Soul of the Fire (Sword of Truth 5)

Beata had responsibility. She was a soldier who commanded respect, now, just as Bertrand Chanboor’s law said. She didn’t want anything to change.

Even though it was for Bertrand Chanboor, their new Sovereign, and against Lord Rahl, Beata had proudly marked an X.

Emmeline had her hand on the striker, and Karl stood close to it, too, anticipating Beata ordering it out. Beata, instead, motioned the two away from the thing.

“There’s only one rider,” Beata said in a calm voice of authority, settling their nerves.

Estelle heaved a sigh in frustration. “But Sergeant—”

“We are trained soldiers. One man is no threat. We know how to fight. We’ve been trained in combat.”

Karl shifted his sword on his weapons belt, eager for the responsibility of doing some real soldiering. Beata snapped her fingers, pointing to the steps.

“Go, Karl. Get Norris and Annette. The three of you meet me down at the front line. Emmeline, you stay up here with Estelle, but I want both of you to stand away from the striker. I’ll not have you ringing this weapon for no more threat than a lone rider. We’ll handle it. Just stay at your post and keep watch.”

Both women saluted with a hand to their brow. Karl did a quick version before he raced down the steps, breathless with the possibility of real action. Beata straightened her sword at her hip and went down the steps in a dignified manner more befitting her rank.

Beata stood beside the huge stone weapon at the line, as they called it; beyond, the Dominie Dirtch would kill. She clasped her hands behind her back as Karl raced up with Norris and Annette. Annette was still putting on her chain mail.

Beata finally understood the shouts coming from the rider racing toward them. He was screaming for them not to ring the Dominie Dirtch.

Beata thought she recognized the voice.

Karl had his hand on the hilt of his sword. “Sergeant?”

She nodded and the two men and one woman drew steel. It was the first time they’d done so for a potential threat. The were all three beaming with the thrill of it.

Beata cupped her hands around her mouth again. “Halt!”

This time the rider heard her. He hauled back on the reins and drew his lathered horse to a stumbling, clumsy halt a little distance out.

Beata’s jaw dropped.

“Fitch!”

He grinned. “Beata! Is that you?”

He dismounted and walked his horse toward her. The horse looked in sorry shape. Fitch didn’t look much better, but he still managed to swagger.

“Fitch,” Beata growled, “get over here.”

Disappointed that Beata knew the man and there didn’t look like there wasn’t going to be any swordplay, Karl, Norris, and Annette returned their weapons to their scabbards. They all stared openly, though, at the weapon Fitch was wearing.

It was held on with a baldric running over the right shoulder opposite the sword and scabbard at his left hip, thereby helping balance the weight. The leather of the baldric was finely tooled and looked old; Beata knew leatherwork, and hadn’t seen anything that fine. The scabbard was embellished with simply peerless silver and gold work.

The sword itself was remarkable, what she could see, anyway. It had a down swept, brightwork cross guard. The hilt looked wound in silver wire, with a bit of gold, too, glinting in the early light.

Fitch, chest puffed up, smiled at her. “Good to see you, Beata. I’m glad to see you got the job you were after. I guess both of us got our dream after all.”

Beata knew she had earned her dream. Having known Fitch a good long time, she doubted the same of him.

“Fitch, what are you doing here, and what are you doing with that weapon?”

His chin lifted. “It’s mine. I told you that someday I’d be Seeker, and now I am. This here is the Sword of Truth.”

Beata stared down at it. Fitch turned the weapon out a little so she could see the hilt with writing in gold wire. It was the word Fitch had drawn in the dust that one day at the Minister’s estate. She remembered it: TRUTH.

“The wizards gave you that?” Beata pointed, incredulous. “The wizards named you Seeker of Truth?”

“Well…” Fitch glanced back over his shoulder, out to the wilds. “It’s a long story, Beata.”

“Sergeant Beata,” she said, not about to be outdone by the likes of Fitch.

He shrugged. “Sergeant. That’s great, Beata.” He glanced over his shoulder again. “Um, can I talk to you?” He cast a wary eye to those watching their every word. “Alone?”

“Fitch, I don’t—”

“Please?”

He looked worried, like she’d never seen him before. Behind the cocky attitude he was distraught.

Beata took hold of his filthy messenger’s jacket at the collar and pulled him along, away from the others. All their eyes followed. Beata guessed she didn’t blame them; it was the most interesting thing that had happened since the day the Mother Confessor and Lord Rahl came through.

“What are you doing with that sword? It isn’t yours.”

Fitch’s face took on the familiar pleading expression she knew so well. “Beata, I had to take it. I had to—”

“You stole it? You stole the Sword of Truth?’

“I had to. You don’t—”

“Fitch, you are a thief. I should arrest you and—”

“Well, that would be fine by me. Then I could prove the charges are false.”

She frowned. “What charges?”

“That I raped you.”

Beata was thunderstruck. She couldn’t even say anything.

“I got accused of what the Minister and Stein did to you. I need this Sword of Truth to help me prove the truth—that I didn’t do it, that the Minister is the one who did it and—”

“He’s the Sovereign now.”

Fitch sagged. “Then not even this sword will help me. The Sovereign. Boy, this is a real mess.”

“You’ve got that right.”

He seemed to get life back in him. He seized her by her shoulders. “Beata, you got to help me. There’s a crazy woman after me. Use the Dominie Dirtch. Stop her. You can’t let her through.”

“Why? She the one you stole the sword from?”

“Beata, you don’t understand—”

“You stole that sword, but it’s me that don’t understand? I understand you’re a liar.”

Fitch sagged. “Beata, she murdered Morley.”

Beata’s eyes widened. She knew how big Morley was. “You mean, she has magic, or something?”

Fitch looked up. “Magic. Yes. That must be it. She has magic. Beata, she’s crazy. She killed Morley—”

“Imagine that, someone kills a thief and that makes her a crazy murderer. You are a worthless Haken, Fitch. That’s all you are—a worthless Haken who stole a sword that doesn’t belong to them and they never could earn.”