The Heretic (Beyond the Wall Book 1) (9 page)

The boy went over to the port nacelle, pulled a screwdriver from his pocket and began to unscrew the cowling. Shepherd glanced around. He could see the soft glow from inside the hangar struggling to reach them through the blizzard.

He turned and walked towards the boy.

The boy shouted something to him.

The wind howled so loud that he couldn’t hear anything at all. He concentrated on trying to hear what the boy was saying, was about to shout something back at him when—he felt a pinch in his neck.

And then searing pain, like getting shot, began in his neck and surged down his spine. His brain was screaming at his muscles to move. To turn and react.

Fight.

You’re not taking my ship.

But nothing happened.

And everything went black.

The dog’s bark echoed in the mist. Jordi picked his way between the trees, his panting breaths billowing from his mouth as he ran. He tried not to look over his shoulder, but the panic persuaded him. He could see nothing through the mist, but that didn’t stop him from searching for the dog behind him. At first the river came to him as a whisper as he sprinted among the pine and spruce and leapt over the exposed roots of old trees. Beneath the snow, roots and rock threatened to send him tumbling.

The dog’s bark was louder now. Somewhere above the trees, the hawk continued its hunt.

The whisper of the river grew in intensity as he ran towards it—a crescendo that reached a vociferous roar as he came suddenly onto the high bank beside the seething torrent of blue and white. Overhanging trees perched precariously on the cusp of the bank, their knotted roots exposed all the way down to the water’s edge. Stone and rock had washed down the river from the mountain steppes, eventually coming to rest on the bank, to which green moss now clung. There was only one place to cross, he knew—where it was shallow enough that the submerged rock would take his feet and he could feel his way across. He’d be exposed for a while—Vaarden would easily see him if the dog could track him to that point—but there was nothing he could do about that. All he could do was clamber down the levee, without falling in, and wade into the shallower water. Then he had to move downstream without losing his footing.

Jordi searched the ground until he found a long branch that reached to his ribs, which he could use to steady himself as he crossed the river. After another useless glance over his shoulder, he eased himself up and over the cusp of the muddy bank and dug in his feet on the other side. He touched the branch down at the edge of the flowing water to steady himself.

Despite the savage cold, the edge of the river was still boggy. Jordi tried to get a solid foothold, but the ground was too slick; his feet slid from underneath him and despite the stability of the branch he skidded down the bank towards the furious water. His heart flared in his throat as he scrambled to slow his descent, his body twisting and his hands flailing in the mud, grasping for purchase, but he was unable to stall his uncontrolled slide. Mud pushed into his mouth and smeared his chest and face. At last his hand found a root, and he seized it.

Slowly, he lowered himself down the bank. He crept over rock and mud, each threatening to pull his feet from under him, clutching at roots and branches and whatever else he could find. As he proceeded, he listened for the dog, but the river was too loud; they would be on him long before he heard them. He had to just trust in his strategy and make it work. And hope.

Eventually, he reached the stony, rock-strewn shallows of the river, the water surging past him. The noise was deafening now, so intense as to almost overwhelm him. The raw power of the river —its potential to sweep him away, drag him under and tear away his breath—dizzied him.

He stepped into the edge of the water, feeling the cold surge over his boots, soak into his woollen socks, chill his skin. He shuddered. Picking his way downriver, measuring every step, he moved slowly, cautiously. The fear inside him fused with the cold, and wracked him with violent shivers. His hands ached now, wet and frozen stiff. His fingers could hardly hold onto anything. All around him, the river was bathed in an eerie half-light—the snow clung to branches above, but almost everything else was dark and in shadow. The only brightness came from the white of his skin and the snow. Realising this, he reached down and smeared mud over the exposed skin on his hands and face, closing his eyes as he did so. His hands trembled and, just for a moment, he laid them against his cheeks to try to find some warmth.

Then he caught the sound of the dog.

He’d been wrong. Even above the roar of the river he could hear the barking seeping through the mist upriver. The dog had followed him to the place where he had stumbled and slid; Jordi that his scent would have faded in the mud and water, and that the dog would be confused. But Vaarden would not. He would know what Jordi had done. But he would not know whether Jordi had gone upriver or downriver.

Jordi continued to move. He left no tracks now, as his feet were beneath the water, but Vaarden would search both ways, and Jordi’s progress was slow in the river. Vaarden’s would be quicker up on the bank.

The crossing point was close. Jordi quickened his steps, slipping each time and clutching at roots as if his life depended on them. The barking continued, but he couldn’t tell which way Vaarden had chosen first.

One of his feet gave way on the slick moss and slid deep into the river. The root in his hand came away from the bank, and he skidded downwards. The razor edge of the nearest rock gashed his leg, tearing the muscle deeply. He let out an involuntary cry, groped for something to slow his glissade into the surging flow of the river. He jammed his foot against a rock and slumped, the pain in his thigh washing over him in waves of dizziness and nausea.

Looking down, he saw the wound through the tear in his trousers. Blood dripped into the water and was washed away. His hands shook, and he was too afraid to touch his leg. He stared at it, eyes wide.

He tried to stand, but couldn’t. He lacked the strength. He reached for something to haul himself out of the water and into some sort of cover, but found nothing. The exposed roots jutting from the bank were out of reach.

Above, the hawk cried again.

It was over.

I’m going to die here.

Suddenly, the terrified faces of his dead neighbours and friends came to him like a dream. Strewn about like discarded rubbish. Their sunken eyes open and staring. Ashen skin pulled across bone. Crows tearing at their frozen flesh.

Slaughtered.

No! You are NOT going to die!
something inside his head screamed.
Get up, now! Stop crying like a little girl.

You owe them. You
survived
. Don’t dishonour them by giving in.

He refused to let the murderers win.

Jordi glanced around, searching for the crossing he remembered. He caught sight of the arc in the river and knew he wasn’t far. If he could get himself up and moving, he could reach it. Maybe hide once he got to the other side.

If
he got to the other side.

The hope galvanised him. He pushed hard with his good leg, ignoring the pain it caused in the other. He scraped his backside along the rock, pushing until he could reach the roots, and pulled himself up. Waves of pain made him want to vomit, but he hauled in a deep breath and began to move again.

He moved slowly at first, and then found a rhythm, half-walking, half-hopping along the bank, clutching at roots. All the while, he shivered hard.

The dog’s bark broke through the noise of the river again.

They were coming.

Jordi moved more quickly, until at last he edged round the curve of the river and spotted the crossing. He hauled the branch into his armpit and used it as a crutch. He could see the shallow rock beneath the water as it purled over the polished stone. He’d always done this before with Ishmael—slowly and in the summer when the river was lower, knowing that if he fell, he could just swim out and let his clothes dry in the sun as his brother laughed at him. The only injury would be to his pride.

This was no different, he told himself. He tried to clear thoughts of Vaarden and the dog from his mind. Tried not to imagine the cold steel of the rifle, and the tiny, razor-sharp bullet within it, spinning through the cool winter air towards him, lancing through his chest and bursting out the other side in a spray of his own blood.

He swallowed hard and closed his eyes.

There was no time.

He opened his eyes and began to walk. The rocks leading across the riverbed cut through the water and sent it sluicing down a short drop. This natural cascade was formed by the thin trail of exposed rock at the top; but almost everywhere else, the river was deep enough that it would knock him off balance. If he fell, he doubted he’d ever get up.

Jordi led with his uninjured leg, placing his boot on the first rock—a confidence trick as much as anything else—and put his weight on the branch to balance himself. He pivoted and gently rested his other foot, his injured leg, on the next stone, still maintaining as much of his weight as he dared on the branch. The wood was sturdy and would take his weight, but it might easily shift under the push of the surging river.

It held firm, and he allowed himself to put more of his weight on the injured leg.

The pain was excruciating. He could feel his head begin to reel.

He dragged the branch forward and jabbed it down, desperate for it to find purchase between the rocks. Before he could even ensure it was secure, he found he had lifted his weight off the injured leg and brought the other leg forward, searching for footing. But his good foot slipped, and he shifted quickly to try to retain his balance.

The barking grew louder and more distinct. He forced himself not to look.

Concentrate.

He was halfway across the river, his injured leg hanging inches above the stone, shuddering as pain surged up and down in gushes.

Two more stones.

Again he placed his foot on slick rock, leaning on the branch as it perched in the deluge of the river. Water engulfed his boot and flowed up to his ankle, cold and sharp. The branch teetered, its position unstable. He tried to shift his weight, to maintain equilibrium.

The bank wasn’t far but he could feel himself pitching, falling. Another step was all he needed. As he began to topple, he threw the branch and the injured leg forward and rocked on both. He veered and shuffled in equal measure—a collapsing rag doll, falling with neither control nor dignity.

He fell, knuckles first, into the rock and mud on the other side of the river, scraping the skin, his hands too numb to even feel it. He lay there, hugging the mud, wet, bedraggled, his leg screaming in agony, reeling from the pain.

But he was elated.

Behind him, he could hear movement above the roar of the river. He glanced up and saw the dog weaving between the trees leaning off the bank. Its nose darted about the ground, searching for any trace of him. It looked a vicious animal, its lips drawn into a snarl, revealing yellowed teeth. Its grey fur was mottled with snow and mud. It looked, in the wildness of the forest, like a wolf.

But it had not yet seen him.

Jordi searched frantically for somewhere to hide—some hollow in the riverbank, or a way up the bank so he could hunker down behind the cusp of the ridge.

Behind him, blood from his gashed thigh had spilled onto rock and moss. If Vaarden and the dog crossed, they would find him in seconds. He shuffled along the bank, darting glances back to the dog as it sniffed a path towards him.

At last he found what he was looking for. A tiny crevice behind exposed roots and mud and rock—a small cave of mud and rock, big enough to take his body if he curled up tight. He backed into it, hunched low and squat, and rubbed his face again with mud, smearing the remainder on his hands and shoving them under his wool-blanket jacket. He could see them through the roots, as if he were imprisoned both by nature and the men defiling it above him.

The dog was confused, unable to find his scent. The wind swirled above the bank, but at the river’s edge the air was still.

Vaarden appeared next to the animal, searching. Slung over his shoulder was the rifle. Jordi could see the fury etched onto his face and, despite the fear, he allowed himself a tiny flicker of a smile.

As he huddled into his cave, the wooden bars protecting him from the world above, they searched for him but could not find him. The cold closed around him and his eyes grew heavy. Soon, he could not feel his feet or his hands. The ache in his leg dwindled and his breathing slowed. Beyond him, the clamour of the river became a whisper as he gradually succumbed to the peacefulness that beckoned.

C
HAPTER
E
IGHT

FOURTEEN YEARS Earlier

‘This old girl’s in good shape,’ Barack said as he wiped his oily hands on a rag and stuffed it into a trouser pocket. ‘A little past her prime—now, she wouldn’t thank me for saying
that
—but everything works just fine. How long you had her?’

‘Not long,’ Shepherd said quietly. It was a subtle deceit—she’d been his alone for only a few days, but their history together extended back to his childhood.