Catherine Heathlow's Last Stand
 
 
 
 
 
 
 She studied the stranger whom she had promised to protect from behind a curtain of her eyelashes. Catherine had heard the stories of King Randolph II before - everyone had - but now that they had actually met face to face, she found it nearly impossible to reconcile the hushed whispers of the Mad King's cruelty with the pitiable specimen sitting in front of Mother Superior's desk. Regardless, he had bought her loyalty, bought hers because no other Guardian would have anything to do with him. She took a deep breath as silently as she dared, feeling as if the weight of the world threatened to make itself comfortable around her slender shoulders. Guardians usually worked in a quartet of women guided by an experienced leader, but she all by herself had been made responsible for the safety of a king with a hundred enemies who would prefer to see him dead.
 
 Given the choice, she surmised, he probably would not have chosen her either. She still retained boyish slenderness, boasting none of the curvaceous hips or full figure of Guardians who could offer their wards a comfortable journey safe from the rest of the world. She might be attractive in her way - that is, if he happened to like gangly, awkwardly tall girls not quite seventeen who looked perpetually underfed and wide-eyed. Her hair was her one pride and joy, coppery auburn locks which flowed smoothly almost down to her feet in gentle rivulets. With the contract sealed, Mother Superior and the king both stared at each other across the desk as the old woman informed the king of the type of service he could expect from his young Guardian. The man looked much older than his reputed forty years, although she could not judge from his dark beard and sunken face. Even catching a glimpse of a man proved rare enough on the chapel grounds!
 
 "... is not your servant or calling girl, and you most certainly have not purchased any service which will require her to warm your bed. She will follow your orders, but she will also exercise her best judgment concerning your safety. If she feels that you are in danger, by her judgment, your Guardian will give you orders which she will expect you to follow. In emergencies, she will resort to force if necessary." Catherine experienced a terrible urge to scratch her back as it prickled with nerves. Or was that her scalp? "A Guardian is an expensive investment and we are doing you a tremendous favor by leasing her to you at such a low price. Please take good care of her health and her mental well-being." Catherine had already listened to her half of the homily many times in school. Guardians risked everything for loyalty purchased with mere gold, and a Guardian of the South Wind never broke faith. Ever.
 
 That seemed easy enough, but Catherine had never killed a man in battle before. Dame Hennings assured her that doing so proved far more difficult in practice than in theory, often sending her to watch the butchers in the city and then killing the animals themselves as she aged. It had taken her over a year to be able to stand the horrific sights and smells of the slaughterhouse, and her hands had trembled like gambling dice the first time she lifted the butcher's cleaver. Even then, battle-hardened Dame Hennings had declared her unready for the rigors of war. A mission like this needed a four-woman team led by an experienced sister, one who could teach a young and recently accepted Guardian the practical side of -
 
 "Catherine?"
 
 She blinked, snapped out of her reverie, and found both the crownless king and Mother Superior gazing expectantly at her. "Um ... would you repeat that?" she asked stupidly, and winced as the king sighed in exasperation.
 
 "Catherine. It isn't too late to change your mind. Do you understand the burden you are agreeing to?" Mother Superior looked graver than usual.
 
 The Guardian bowed her head solemnly. "I do, Mother. I will guard my ward faithfully until the terms of the contract are fulfilled." What else could she say? To change her mind now would be to prove herself a coward, unworthy of the South Wind chapterhouse's diligent training, but Mother Superior still looked as though she wished to retch. Besides, the contract had been simple enough: escort the renegade king to the great city of Istira in the Council Vale. Although inwardly trembling with equal parts excitement and apprehension, the Guardian's pride no longer permitted her to decline the contract to which she had already given her assent. Mercifully, Mother Superior turned her gaze away and looked down at her desk. The king still studied her with his jet black eyes and Catherine felt as if he undressed her with every look. She wondered which made her feel more uncomfortable, the king's lecherous leer of anticipation or the pity and sorrow in Mother Superior's eyes.
 
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 The road ended here.
 
 Why hadn't she declined the outrageous contract and stayed in Wheatstone City? Her seventeenth birthday had passed three weeks ago, celebrated by no one except the pub scoundrels taking their pleasure on her body. Oh, she had tried to resist at first, but a Guardian hiding from the Royalist outriders downstairs in the commons room had no bargaining power at all, and they all knew it. The riders would instantly have recognized her as the Guardian escorting the quarry that they sought, the round curve of her belly betraying his residence immediately. So she had very hastily retreated to her own room upstairs in the seedy inn, a move which confirmed her guilt. And then, when those worthless men entered her room ... she had resisted for a while, but a Guardian would do anything to protect her ward. He'd squirmed so much that even a man could see that she carried no baby in her womb, and with the threat of having those Royalist riders called upstairs ... she had lost track of the time as each man took his pleasure on her, their stiff fleshy worms wriggling in her body as the exile king thrashed and pushed in terror at the forces invading his sanctuary. She hadn't been able to walk for the next three days, resulting in a longer stay than she had first anticipated and a larger bill presented by the surly innkeeper.
 
 They had only a few coppers left anyways, not even half a thaler, as Catherine foolishly let herself be fleeced by merchants while learning the fine art of haggling by bitter experience. She knew of the king's lusts too, having borne mute witness while he and a paid lady of the night rutted like animals within the temple of her womb. Those had been the worse experiences of all, even worse than being raped herself, and the desperate temptation gnawed on her mind whenever her belly shook with the king's moans. A few squeezes, all she need do would be to exert a little force and nobody would ever know what became of the Mad King Randolph II. Guardians did not seek easy solutions. Guardians never betrayed their wards, even when those wards so plainly preferred the company of a buxom and seductive strumpet to that of his dour Guardian.
 
 Soaked from head to toe, Catherine grimly forged on as she wearily lifted one boot after the other through the muddy swamp. Worse than the incessant dampness brought on by the harvest rains, the chill gnawed at her toes and her fingers. The waterproof boots bought a few towns back had proved anything but, while her carefully sewn cloak dripped from the earlier torrential downpour. Here on the wide plains of Falacaerr you might find a scant tree for shelter if the gods decided to grace you with a miracle. But the plains had none of the paved roads that the Nationalists enjoyed. Royalists were riders and did not need them, but her stallion had left her more than a day ago. By now, if he knew what was good for him, horse and rider would be negotiating the fords to the Council Vale. As for Catherine herself, she leaned her back on the damp, mold-encrusted rock jutting out of the swampy terrain and prepared for the end.
 
 Ragged tendrils of once coppery hair plastered to her scalp, shriveled by the cold and the lack of care. She had cut off her long locks a season ago, selling them for the money needed to stay one step ahead of the pursuit, and they had only recently began to start brushing against her shoulders once more. No Guardian marched easily when she carried, and Catherine placed a hand on the rounded swell of her belly. She felt so very cold as the bitter wind cut her to the bone, threadbare wool blouse and mudstained skirts a scant defense against the elements. The earlier torrential downpours had given way during the evening to a miserable and dreary rainfall, dripping without raining, dampening her spirits even further than she imagined possible. If she survived this night alone on the plains without a fire ... the Guardian admitted to herself that she had not thought this far. Every indication pointed that she would not survive. Continuous weeks of furtive running and malnourishment had left her bony, angular, and starved. The curve of her pregnant belly might be the only part of her which still had any curves, she thought with black humor.
 
 She saw them before she heard them, the Royalist outriders in their deep blue garb following the clear trail her muddy and laden footprints left in the quagmire. Their horses kicked up mud from the slough as they followed her all too easily. She had known, of course, ever since her narrow escape from Imradril Manor. They were close, they would catch her where the hills met the mountains, and one Guardian on a fatigued horse could not escape the outriders forever. But a Guardian never betrayed her ward.
 
 Her thoughts strayed to the Mad King as she placed her back to the steady rock and awaited the pursuers. The stories had been true enough; by his own admission he had been a hated and wanted man, and deserved all of his reputation. She had seen the fiber of his character too, in the way that he left the difficult decisions to her while squandering their precious little money on spirits and women of negotiable affections. So the exile caroused and left her to clean up his mess, confident that at the end of every day he would have a warm womb to sleep in and a Guardian to make excuses while she suffered the cold, the back pains, the swollen ankles and morning sickness. Goodwill, she had swiftly learned from the few citizens willing to pity her alibi of a runaway from home heavy with child, was an invaluable quality in short supply and quickly wasted.
 
 The riders had almost caught up to her now, the sound of a deep horn being wound a signal that more would surely arrive. She stared at them through sunken, hollow eyes. A dozen horses and riders fanned out to surround her, most of the soldiers carrying crossbows leveled at her. Catherine scanned them warily, but her shoulders sagged with relief when she saw that all her pursuers were men. If so, she still had a chance; with another woman, she might have no chance at all to succeed in her deception, and she placed her left hand over her womb as her right drew her rapier. She wore no armor at all and the mud mired around her ankles would not permit her to move with the agility necessary to a duelist, if she could even summon the energy for that. Between the dead weight in her womb and her own muscle-numbing fatigue, Catherine doubted her chances even on level ground.
 
 The captain held up a fist enclosed in chain mail and the archers lowered their crossbows. Unwilling to do the same with her own weapon while the horses stamped a mere twenty paces away, she watched warily as he reined his horse closer to her. He had not drawn his saber, however, so she studied him more closely. He had the remnants of an ill-shaved beard on his chin and when he doffed his hat to her she saw that he must not be much older than she. He looked well-fed and well-rested, which caused an irrational pang of envy to spike up in her heart. His words came out kindly enough, without any tone of hostility. "Ma'am, it is time to surrender. You've nowhere left to run and our orders are to take you into custody."
 
 Think. She had to think, stall, buy time while more riders sounded the calls and flocked to her. She knew that she would never her way past a dozen archers on horseback anyways, even if rested and fed. Catherine waited a moment before replying slowly, her tongue cleaving to the roof of her mouth. "And what will happen to my ward, captain? Will he be safe?" She stroked the curve of her belly for emphasis. A Guardian never betrayed her ward, no matter what kind of man the ward.
 
 "Miss Catherine ..." She started; how did he know her name? Then she caught herself. Of course, anyone who knew her face ought to have learned her name as well. "Miss Catherine, he must stand trial before the people as you well know."
 
 "The people?" She tried to sound indignant, but her protest emerged as a high-pitched squeak. "The people? Will they give His Majesty a fair trial? You are asking me to consign my ward to the tempers of a mob, captain! I cannot consent to that with honor." Let him think that she wanted a way out, let him look for it. Let him take his time ...
 
 "Miss Catherine, please be reasonable. We've brought some bread rolls for you, and a blanket, and a spare horse." A glance to her left confirmed a riderless horse with a saddle and Catherine felt her resolve weakening. Fresh food! Maybe even an apple, a luxury she hadn't enjoyed since accepting the mad contract, and a chance to sup on fine fare instead of turning all the best over to the exile and having to content herself with mere table scraps. She almost wept with gratitude at being offered a meal instead of having to beg it on the city streets. A warm bed to sleep for the night. A chance to take a long, luxurious hot bath. All she had to do, all they asked for, something that no Guardian would ever do.
 
 "N-no! I won't betray him!" she almost shouted, hoarseness and the beginnings of a cold constricting her throat. "I won't do it!"
 
 "Miss Catherine, why not?" The man seemed genuinely puzzled, staring down at her from his charger. She had seen that same look before on the day she left Mother Superior's office, of pity mingled with sadness. "You've been his Guardian for months! You must know what the Mad King was like, how happily any Royalist citizen would strangle him, the innocent blood he's shed. He killed three wives so that he could cavort with other women! The Crown is waist-high in debt because of King Randolph, the people starved and despoiled, taxed almost to death!"
 
 Catherine knew, of course, better than the man himself might. Steadying herself with her left hand on the rock, she collected her wits as she let him shout. Only when he finished did she try to edge in a word. "Captain. What is your name?"
 
 "Vance, ma'am. Vance Warren."
 
 "Captain Vance," she told him wearily, "everything you say is true, and worse besides. So go back and tell your superiors that you are chasing after a man who is no threat to them. If you set a pretty face and a pair of breasts in front of the king then His Majesty will forget every plan in his mind and chase after her." She considered that such statements might be construed as disloyal, but the Mad King could not hear her now. "The man you seek is no threat. I will tell you exactly what he will do when he arrives at Istira, Captain Vance. He will beg the Council for an army to assert his claim and the Royalist throne. When that fails, he will threaten, whine, plead, cajole ... but he will not set his shoulder to the tiresome task of attracting men of ability, of statecraft - in short, of ruling. He will stay in Istira, bitterly lamenting his lost glory days but unable to bring himself to earning them back. He will fade from history, forgotten and unmourned, a slave to his vices. Go tell your general, Captain Vance."
 
 He shook his head, sending rain droplets scattering in every direction. "I cannot, Miss Catherine. My orders were very clearly to bring you in. And even if everything you say is true, the Mad King still deserves a blade through his heart."
 
 "Would you like mine through yours?" The retort rang hollow, and the Guardian knew it. Very likely he would be able to subdue her even unarmed.
 
 "I don't understand!" he shouted at her in frustration. "Here you are all alone and miserable, ready to sell your life for a man who won't even recognize your sacrifice. It's useless, you know! If you fight and die, we will still cut him out of your body! If you come with us the midwives might give you a drink to induce birth, but it's better than dying pointlessly! If you would just surrender, you could have everything - food, drink, a knighthood, the enormous bounty on his head! Every Royalist would honor your choice! Why are you doing this, Miss Catherine?"
 
 Oh yes, the why. She felt so fatigued that she could barely stand, the heavy weight in her womb burdening her already fragile body even further. "Captain Vance. A Guardian never betrays her ward, and it useless to ask me to try. I see that the other riders are fast approaching, so I pray that you will kill me quickly and not force me to the shame of returning with my contract unfulfilled and my ward taken from me. Any ordinary woman, I think, would long have left him. Maybe I am being unreasonable. Maybe I am foolish, even mad, but I want to believe, Captain Vance! I want to believe that my sacrifice can make a difference! I want to believe that any life, even one as rotten as his, can be atoned!" Catherine practically shouted at him now. "If my death is what it takes to open his eyes, then welcome be it! I am just one woman, but he is a king! And deepest inside of me, I believe with all my heart that even the worst man can turn his life around for the better! It isn't too late! King Randolph can still become a righteous and good man!" Other riders, circling around, had spotted the wet Royalist banners hanging limply and she could hear the dull thunder of their hooves churning through the mud now. Hopefully that had bought enough time. On her stallion's back, the king should have reached the border of Sapphiras Vale by now. By the time they opened her womb and found nothing except a large granite rock inside, it would be too late for the Royalists.
 
 "And that is why I will die for him." She smiled wearily up at the Royalist rider. As a Guardian, Catherine Heathlow might have left much to be desired, but she never betrayed her ward, not even once. Her hand tightened on her rapier as she thought of Dame Hennings. When the time came, she had not hesitated. Nor would she permit hesitation to mar her steely resolve now as she commended her soul and her ward to the protection of the All-Mother.
 
 Forgive me, Ilanwylln. King Randolph is in your hands now.
 
 Captain Vance swung out of the saddle, mud splashing from his boots as he landed in the wet swamp. The Royalist riders had nearly reached them now and the man sighed deeply as he drew his saber from its sheath. Surprised by the unshed tears brimming in his eyes, the Guardian blinked to be certain that her own eyes did not play tricks upon her vision. "Yes Catherine," he whispered softly, regretfully. "Yes, you will."