Free The Heretic (Beyond the Wall Book 1) by Lucas Bale Page A

getting around it. Soteria needed fixing, and he needed off Herse.
    ‘Okay,’ he said, and placed his hand on the pistol for effect.
    The boy smiled. ‘I just wanna get paid, mister. Got no need to cause you trouble, okay?’
    ‘Sure. Lead on.’
    The boy nodded and sauntered down the ramp.
    Shepherd followed.
    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