The Heretic (Beyond the Wall Book 1) (11 page)

‘It’s more complicated than that.’

‘It usually is,’ Shepherd said and began to rise again, hoping like hell he didn’t fall face-first again. ‘I’m leaving.’

The preacher shrugged. ‘You may leave any time you choose.’

Shepherd paused and then sat with a sigh. He turned and stared at the preacher. ‘There’s
always
a “but”.’

‘There are some things you might want to know.’

‘I guessed there might be.’

‘Your weapon is hidden. If you leave, you leave without it.’

Shepherd breathed slowly through his nose, his lips drawn tight, and he pushed the renewed rage blooming in his throat back down into his stomach. He couldn’t guarantee it wasn’t written all over his face.

‘What else?’ he whispered through clenched teeth.

‘This camp is far into some pretty bleak forest. If you leave, I can’t guarantee you’ll find your way to any settlement before the cold finishes you. Or something else does.’

‘That all?’

‘When we took you, and again I apologise, we attracted unwanted attention. The young man you know as Ishmael was taken. It is certain, by now, that the authorities have isolated your vessel and are searching it. They may even have found the medicine you’re carrying. They’ll believe, from all they have seen, that you are with us, or at least sympathetic. That makes you every bit as hunted as we are.’

Shepherd rubbed his face with his hands. He could feel them shaking has he drew them across his skin.

They’re not getting my damn ship. No way.

‘What do you want from me?’ he said quietly. He could hear his voice trembling, and forced himself to stay calm.

‘Apart from the medicine, two things,’ the preacher replied. ‘You and your vessel.’

‘Your plan’s backfired, old man,’ Shepherd said. ‘They’ve probably isolated my ship, just like you said. What good does that do you?’

‘That’s why I’m glad you’re awake. We need to start planning how we intend to retrieve it and leave Herse.’

Shepherd stared at the preacher and laughed coldly. He looked around the tent, pretending to search it. Perhaps a little theatrically, he admitted to himself, but he could feel burgeoning resentment fuelling his irritation. He leaned down to glance under the cots. Then he pushed himself off the edge of the cot and stumbled over to the flap of the tent and, holding on to a length of rope hanging from the ceiling, lifted the flap and peered out. Finally, he ducked his head back inside and glared at the preacher.

‘You’ve stashed them away pretty well. I’m impressed.’

‘Who?’

‘Your guys. The finely honed weapons of war you obviously have poised to throw at the Praetor and his Peacekeepers. I mean, that’s the deal, right? You’ve got a brigade waiting in the wings down there?’

The preacher smiled wanly.

‘No, of course you fucking don’t,’ Shepherd shouted, his exasperation overflowing. ‘You’re just a crazy old guy and you don’t have a clue. You’re going to convince these people they can take on trained military men who take sick fucking pleasure in the pain they inflict on others. Shit, Peacekeepers might not even be
men
. You’re not just going to get your people killed—you’re going to drive them into a
nightmare
. Not me—I’d rather take my chances with the forest. Tell me, you ever wonder why everyone hates preachers?’

‘You would of course be compensated for your time and risk.’

‘What good’s coin if I’m not around to spend it?’

‘One of life’s little mysteries.’

‘You think this is
funny
?’

‘No,’ the preacher replied, his eyes burning in the gloom of the tent. ‘I don’t. In fact, I’m more aware of the stakes than you realise. These people aren’t blindly following me; they want to be
free
. They’re willing to fight for what they believe in. Can you say that of yourself?’

Shepherd sighed. ‘Fight who?’ he said, quietly. ‘The Magistratus? They
tried
that already. They call it the Second Cataclysm. Bunch of guys went too far the wrong side of the Wall and came back juiced and off their faces. They tried to take the Magistratus down and got hosed. The Magistratus can’t
be
taken down. Freedom isn’t about
choice
—it’s about not finding yourself in Kolyma cracking a hammer against a wall all day and night. It’s about breathing air, not blood. Freedom is about picking your fights and living long enough to learn there’s no such thing.’

‘The Magistratus are lying to you.’

‘No. Really? I’m so glad you’re here to tell us these things.’ Shepherd shook his head. ‘Welcome to the party—you’re a little late.’ As he spoke, the flap to the tent was pushed open and a man poked his head inside.

Come to watch the show?

For a moment, the man stared at Shepherd, his brow curled in resentment. Maybe he’d heard everything. Maybe he agreed. Or maybe he was just cold. Whatever it was, he didn’t look happy. Finally, he said, ‘Jordi’s awake. His fever broke.’

The preacher nodded and rose. As he walked towards the entrance to the tent to leave with the newcomer, Shepherd pushed himself up off the cot again and staggered after him.

Outside, he saw the tent was one of a handful pitched among densely packed trees. Snow draped the forest in a bleak veil of white and grey. The only tincture of colour came from several small fires, the smoke from which melted into the bleakness of the sky. People dressed for winter huddled around the fires or wandered in and out of tents. Shepherd watched one chop wood and another rub a shirt against a rack in a bucket full of dirty water. Some eyed him with suspicion as he watched. To one side, three horses stood tethered to a tree, blankets thrown across their backs. A fine mist curled from their nostrils and they stomped their hooves to keep warm.

The preacher and the newcomer pushed through the flap of another tent, and Shepherd followed. On a cot in one corner lay a boy, maybe a couple of years younger than Ishmael. In the face, he
looked
like Ishmael—so much so that Shepherd realised they must have been brothers. His hair was lighter and his eyes darker, almost green. His face was thin, but his skin was so pale it was almost translucent, tinted with blue. And his lips were purple. He looked exhausted, and perspiration poured off his forehead and cheeks.

A woman knelt over the boy and pressed a cloth to his face, while another woman and a man sat close together nearby, watching the boy with wide eyes. Shepherd could see the boy’s face in both of theirs, and he realised who they were.

As the preacher entered, the boy struggled to get up. The preacher gestured for him to remain lying down and went over to speak to him.

‘Vaarden told them about us,’ the boy stammered. His words came in fast bundles and Shepherd could see fear all over his face. ‘I saw him at the village. Heard him speaking. He was with the Watch. I ran and tried to get away but his dog came after me. I had to use the river. I—’

‘Slow down, Jordi,’ the preacher whispered. ‘How do you know Vaarden was with them willingly?’

‘He had his rifle and his dog and there were only two others that I saw. If he was really their prisoner, he could easily have escaped. And the way he spoke. It was him, I know it was.’

‘It makes sense,’ another man said. ‘His wife always hated us. He grew more distant every day. He has friends in the Watch; he hunts with them.’

‘Aye,’ said another. ‘He’s always been one to look after his own skin.’

The boy turned back to the preacher.

‘Who is he?’ The boy pointed at Shepherd.

‘He has a vessel that can take us away from here.’

‘Don’t make promises you can’t keep, old man,’ Shepherd warned.

‘And Ishmael?’ the boy asked eagerly. ‘Did you see him?’

The preacher said nothing for a moment, and suddenly Shepherd felt sorry for the boy. The pain bloomed hard in his gut, like a rat gnawing at rancid meat.

‘You need to rest,’ the preacher said.

‘No, I need to see Ishmael. Is he with you?’

‘In time, Jordi—’

‘No!’ the boy shouted. Shepherd could see it in his eyes: the boy was beginning to understand. ‘Tell me!’

The preacher said nothing for a moment, then he sat next to the boy. He tried to put his arm around him, but the boy shoved it away. The preacher just nodded, sadly.

‘Ishmael was taken.’

‘Where? When? Why didn’t he come here before now?’

‘He was in the town,’ the preacher replied. ‘Waiting.’

‘Waiting for what?’

The preacher looked towards Shepherd. ‘Waiting for him.’

The boy glanced at Shepherd, his eyes wide and uncomprehending. ‘Who is he?’

‘I hope he will take us all off planet.’

‘You
hope
? I don’t understand.’

‘He brought medicine here at my request.’

‘So he works for you?’

The kid’s sharp, old man. He’s not going to take this easy.

‘No.’

‘So what? Do you even know him?’

‘I hired him.’

‘You’re going to pay him?’

‘If he agrees.’

‘
If?
’

The boy turned to Shepherd. ‘What’s going
on
? Are you taking us out of here? What about my brother?’

Shepherd stared at the boy for a moment, then closed his eyes. His heart was racing. Sweat prickled on his brow. Suddenly, he was on the horse again, gripping its mane and careering round the field, terrified but free. Beyond him, he could hear the faint cry of someone shouting his name, but he couldn’t see who. Every sense was drawn to the horse and the power of its movement. He relished the freedom it gifted him. In the wind, as it whipped past his face, he could still smell the shirt—that familiar scent he recognised, but still couldn’t identify. It tied a knot of grief in his gut and twisted.

He opened his eyes.

‘I wish I could,’ he said.

The preacher took the boy by the arms and faced him. ‘Your brother was taken.’

‘I don’t understand. He went looking for you. The night we left the village.’

‘He found me.’

‘And then what?’

‘I found all of you.’

‘But he wasn’t with you. You told me you didn’t know where he was.’

‘If I had told you what he was doing, you would have tried to find him. And you’d both be dead.’

The boy glared at the preacher, his breathing heavy. Shepherd could see the fury roiling in his eyes. The woman tried to ease him gently back onto the cot, but he pushed her arms away.

He turned to the man and the woman sitting near him.

‘Did you know?’ he demanded.

The woman’s eyes grew wide and she looked away. The man looked sad, but seemed unable to speak.

‘You lied to me,’ the boy whispered.

The preacher nodded. ‘We saw no sense in you suffering.’

‘How can I trust you now?’

‘Only
you
can answer that question. What does your heart tell you?’

‘That my brother is dead and it’s your doing.’

The preacher said nothing.

‘It’s not his fault, kid,’ Shepherd heard himself say. As the words fell from his lips, they surprised him. ‘He’s just trying to keep you all alive. Whatever happened, he didn’t hurt your brother. He saved the rest of you.’

‘What would
you
know?’ the boy spat.

‘I know enough,’ Shepherd said sadly. He turned to the preacher. ‘A Consul is coming. If we’re going to get Soteria out, and all of these people, we need to get to work right now. But trust me, when we’re out, I’ll want paying.’

C
HAPTER
T
EN

SHOUTS FROM outside shattered the hum of the camp. Hard voices edged with fear and anger. Sounds of a scuffle followed quickly, and the preacher turned from Jordi and pushed through the flap of the tent.

Shepherd glanced again at the boy—whose eyes were drawn to the preacher as he left—and then followed the preacher outside. As he lifted the flap and ducked under it, he saw two men wrestling in the snow. He watched the preacher stride over and, with both hands, grab the one on top and haul him off. The man kicked as he flailed backwards, and the preacher wheeled in place, flinging him away.

Strong guy.

Then he reached down and pulled the other man up. As he did so, the first man—perhaps embarrassed by the ease with which he’d been removed, or still in the throes of his fury—charged at the preacher.

Shepherd was about to call out, but stopped himself. He wanted to watch. Something about the preacher intrigued him, and he wanted to see how he handled the situation.

The man had not been thrown far, and covered the ground in a heartbeat. Yet, the preacher appeared to be expecting his reaction—and stepped aside smoothly. He kicked out and tripped the man, sending him again sprawling to the frozen forest floor.

Then he was on him. Shepherd almost didn’t see him move. Every action was precise and measured, as if muscle memory guided every feint and punch automatically. The preacher leapt onto the man and struck him once in the face, hard. Then he reached for the man’s throat, grabbed it with one hand, and leaned in close to his face. Their eyes met, and the man’s face became freighted with fear. The preacher whispered something to him and the man shook his head tightly.