beyond humanity and the Magistratus allows each of us to see with clarity—to realise who we truly are. Without being open to that belief—that more exists than that which the Magistratus tells us—we cannot be the architects of our own destiny.’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘The Magistratus wants
control
above all else,’ he said quietly. ‘Control of everything humanity is, everything it does, and its future. By conceding our freedom in return for protection, each citizen of the Republic permits that control. That is the truth of the Concessions, and we are told that refusing them is a crime that would endanger the rest of humanity—and is therefore punishable by banishment. Citizens in the Core do not question that control, because they have everything they need to live their pampered lives; everything except the freedom to believe in something more than the Republic. But out here, the truth of what the Magistratus thinks of the border systems is more apparent.’

‘They say the Core is made of gold,’ Jordi said. ‘That it's warm and safe and food is plentiful.’

‘Not quite gold,’ the preacher said.

Jordi pressed him. ’Why does the Magistratus not allow us to believe what we want to believe?’

‘They tell us they were twice the saviours of humanity,’ the preacher said. ‘That they are the only divinity that humanity needs. Faith in any other divinity undermines their power.’

‘I want to be free, but I'm not sure I believe that the universe was created by someone or something I cannot see and touch.’

‘That is your choice,’ the preacher said. ‘You have the freedom to believe whatever you wish to believe. That is true freedom, because everything else flows from it. That’s what they are keeping from you, and what they will kill to protect.’

C
HAPTER
F
IVE

SHEPHERD PUSHED through the door of the supply store. The air smelled musty, and the only light within came from the sallow gloom shed by the storm clouds gathering above Herse. A girl in a frayed blouse and stained apron regarded him warily as he approached.

‘We’re closed,’ she said. Around her, apart from a stack of rusted tins and a few crumpled packets of dried food, the low shelves were bare. Hunting equipment and tools in a corner looked worn and battered, maybe even dangerous. On one counter was a pile of neatly folded old coats, gloves and hats, as if someone had once taken a pride in the place, but they were now covered in dust. Behind the girl, in front of a window, lay a few dry loaves. There was no fresh food. Where once there might have been vegetables and cereals, the baskets were empty. He could see no meat anywhere. The debris of a store that hadn’t been supplied in a long while, and a township with no coin to buy what it did have.

‘I’m meeting someone,’ he said.

She shook her head nervously. The corners of her mouth twitched.

‘In the back?’ He gestured towards the rear of the store, where he knew, in the storeroom, a door led to another neatly hidden room, one where locals would swill away the harshness of Herse.

‘Don’t know what you mean.’

‘I’m a regular,’ Shepherd said. ‘There’s no problem here.’

‘I think you should leave.’

‘You’re not listening to me—’

‘No,
you’re
not listening.’ Another voice came from behind him. A male voice, deep and unyielding and swollen with resentment. ‘She asked you to leave.’

Shepherd turned his head a little and caught the outline of an older man in the corner of his eye. The man clutched a rusted iron pitchfork, and Shepherd could see the tips shaking. He didn’t like the idea of giving a skittish man the chance to prove he knew how to use it, or risk a lucky jab.

‘I just want to meet and do my business, then I’ll leave,’ he said. ‘I’m not looking for trouble.’

‘We’re closed. Ain’t no one been here all day.’

Shepherd pivoted a quarter-turn and backed off slowly so he could see them both. ‘What’s going on?’

The man licked his lips. The tips of the pitchfork continued to shake. ‘Just do us both a kindness and be on your way.’

‘Why are the Watch so jittery?’

‘Can’t say as I know what you mean,’ the man said. His eyes darted to the door and then back to the girl.

Shepherd reached slowly into his jacket.

The man shifted backwards, eyes wide.

Shepherd pulled out a coin and tossed it to the girl. ‘We’re just talking here.’

‘Might have heard something about one of the villages being sequestered,’ the man said quickly. ‘That’s all you’ll get from me. Now you should leave before I get the girl to go for the Watch.’

‘You hear why it was sequestered?’

The man shook his head.

‘They say a Consul is coming,’ the girl blurted.

‘Hush, girl,’ the man hissed. ‘Are you crazy? Talking like that!’

‘’S’what I heard,’ she said, sullenly. She looked at Shepherd. ‘You from off planet?’

Shepherd nodded.

‘Don’t much fancy your chances of getting off now.’

‘Why?’ Shepherd asked.

‘No more!’ the man screamed. ‘Get out! We don’t want you here. Get out!’ The pitchfork dropped forward and levelled at him.

Shepherd backed over to the girl. ‘Give me one of those loaves.’ He rested his hand on his pistol.

The girl’s eyes dropped to the pistol and then back to his face. She nodded and retrieved a loaf from the window, then placed it on the counter.

Outside, thunder rumbled in the distance.

Shepherd nodded his thanks, picked up the loaf and eased away, his eyes sliding from the girl to the man and then back again. He reached down, never taking his gaze from the two strangers, opened the door, and stepped out.

If a Consul was coming to Herse, Shepherd thought, it was time to leave. Of the four Consuls, Shepherd had only ever seen one—during a short but eventful visit to the Core. He had been an older, but fiercely impressive man. Tall and imperious; a man accustomed to war and violence, and to whom a single human life meant nothing.

The Consuls were the physical presence of the upper echelons of the Magistratus. Apart from the Consulate itself, no human being wielded more power than the Consuls—they held the
imperium
. Justice was theirs to deliver. In their presence, only death existed.

The wind had begun to swirl harder and the snow bit into his face. A handful of people braved the streets, scurrying. Almost every window was shuttered. The storm was near.

In the distance, Shepherd heard a soft hum with a high-pitched whine behind it.

He walked back to the girl he’d seen earlier, sitting in the doorway. She was still there of course, huddled under the blanket. He tossed her the bread without a word, then turned away.

He’d received the wire two weeks earlier. One of his brokers, a guy from the Bazaar on Jieshou, had taken the contract and wired it to Soteria. It had been simple enough, and Shepherd had memorised it before running a subroutine to wipe any trace of the wire. He’d picked up the cargo from Jieshou and arrived in Herse on time. So where was Conran? Way he saw it, he had two options, and neither filled him with much joy: ditch the cargo—and risk his reputation and the prospect of further work—or find a way to deliver.

The hum became a low growl, louder now. And as the volume intensified, the whine began to pulse; pressure built in his ears. It almost hurt.

The shuttle was still parked where he’d left it, on the edge of town. He hammered on the door until it opened, hissing and wheezing. The old man was sitting in the driver’s seat. He stared straight ahead as he spoke.

‘Figured it’d be worth my while to wait.’

Shepherd climbed in and glanced towards the rear of the shuttle. It was empty. He turned back to the old man. ‘I need to get to a place called Panis. You know it?’

The driver continued to stare out of the window, and grumbled softly. He chawed on something and rolled it around his mouth. He didn’t look at Shepherd. ‘Not now you don’t.’

‘Why?’

‘Praetor sequestered the village two days ago.’

‘You know why?’

The old man turned to Shepherd, glared at him. ‘No, I don’t. No one asks questions when it comes to the Praetor.’ He leaned away from Shepherd and spat something black and viscous onto the floor by his feet. ‘Why you looking to go there?’

Shepherd guessed that even the old man might be considering making some coin with the Praetor, so he danced around the truth. ‘Someone there owes me money.’

‘Reckon you ought to write that off then.’

‘Maybe.’

‘You want my advice? You don’t need to stay, you’d best be leaving now.’

Shepherd said nothing. As the old man spoke, the growl from outside grew heavier and flooded in through the doors of the rig. The whine grated on his teeth.

‘Or maybe you don’t need any advice, a man like you?’ the old guy said, and looked upwards. ‘Makes no mind to me.’

‘You know what’s happening here?’