What Came Through
Chapter 12 Law & Order (By Law and Flame)
Previously: Ben anxiously awaits Methak’s return while Elsie de Havred dances joyfully in her home. When Methak arrives escorting an old priest, a young woman, and a crowd of refugees—including Elsie’s husband Leorcan—Ben assures them that Saorsa law welcomes their settlement. That evening, Ben quietly confirms with Leorcan that his group had unwittingly been aided by Payine, a known enforcer tied to massacres. As night falls, Ben sets a trap for Payine’s returning bandits, camouflaging soldiers around the village. When the enemy arrives, signals are given, and a devastating ambush is unleashed. Arrows and bolts cut down most of the raiders; survivors are captured, including Payine. Confronted by Ben and Methak, Payine learns that Eola now has a new sheriff. The chapter closes with the soldiers preparing to return the prisoners to stand trial, while Ben stays behind, his faith in Saorsa’s justice—and the sheriff—quietly affirmed.
After seeing Rydell’s company off, Ben turned to look back down the street. The guard had done a good job of cleaning up the dead bodies and placing them in a second wagon. They would take them back to Eola and bury the bodies. With a nod, he turned to Methak. “Where are you spending the night?”
Methak grinned. “One of the lasses has offered me her second room. That’s where I’ll be.” He said as he turned on one heel and walked away. “I’ll see you when the sun comes up.”
Ben waved him away as he started back toward the front porch he had left to watch the captures. Once he was back on Leorcan’s porch, he leaned the chair back and put his feet up on the rail. Within minutes, he was back asleep.
He managed to sleep until just before dawn and was awake to watch the sun rise. He was enjoying an early morning smoke when the front door opened and Leorcan stepped outside. “Where did you go earlier?” When Ben blew out a puff of smoke, Leorcan waited. “I couldn’t sleep and checked to make sure you were okay.” His explanation fell flat and he pulled up the other chair and sank into it.
“Payine and his men tried to sneak into town last night.” Ben drew in a breath filled with pipeweed, held it for a moment, then slowly exhaled. “You won’t have to worry about them anymore.”
Leorcan blinked and watched the deputy languidly rock the chair. “How many of them did you kill?” He finally asked.
“Me personally? None,” Ben replied. “Rydell’s archers killed all but five, including Payine. They should be a quarter of the way back to Eola by now.”
“I don’t know what to say,” Leorcan admitted as he ran his fingers through his hair. “We are finally on our own and it’s a bit frightening.”
The deputy turned his pipe upside down and knocked the tobaq out of the bowl. “Freedom is that way,” he said wisely. “We left their weapons, armor, and horses in the big barn at the edge of town.” He slipped his pipe into his jacket pocket and turned to Leorcan. “For all practical purposes, it’s up to you and your fellow refugees to defend yourself.” When Leorcan began to look panicked, Ben reached out and clapped his right shoulder. “You’re not totally on your own. Eola is about five hours ride to the east, and Rydell patrols out this way every two weeks. If you need help, you can always send for us.”
The reluctant leader slowly relaxed and returned the clap. “We’ll be okay. It finally hit me that we are safe and it’s all up to us.” He gave a strained smile. “But it’s nice to know that you are only a horse ride away.” He leaned back in his chair. “Are you returning to Eola right away?”
“No,” the deputy replied. “Methak wants to visit the massacre sights and put the spirits to rest. I’m just along for the ride.”
Leorcan nodded and breathed a sigh of relief. For the first time he could remember, he had a future to look forward to, and was looking forward to seeing his daughter grow up.
Back in Eola, the snow had fallen all night, creating a blanket of purest white upon the ground. That blanket was in the process of covering the Darach trees, making them appear to be sleeping giants with icicles hanging from their bare branch hats.
Looking out the foyer window, Balgair watched rosy dawn stretch forth her fingers and wondered if they would have a summer without a spring. He was carefully sipping a cup of café when he heard the sound of a horse coming down from the gate. Wondering who it could be, he reached for his hat, tugging it into place as he stepped out onto the front porch. If it hadn’t been for the warm cup in his hand, he would have felt the cold that much quicker.
Taking another sip, he lowered the cup and waited as the rider hopped off the horse and draped the reins over the hitching post. When the young man looked up, Balgair recognized him. The rider was one of Tackett’s men.
“Good morn, Sir,” the rider said, knuckling the brim of his hat. “I hate to bother you on your day off, but Tackett and Harper need you.”
Balgair quirked a brow in curiosity. “Do you know why?” After a month or so watching the two, he knew that they could handle almost anything. He couldn’t help but wonder what they had found that prompted them to send for him.
The rider fidgeted, as if whatever it was, was best not discussed outside. “Yes sir. One of our patrolmen found a woman in an abandoned building on the north end of town.” He paused, gathered his thoughts, and continued. “Tackett said it looked like someone had cut her open and spread her insides around.”
“I see,” Balgair muttered. “Come inside while I get dressed.” He led the rider into the foyer and pointed to the pot of café sitting on the table. “Help yourself. I’ll be back in a few minutes.” The rider nodded gratefully and poured himself a cup as Balgair left the foyer.
When he returned, he was accompanied by his fire-haired bhanna, who made sure he had everything he needed before helping him into his armor coat. When he reached for his hat, Amelie grinned mischievously and put the hat on her head as she gracefully danced back several steps.
Balgair gazed into her beautiful green eyes and crooked his finger. She gazed defiantly at him for a moment, then tilted her head to one side. “I’ll trade you the hat for a kiss, my big bear.”
The rider hid a smile behind his cup as Balgair pretended to think over Amelie’s proposal. “That’s not a trade, that’s a given.” He whispered as he reached out and pulled her to him. “You look good in my hat, Miss Amelie.” She moaned as he captured her lips in a heated kiss.
After clinging to him for a moment, she held him tight. “Be careful, bear.” She let go of him, handed him his hat and took a step back.
“I will, Mo theine ghràdhach,” he promised her as he slid the hat on his head and adjusted the brim. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.” After giving her another kiss, he turned to the rider. “Come along, Jameson, isn’t it?”
“Aye, sir,” the rider answered, setting his cup down on the table. “Thank you for the hot drink, ma’am.” He gave a half-bow in Amelie’s direction, turned, and followed Balgair out onto the porch.
As if he had been waiting for the Sheriff to walk out, the groom led a black stallion over to Balgair. “This is Black Star, sir. He was Dafyd’s mount. He’s loyal and won’t run from a fight.” Hearing his name spoken, the stallion’s right ear flicked and he turned to look at Balgair.
Balgair climbed down the stairs and walked over to the horse. He met the Stallion’s stare as both man and horse judged each other. Finally, as if accepting Balgair, the stallion’s ears flicked forward and he extended his head. “You and I are going to get along well,” the ex-black swan stated as he scratched the stallion behind the right ear. Before mounting up, he drew his sword and slid it into the sheath attached to the right side of the saddle. Then, taking the reins in his left hand, he reached up and grabbed the saddle horn, put his left boot in the stirrup and pulled himself into the saddle. Once he was settled, he took the reins in his right hand and looked over to the messenger.
Seeing he was ready to ride, Balgair tapped his heels against the stallion’s side. A big smile crossed his face as the Stallion took off in a canter. His smile broadened as he let the Stallion set the pace.
Even though he enjoyed the feeling of the stallion dancing through the snow, Balgair frowned at the very unnatural snowfall. If anything, it seemed to fall faster and cover snow atop snow, leaving mounds that an unwary man could fall deep into.
Mart was usually when the snows melted, leaving dampened earth that the farmers dreamt of. As a soldier, he knew little of farming and was oft times awed by how those stout men worked the soil, planting seeds that grew into fields of golden maize. Like most soldiers, he made it a point not to ever attack a farmstead, knowing that the loss of one could start a cascade that might topple a march.
At his side, Jameson saw the Sheriff’s frown and wondered what had the man concerned. If he knew what Balgair was thinking, he would have agreed wholeheartedly. Hoping to distract the new sheriff from his concerns, he raised his voice. “I didn’t think you knew how to ride.”
“What gave you that idea?” Balgair turned partially at the waist. “I thought I was doing pretty good.”
“You are sir,” Jameson replied. “Everybody knows that you walked into town when you first arrived. Was that by choice?”
“Not really,” Balgair leaned slightly to the side. “I’ll admit that I haven’t ridden much since boot camp.” He paused falling back into the past. “Black swans are usually transported by cutter or skiff to where they are needed.” He explained. “We usually walk back home or catch rides on carts.”
“You’d never be able to tell, sir.” Jameson said with a nod. “Does it seem strange to ride again?” He couldn’t imagine not riding a horse, as he had ridden since he was a boy.
Balgair nodded. “It is, but I’ve gotten used to the landau and I’ll soon remember how to ride like the cavalry.”
Both men fell silent as they approached the south gate and were waved through by the guardsman at the gate. Once inside the walls, Balgair slowed and let Jameson take the lead.
Jameson led them up the street, until they came to the first cross-street and turned to the west. After six blocks, he turned north again, went two blocks, and went down an oft neglected side-street to the west until they came to a cul-de-sac formed by empty warehouses.
When Balgair saw Tackett and Harper standing outside one of the warehouses, he dismounted and looped the reins loosely around the saddle horn. Feeling the looseness in the reins, the stallion huffed once and lowered his head to the ground, snuffling through the snow for grass shoots. Not finding any, he raised his head and looked at Balgair as if he’d broken some kind of a deal.
“I’ve got you covered, sir,” Jameson said, pulling a feed bag from his saddlebag and tying it so the stallion could eat the oats inside.
“Thank you, Jameson,” Balgair said, before walking over to the two men. “You don’t usually call me when you find a body.”
Tackett looked pale and Harper didn’t look much better. The staff-sergeant let the guard lieutenant do the talking.
After taking a deep breath, the red-haired guardsman looked at Balgair. “We don’t usually find one like this.” He covered his mouth as he coughed. “I don’t know how to describe it, sir.”
At his side, Tackett nodded and quietly said, “You’re going to have to see it for yourself.”
He’d been a career soldier, he’d seen worse, but not by much.
“I can’t recall anything like this. Not even on a battlefield.”
That said plenty. Balgair narrowed his eyes. “Okay. Let’s see what we’ve got.”
Without another word, Harper led the sheriff into the warehouse.
The first thing that hit him was the heat, a humid, fetid weight pressing against his throat.
Then came the smell: sweet and sour, like meat left too long in the sun, followed by a cloying wave of rot, sulfur, and spoiled eggs. The coppery tang of blood settled at the back of his throat. He swallowed hard, fighting the rising urge to gag.
And then he saw the body. A woman’s.
Her coppery hair was fanned out around her head like a corrupted halo. Her arms and legs were spread apart. A single, deliberate cut ran from the bottom of her ribcage to her pelvis.
He swallowed again, deeper this time, trying not to lose his breakfast.
Her heart, lungs, and other abdominal organs had been removed and laid carefully around her. Her eyes, once sparkling blue, had been gouged from her skull and placed neatly into her upturned palms.
“By nan Diathan,” he whispered, stepping back.
A chalk-drawn circle surrounded her body. But it was the strange, almost alien runes scrawled inside the circle that caught his attention. Something about them felt… familiar. But he couldn’t place them, as if they brushed the edge of memory without settling into meaning.
“Is this why you called me?” Balgair asked, motioning toward the circle, a spell-circle, for lack of a better word.
Tackett nodded. “I thought, with your experience in the witches’ lair, maybe you’d know what it was.”
Balgair shook his head. “No idea. But Arien might.”
Hearing that, Harper stuck his head out and called, “Jameson! Go back to the office, tell Arien and Eygas we need them. Now.”
By the time Arien and Eygas arrived, the smell had gotten so bad that everybody but Balgair had retreated outside into the fresh air. He refused to leave, saying it wasn’t right that she had been discarded like trash, and it wouldn’t be right to leave her until she had been given a decent funeral. Eygas and Arien paused outside, noses wrinkling in disgust. The men hovering outside the door watched as the mage asked Arien to hold a pouch while he rifled through it. “Here, take a pinch of this and rub it under your nose,” he offered her a piece of what looked like white wax.
When Arien pinched off a piece and applied it under her nose, her eyes widened at the pungent smell. “What is it?”
“It’s Camphor,” Eygas took a pinch and dabbed it under his nose. “It’ll mask the rot and sulpher smell inside.” Arien nodded her thanks and followed him into the warehouse. They found Balgair leaning against the inside wall, his skin pale. “Here, sir,” Eygas handed the Sheriff the Camphor and demonstrated. Balgair complied, breathing a sigh of relief.
“Thank you, Eygas.” Balgair pointed to macabre display. “Could you take a look at the …,” he paused, trying to think of the right word, “whatever that is?”
Eygas absently nodded and started to examine the ritual circle on the floor. Arien did likewise, starting on the opposite side. “My, this is interesting.” He pointed to the alien runes, watching as they seemed to dance in the dim light. After walking completely around the circle, he took a step back, scratching his chin as Arien reached into her pouch, pulled out a piece of parchment, and started to duplicate the circle.
“This isn’t anything like the one in Brigit’s basement.”
“How so?” Balgair walked over, being careful not to break the circle.
Arien pointed to the wiggling runes. “For starters, that’s not written in Crannic. I don’t know what language that is.”
Eygas finished studying the design and walked over. “It’s not Nahuatl, Hellenika, Lakȟótiyapi, or droadhiel canton.” He kept glancing down at Arien’s drawing. “It’s something far older, maybe even pre-Empire.” A soft sigh escaped him. “I can’t read it, but I think I can tell you what it was.”
Stunned, Arien stared at him. “If you can’t read it, how do you know what it was supposed to do?” The hierophant absently brushed his sash. “From the way it’s composed. The symbols mirror each other, like iron bars on a cage.”
“So, it was meant to contain something?” Balgair’s eyes got that faraway look that combat veterans often wore.
“Either that,” Eygas turned back to the circle, “or it tore a hole in the weft and weave. He returned to the circle and paced around it. “Whatever it’s designed to do, something came through.”
Balgair blinked. “Something? Like what?” He didn’t want to think of another chaos creature on Crann na Beatha.
Eygas carefully used his toe to erase part of the circle. “I don’t know, but whatever it was, it sped up the decay of her body.” He gestured to the dead woman. “Your men can move her now. Remind them to be careful when gathering up her organs. Each one must be present when she’s put on the pyre.”
“Understood,” Balgair grunted. “Thank you both.” He turned, walked outside, and detailed two of his men to take care of the dead body. Balgair waited outside. “One more question. Is there a way to find out who she was?” For some reason, something about her looked familiar. He couldn’t figure out why.
Eygas furrowed his brow, his eyes going distant. “The Collegium Arcana has practitioners who can use Draoidheachd a' Bhàis to raise the body.”
Balgair shook his head. “No, I don’t want to raise the body. I want to talk to the soul remnant before it hangs on the wheel.”
Arien blinked, a chill curling down her spine. She had read about soul remnants in dusty, half-burned tomes, hypotheticals, warnings, old priestly mutterings. But never this. Never someone calmly asking to speak to a soul before it crossed the veil. Something in Balgair’s voice made her skin prickle. This wasn’t theory to him. It was personal.
Even Eygas looked curious. “A soul speaker? Who would even …” he drifted off in thought.
Balgair watched as Eygas stopped moving, and his breathing slowed. “What is it?”
“Hmm?” Eygas blinked, returning to the present. “They say that ‘Our Lady wreathed in smoke’ can see beyond the veil.” He shrugged, “but I have never heard whether or not she can talk to those who have passed beyond.”
Balgair grunted, shaking his head. “Damn. I was hoping …” He took three steps, turned, and paced back. “Despoina has so few disciples. I know of only one.”
Eygas was intrigued. “You do? Who is she?” He had met Sagartan of the different Diathan but had never even come across one Despoina’s.
The Sheriff’s lips curled in an affectionate smile. “Oh, just some Raven-haired woman that haunts Rhyslin’s library.” He didn’t elaborate, but something in his voice made Arien glance at him sideways, like he was speaking of a memory more than a person.
Arien caught sight of the two patrolmen who walked out of the warehouse and politely coughed, drawing Balgair’s attention to them. After removing his hat, he held it over his heart, his head lowered in prayer. The other officers, likewise, stopped what they were doing and did the same. It was only after the two patrolmen had gently set the remains in a cart that motion resumed. “What should we do with her remains, sir?”
“That’s a good question,” Balgair remarked. “I’m assuming we’ve never kept the body of a victim before?”
“There’s never been a need.” The patrolman looked askance at Balgair. “We’ve chalked murder victims up to the assassin’s guild and disposed of the bodies.”
Balgair frowned, not entirely happy with that answer. “I was hoping we could keep the body for a few days, at least long enough to document the particulars for the council.”
Arien nudged Eygas and whispered something. He straightened and cleared his throat nervously. “Sheriff Balgair.” When he had Balgair’s undivided attention, he cleared his throat nervously. “I might be able to enspell stasis on her remains. It won’t last very long, a day or two at the most.” He cast a glance at Arien, who nodded. “Arien thinks we can use put, umm, our unfortunate victim in one of the unused storage spaces.” He looked uncomfortable mentioning it. “We’d have to check with Miss Delilah first. She’s in charge of keeping track of the, err, unused store rooms.”
Balgair nodded. “Do it. I’ll let her know when I get home.”
Eygas conferred with Arien again, listened to her recommendation, and nodded. “Please place he remains in the arcane vault behind the Crystal chamber. Be very careful when you do; I have delicate and rare spell components in there.”
The patrolman nodded. “Understood, sir.”
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