Read Online The Heretic (Beyond the Wall Book 1) by Lucas Bale - Free Book Online
Authors: Lucas Bale
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wanted to go to them, say something clever that would take away their pain, but he couldn’t find the words. Instead, he left the camp as often as he could.
When he reached the forest’s edge, he slid into the same hollow and peered through the roots towards the stone buildings that had once been his home. He could still see the ashen bodies strewn callously about the frozen mud. Dragged from their homes and shot, or throats slit open with hunting knives. Black crows cawed and tore at their frostbitten flesh.
No more tears.
He shivered.
He watched for a little while, not as long as previously, but he was convinced now that the village had been abandoned. There were only a few cottages still to search. He couldn’t be sure if he’d find anything, but he had to look.
He ducked from behind the cover of the roots, climbed out of the hollow and sprinted towards the village. Closing his eyes to the bodies, he ran towards the clutch of cottages he needed to search. The door to the first lay open, hanging broken from its twisted hinges. He slipped inside without touching it and listened. The only sound to break the silence was the hiss of the wind.
He scrambled up the ladder in one corner, which led into the tiny attic. Each rung uttered a tiny squeal as he did, but he told himself that no one was around to hear it. Following the preacher’s instructions, the villagers had managed to squirrel away bits and pieces in the tiny spaces among the rafters, and almost everything he’d managed to salvage so far had been in those hidden spaces. He was surprised no one had searched up here. Perhaps they hadn’t thought to. Or hadn’t had time.
Even in the damp chill there was dust on the wood, and it rose off the rafters as he moved around. It caught in his throat, and he couldn’t prevent a stifled cough from escaping. Immediately, he clamped his hand over his mouth and stared, terrified. He dared not move, and his lips trembled beneath his hand.
There’s no one here, Jor. Just you.
He tried to make himself believe that but, for a long while, he didn’t dare move. When he did, he crept like a rat. Sniffing out morsels to scavenge. A simple thief who should have been in prison.
He found another cache of blankets and allowed himself a smile. Next to them were a toolbox and an old hunting knife. He reached for the knife and examined it. It was old but in good condition. The blade needed sharpening, but there was little rust, and it would do well enough. He tucked everything into his burlap sack and headed for the ladder to climb down from the attic.
When he heard the voices outside, he froze.
Voices.
He wasn’t imagining it. They were there.
Please no.
Jordi stayed perfectly still and closed his eyes. He could hear his heart surging in his ears. He wanted to sprint down the stairs and run to the forest as quickly as he could, but he knew he’d be dead if he did that.
He had to know where they were.
‘He’s here,’ one of them said, a man from the village by the accent. ‘I saw him come in.’
‘You’re sure?’ said a second voice. Another man, but from the township.
‘Certain. We find him and he’ll lead us to them. This little one knows the forest almost as well as I do.’
In a heartbeat, Jordi recognised the first voice.
It was Vaarden.
And suddenly he understood. How they had been ambushed that night; who had told the Praetor. But Jordi couldn’t believe it. Vaarden had no reason to hand them over to the Peacekeepers. He might not have believed in everything the preacher was saying, but Jordi had seen no indication of a hatred deep enough to desire the destruction of their village and everyone in it. Yet that’s precisely what he’d brought about. Vaarden would have known the Praetor could not allow a preacher in his territory—the First Concession was inviolate. Preachers were to be hunted and imprisoned. And those who followed them…
Jordi’s mouth was dry.
Fear swelled in his chest. If
When he reached the forest’s edge, he slid into the same hollow and peered through the roots towards the stone buildings that had once been his home. He could still see the ashen bodies strewn callously about the frozen mud. Dragged from their homes and shot, or throats slit open with hunting knives. Black crows cawed and tore at their frostbitten flesh.
No more tears.
He shivered.
He watched for a little while, not as long as previously, but he was convinced now that the village had been abandoned. There were only a few cottages still to search. He couldn’t be sure if he’d find anything, but he had to look.
He ducked from behind the cover of the roots, climbed out of the hollow and sprinted towards the village. Closing his eyes to the bodies, he ran towards the clutch of cottages he needed to search. The door to the first lay open, hanging broken from its twisted hinges. He slipped inside without touching it and listened. The only sound to break the silence was the hiss of the wind.
He scrambled up the ladder in one corner, which led into the tiny attic. Each rung uttered a tiny squeal as he did, but he told himself that no one was around to hear it. Following the preacher’s instructions, the villagers had managed to squirrel away bits and pieces in the tiny spaces among the rafters, and almost everything he’d managed to salvage so far had been in those hidden spaces. He was surprised no one had searched up here. Perhaps they hadn’t thought to. Or hadn’t had time.
Even in the damp chill there was dust on the wood, and it rose off the rafters as he moved around. It caught in his throat, and he couldn’t prevent a stifled cough from escaping. Immediately, he clamped his hand over his mouth and stared, terrified. He dared not move, and his lips trembled beneath his hand.
There’s no one here, Jor. Just you.
He tried to make himself believe that but, for a long while, he didn’t dare move. When he did, he crept like a rat. Sniffing out morsels to scavenge. A simple thief who should have been in prison.
He found another cache of blankets and allowed himself a smile. Next to them were a toolbox and an old hunting knife. He reached for the knife and examined it. It was old but in good condition. The blade needed sharpening, but there was little rust, and it would do well enough. He tucked everything into his burlap sack and headed for the ladder to climb down from the attic.
When he heard the voices outside, he froze.
Voices.
He wasn’t imagining it. They were there.
Please no.
Jordi stayed perfectly still and closed his eyes. He could hear his heart surging in his ears. He wanted to sprint down the stairs and run to the forest as quickly as he could, but he knew he’d be dead if he did that.
He had to know where they were.
‘He’s here,’ one of them said, a man from the village by the accent. ‘I saw him come in.’
‘You’re sure?’ said a second voice. Another man, but from the township.
‘Certain. We find him and he’ll lead us to them. This little one knows the forest almost as well as I do.’
In a heartbeat, Jordi recognised the first voice.
It was Vaarden.
And suddenly he understood. How they had been ambushed that night; who had told the Praetor. But Jordi couldn’t believe it. Vaarden had no reason to hand them over to the Peacekeepers. He might not have believed in everything the preacher was saying, but Jordi had seen no indication of a hatred deep enough to desire the destruction of their village and everyone in it. Yet that’s precisely what he’d brought about. Vaarden would have known the Praetor could not allow a preacher in his territory—the First Concession was inviolate. Preachers were to be hunted and imprisoned. And those who followed them…
Jordi’s mouth was dry.
Fear swelled in his chest. If
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