The Benevolent Knight: Chronicles of the Guardian Blade, #3

By Jon Kiln

Annalise, confronted with Jorgen's looming death sentence in his homeland, musters their circle of friends for a daring rescue. United by a common cause, they embark on a perilous journey to the distant realm of Svelock. Their mission: to plead with the king for mercy and avert Jorgen's tragic fate. The stakes are high, and the air is heavy with both hope and apprehension.

 

In Svelock, their challenges multiply. Not only must they navigate the complexities of saving Jorgen from execution, but they also face a sinister new threat. The New Nationalists have entrenched themselves in this once-peaceful nation, casting a dark shadow over their efforts. Annalise and her allies must confront this growing menace, determined to eradicate it and restore peace, all while racing against time to save Jorgen.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jon Kiln
• Release date: Nov 19, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223514503

Book preview

The Benevolent Knight

Chronicles of the Guardian Blade: Book Three

––––––––

by Jon Kiln

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2018.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in book reviews.

Table of Contents

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

14

15

16

17

18

19

20

21

22

23

24

25

26

27

28

29

30

31

32

33

34

35

36

37

38

39

40

41

42

43

44

45

46

47

Epilogue

1

I’m here to see Annalise. Let me pass. The voice was unfamiliar to the ears of the one it demanded an audience with, and yet had the ring of recognition that she couldn’t quite put her finger on. A faint whiff of pipe smoke drifted through the crack in the door.

Do you have an appointment? her loyal secretary hedged, no doubt playing for time.

No. I don’t. A Dag never needs to make an appointment.

In a flash of clarity Annalise rushed to the door of her study. It’s all right, Mardle, the gentleman may—

She stopped, surprised not to be greeted by the ample paunch and spindly extremities of Xitel, but an oddly similar, yet slimmer version with a decidedly more morose expression on his face, softened by a thin coating of downy facial hair.

You must be Annalise, he said, bowing slightly, but not offering even the faintest glimmer of a smile. Annalise wished she could remember if Xitel had actually ever told her the name of his nephew.

I am, she responded, suddenly feeling a little peeved at the unannounced visit, and having to deal with this new challenge while Jorgen’s fate was consuming all her waking thoughts, not to mention most of her dreams.

My uncle may have mentioned me to you. I am Nee-Ling, nephew to Dag Xitel. It was more of a statement than an inquiry. Annalise tried not to show her irritation.

Yes, he did, although he never mentioned your name. It’s a pleasure to meet you. Please come into my study.

Again the slight bow and the unchanging facial expression as he entered, completely ignoring Mardle who was staring at them both, looking like a fish out of water. Would you arrange a pot of tea for us, Mardle? Annalise decided giving her some work might slow down the rapidly spinning cogwheels in her brain.

Mardle nodded vigorously and scuttled off to do her mistress’ bidding.

Annalise sighed, drew herself up to full height and, taking a deep breath, entered the room where her guest awaited her attention. He had already made himself at home in the largest, most comfortable chair available, which just so happened to be Annalise’s favorite thinking chair, close to the window where she could look out over the city that she and her friends were now responsible for.

I’ll get straight to the point, Nee-Ling, Annalise said, remembering the Dag’s less than forthcoming ways and determined to demonstrate to this nephew of his that such techniques would not get him the success they might have in Testato. She was still smarting from the elder Dag’s treatment of herself and his bride-to-be, although she had not divulged to anyone what the origin of her illness had been.

Dogamshire is still recovering from the negative effects of the war and the revolution. People are hungry and tired and just about scraping the bottom of the barrel of their lost hopes and dreams trying to piece their lives back together again. So, any delusions of grandeur you might be entertaining at this point, I suggest you stow them for the time being. We need people whose first priority is to lend a hand, rather than milk a profit.

Nee-Ling stared at her, and for a moment, Annalise thought—and kind of hoped—he would get up and leave without a word. Instead, he began to smile. It was like the slow dawning of a winter’s morning when silver fingers of light gently coax the frost and ice from their prickly rigidity and bathe the world in hopeful warmth.

Well, then, I see my dear uncle was right.

Annalise eyed him suspiciously, although, she had to admit, when he smiled he had a certain exotic allure. Right about what?

About you. And your country.

Oh? And what exactly did he have to say about me and my country?

Simply that I would find you to be completely without guile and your country in need of serious investment, which I can supply.

Annalise knew he was talking in riddles, and that Xitel had probably used a good deal more adjectives than the ones his nephew had just divulged.

You do realize it will take more than money to fix the mess the New Nationalists made, right?

I’m not sure I follow. The smile had faded a little, but the morose look had permanently fled.

Annalise sighed and moved over to the window, staring out over the city. She had come to know the view, spread below her, like the back of her hand. She could pick up the smallest changes in the environment and in the posture of the people that populated it.

My people are still wary of the agendas of those who hold the reins of government, even if they are former rebels and, in fact, revolutionaries loyal to the true Dogam cause. There is even less reason for them to trust the likes of you.

A fact we had prepared ourselves for, indeed. The new Dag’s voice was unexpectedly commiserating. Annalise turned to face him, her eyes troubled.

Have you? She was not challenging him. It was more as if she needed to be sure he recognized the depth of commitment he would need to give to his new country if he was accepted as a citizen. And more than a mere citizen, a self-appointed leader of the people.

The kind of respect and deference your uncle enjoys in Testato will be much harder to earn here, and not only because of the psychological effects the war has had. Dogams are a tough crowd. They’ll see clear through any ulterior motives.

I see the war has made you as distrusting as the rest of your countrymen.

His statement rocked her to silence. She knew he was right. She also knew she had no other choice.

My lady! Mardle’s voice filtered through the closed door, taut with suspense.

Annalise gave her guest a perplexed look. I’m sorry, Nee-Ling, that sounds serious. I’ll have to check it out quickly.

He nodded, and she left the room, almost colliding with an agitated Mardle about to burst into the study.

What is it? Annalise hissed, the stress of so many new troubles weighing heavy on her still young shoulders.

It’s Sir Jorgen. Mardle’s face was ashen.

What about him? Mardle! Spit it out!

He’s leaving, Dusty answered instead. Annalise hadn’t even noticed him standing in the shadows of the courtyard.

Where is he?

In the stables saddling up. I tried to make him wait, but he wouldn’t listen...

Dusty’s last phrase fell only on Mardle’s ears as she carried the tea tray in to her mistress’ study with trembling hands, knowing that the young leader would expect her to make sure their guest was taken care of in this emergency situation. Her mistress was already halfway down the hall en route to the stables.

Dusty shook his head, shrugged his shoulders, and followed resignedly in Annalise’s wake.

2

Where exactly do you think you’re going? Annalise stormed into the stables just as Jorgen was about to mount the new horse he had been given as a gift from the people. The great bay stallion shied at Annalise’s turbulent entrance, knocking his rider to the straw-strewn cobbles and his breath out of his lungs.

Well, nowhere, clearly, if you keep this up, Jorgen wheezed, choking on the cloud of dust that engulfed him.

Then I shall keep it up! I thought we agreed—

He didn’t let her finish her sentence. Brushing hay and dust from his armor, he cut in, I have to go. It’s been three days already. If I don’t respond to the letter soon, they may send people out to get me and bring more trouble to Dogamshire.

Sometimes I just want to thrash all the nobility out of you, Jorgen Rackgard, Annalise exclaimed, taking firm hold of the horse’s bridle and suddenly longing for good old, dependable Loghan. Perhaps it was more a longing for things to be the way they had been when she was just a frightened girl running from her strife-torn homeland and he a foreign knight looking for adventure.

Suddenly a thought occurred to her. I have a visitor who may be able to help us, she said cryptically, hoping she sounded convincing enough to make Jorgen stall a day or two longer at least, until the fledgling plan just now hatching in her mind had grown wings strong enough to fly.

A visitor? Who? Jorgen wasn’t going to be so easily convinced.

Yes. Annalise studiously avoided the second half of the question.

Anyone I know? the knight prompted.

Not technically.

Annalise, if you want me to take you seriously, you’re going to have to—

Please, Jorgen, just trust me. I’m not exactly sure of anything right now, but I can’t send you to your death after all you’ve done for me and for my people. We’ll think of something. We have to. Just please, don’t leave. Not yet.

Her plea was so heartfelt it arrested Jorgen’s noble warrior heart. He felt as if he were back in Svelock, listening to Duke Lito’s wife, Lady Lorna, admonishing the young knights to exercise caution and use wisdom in all they did as ambassadors of the great name of her benevolent husband.

The Duke would never have agreed to side with the New Nationalists, Jorgen was sure of that, and in some ways grateful the philanthropic soul had not lived to see such heresy. He doubted there was much he could have done to avert it and his heart would have been broken to witness his government’s political debauchery.

All right. Jorgen lowered his head. I’ll wait another day or two. Then he looked up sharply, his eyes piercing with urgency. But Annalise, we must think hard and speak urgently about this.

Annalise suddenly felt like the child she was and nodded dumbly. Lifting one finger, she reversed out of the stables, almost bumping into Dusty on her way out. Then she turned and hurried back to her study and the visitor she had not named. She wondered if she was simply grasping at straws.

Dusty, do you know anything of Annalise’s plans? Jorgen asked the young man while he unsaddled the new horse, dubbed Ben-Loghan in honor of his stoic predecessor.

Dusty shrugged. Not the foggiest.

Jorgen could tell the dart-blowing rebel was trying to appear more disinterested than he really was. I have the feeling we have another adventure coming. Jorgen’s voice was as hopeful as it was thoughtful.

He might not have admitted it to anyone, but he had hoped he would not have to face the officials of his homeland alone. In all practicality, he didn’t really know what Annalise and her friends could possibly do to get a stay of the death penalty that hung over his head, but just the knowledge that they would be there bolstered his courage.

I figured she wouldn’t be able to sit still for very long, Dusty commented, kicking at a dry pile of horse dung. You know, there’s been this restlessness hanging over the city ever since we overthrew the New Nationalists. It’s as if the people don’t really believe the threat is over.

Jorgen looked at him grimly. Yes, and it’s all thanks to my people. His voice was gruff. It was the first time he had made such a statement openly.

It’s not your fault, Jorgen, another voice entered the conversation, and they looked up to see Dhovid strolling into the stable yard.

I know, Jorgen assented, but I somehow feel responsible.

You’re not, Dhovid reiterated. But maybe there is something you can do to enlighten your government?

I doubt it. I am in disgrace and they have had their ears filled with the lies of the New Nationalist fugitives.

Surely there are others you can speak to? Dusty sounded a little agitated. You can’t just give up like that. We went through too much hell to bend the knee before those fascist pigs. That’s not honor, it’s cowardice.

Hush, Dusty. Dhovid glared at him. As usual, Dusty’s rebel heart was getting ahead of him.

It’s okay. Jorgen held up his hand. Dusty has a point. I’m just not sure what to do about it at this stage.

Dusty snorted. Well, we’d better come up with something soon. I’m not too sure if this country can handle another war. He stomped off, kicking at every stray bit of debris in his path.

I’m sorry, Jorgen... Dhovid began.

Jorgen waved off his apology. Dusty was right. Everybody’s nerves were frayed. They had worked so hard and endured so much to get this far. A threat from Svelock, however vague or imagined, was the last thing anyone needed. And Jorgen was not even sure they recognized the danger.

He remembered his words to Annalise: I doubt they would declare war or anything. Was he truly sure of that? What if the New Nationalists convinced them that the ‘rebels’ of Dogamshire were a threat to the peace of Svelock?

The knight sighed as he led Ben-Loghan out to pasture. He had been looking for adventure when he came to Dogamshire, and got a wagon load more than he had bargained for. He wished he could help to save these feisty but warm-hearted people from his own government, but what could a condemned man do? Especially one condemned to death?

3

Mara watched the sun setting from her chamber in the palace. She had heard that these had once been the quarters of the famed Queen Lisabelle a few centuries before. Mara wondered what emotions she had wrestled with, as a woman, leading a nation in turmoil, and suddenly wished the wise ruler could be there just for a day to share some of her wisdom.

At least she had had a husband at her side. A pillar of strength and a confidant. Someone she could show her weak side to. An unbidden sob choked Mara as twin tears each marked a pathway down her cheeks.

She missed Brice. She needed his strength, his seemingly inexhaustible joy of life and positivism. The vacancy he left in her life was beginning to overwhelm her.

A knock at the door startled her and she quickly brushed away her tears with her sleeve, composed her face to a more serene expression, and answered. It was Kana, Annalise’s young maidservant. Mara had become deeply fond of the young lady.

Behind her stood a guard. His grave expression only seemed to add to the tremor of tension vibrating in the atmosphere.

My lady, Kana said deferentially, her eyes kind, but her mouth betraying her worry. Your son, Pieter, has requested an audience with you. The young woman bowed low. He seemed quite distraught.

If Mara had had to compose herself before, the distress she now felt threatened to derail all her efforts in a flood of emotional outburst. She took a deep breath, avoiding the eyes of the guard.

Does he say what he wishes to discuss with me?

No, my lady, not a word. Only that it is vitally important.

Mara looked into the eyes of Kana, as innocent as doves, but revealing a depth of understanding only those initiated into the courts of emotional pain could possess.

All right. Take me to him.

Kana bowed and led the way, with the guard protectively taking up the rear. The young woman had taken the initiative to prepare a carriage to take Mara to the old prison, although it was not very far from the castle.

Pieter’s cell was in the political prisoner’s wing of the prison, and so was quite comfortable, even by middle class standards. The worst part of his incarceration was simply his removal from society with ample time to ruminate on his own acts that had brought him to be in this place.

He stood with his back to them, staring out into the deepening red dusk settling over the city, as two burly guards scraped open the heavy iron grating that blocked his way to freedom. Mara felt as though her heart were in her throat. She had come here a few times before, hoping to somehow again find the adventurous, fearless boy she had raised, his head full of dreams, just like his father.

She had found, instead, a silent, withdrawn shell of humanity. He had not once spoken a word to her in all the times she had visited him. She had rambled on about the developments in the kingdom of Dogamshire, how people were slowly coming to terms with their new freedom, and the reintroduction of the old ways.

She chatted away about her herb garden and what she had seen at the market. Anything to just keep talking and chase away the cavernous silence that surrounded them. Although, lately, she had almost come to feel safe in that silence, especially now that he had indicated that he wanted to speak to her, and suddenly she