The Princess Bride

by Уильям Голдман

  INIGO, AT 5:37, was so startled at the Count's cowardice that for a moment he simply stood there. Then he gave chase and, of course, he was faster, but the Count made it through a doorway, slammed and locked it, and Inigo was helpless to budge the thing. "Fezzik," he called out desperately, "Fezzik, break it down."

  But Fezzik was with Westley. That was his job, to stay and protect Westley, and though they were still within view of Inigo, Fezzik could do nothing; Westley had already started to walk. Slowly. Weakly. But he was, under his own power, walking.

  "Charge it," Fezzik replied. "Slam your shoulder hard. It will give for you."

  Inigo charged the door. He slammed and slammed his shoulder, but he was thin, the door otherwise. "He's getting away from me," Inigo said.

  "But Westley is helpless," Fezzik reminded him.

  "Fezzik, I need you," Inigo screamed.

  "I'll only be a minute," Fezzik said, because there were some things you did, no matter what, and when a friend needed help, you helped him.

  Westley nodded, kept on walking, still slowly, still weak, but still able to move.

  "Hurry," Inigo urged.

  Fezzik hurried. He lumbered to the locked door, threw his bulk against it hard.

  The door held.

  "Please," Inigo urged.

  "I'll get it, I'll get it," Fezzik promised, and he took a few steps back this time, then drove his shoulder against the wood.

  The door gave some. A little. But not enough.

  Fezzik backed away from it now. With a roar he charged across the corridor and when he was close he left the castle floor with both feet and the door splintered.

  "Thank you, thank you," Inigo said, already halfway through the broken door.

  "What do I do now though?" Fezzik called.

  "Back to Westley," Inigo answered, in full flight now, beginning chasing through a series of rooms.

  "Stupid," Fezzik punished himself with, and he turned and rejoined Westley. Only Westley was no longer there. Fezzik could feel the panic starting inside him. There were half a dozen possible corridors. "Which which which?" Fezzik said, trying to figure it out, trying for once in his life to do something right. "You'll pick the wrong one, knowing you," he said out loud, and then he took a corridor and started hurrying along it as fast as he could.

  He did pick the wrong one.

  Westley was alone now.

  INIGO WAS GAINING. He could see, instant to instant, flashes of the fleeing noble in the next room, and when he reached that place, the Count would have made it into the room beyond. But each time, Inigo was gaining. By 5:40, he felt confident he would, after a chase of twenty-five years, be alone in a room with his revenge.

  BY 5:48, BUTTERCUP felt quite sure she would be dead. It was still a minute before that as she stood staring at the Prince's knives. The most lethal looked to be the one most used, the Florinese dagger. Pointed at one end, it entered easily, growing into a triangular shape by the hilt. For quicker bleeding, it was said. They were made in varying sizes, and the Prince's looked to be one of the largest, being wrist thick where it joined the handle. She pulled it from the wall, put it to her heart.

  "There are always too few perfect breasts in this world; leave yours alone," she heard. And there was Westley on the bed. It was 5:48, and she knew that she would never die.

  Westley, for his part, assumed he had till 6:15 for his hour to be up. That was, of course, when an hour was up, only he didn't have an hour; only forty minutes. Till 5:55, actually. Seven minutes more. But, as has been said, he had no way of knowing that.

  AND INIGO HAD no way of knowing that Count Rugen had a Florinese dagger. Or that he was expert with the thing. It took Inigo until 5:41 before he actually cornered the Count. In a billiard room. "Hello," he was about to say. "My name is Inigo Montoya; you killed my father; prepare to die." What he actually got out was somewhat less: "Hello, my name is Ini—"

  And then the dagger rearranged his insides. The force of the throw sent him staggering backward into the wall. The rush of blood weakened him so quickly he could not keep his feet. "Domingo, Domingo," he whispered, and then he was, at forty-two minutes after five, lost on his knees....

  BUTTERCUP WAS BAFFLED by Westley's behavior. She rushed to him, expecting to be met halfway in a wild embrace. Instead, he only smiled at her and remained where he was, lying on the Prince's pillows, a sword beside his body.

  Buttercup continued the journey alone and fell onto her very one and darling Westley.

  "Gently," he said.

  "At a time like this that's all you can think to say? 'Gently'?"

  "Gently," Westley repeated, not so gently this time.

  She got off him. "Are you angry at me for getting married?" she wondered.

  "You are not married," he said, softly. Strange his voice was. "Not in my church or any other."

  "But this old man did pronounce—"

  "Widows happen. Every day—don't they, Your Highness?" And now his voice was stronger as he addressed the Prince, who entered, muddy boots in hand.

  Prince Humperdinck dove for his weapons, and a sword flashed in his thick hands. "To the death," he said, advancing.

  Westley gave a soft shake of his head. "No," he corrected. "To the pain."

  It was an odd phrase, and for the moment it brought the Prince up short. Besides, why was the fellow just lying there? Where was the trap? "I don't think I quite understand that."

  Westley lay without moving but he was smiling more deeply now. "I'll be only too delighted to explain." It was 5:50 now. Twenty-five minutes of safety left. (There were five. He did not know that. How could he know that?) Slowly, carefully, he began to talk....

  INIGO WAS TALKING too. It was still 5:42 when he whispered, "I'm ... sorry ... Father.... "

  Count Rugen heard the words but nothing really connected until he saw the sword still held in Inigo's hand. "You're that little Spanish brat I taught a lesson to," he said, coming closer now, examining the scars. "It's simply incredible. Have you been chasing me all these years only to fail now? I think that's the worst thing I ever heard of; how marvelous."

  Inigo could say nothing. The blood fauceted from his stomach.

  Count Rugen drew his sword.

  "...sorry, Father ... I'm sorry.... "

  'I DON'T WANT YOUR "SORRY"! MY NAME IS DOMINGO MONTOYA AND I DIED FOR THAT SWORD AND YOU CAN KEEP YOUR "SORRY." IF YOU WERE GOING TO FAIL, WHY DIDN'T YOU DIE YEARS AGO AND LET ME REST IN PEACE?' And then MacPherson was after him too—'Spaniards! I never should have tried to teach a Spaniard; they're dumb, they forget, what do you do with a wound? How many times did I teach you—what do you do with a wound?'

  "Cover it..." Inigo said, and he pulled the knife from his body and stuffed his left fist into the bleeding.

  Inigo's eyes began to focus again, not well, not perfectly, but enough to see the Count's blade as it approached his heart, and Inigo couldn't do much with the attack, parry it vaguely, push the point of the blade into his left shoulder where it did no unendurable harm.

  Count Rugen was a bit surprised that his point had been deflected, but there was nothing wrong with piercing a helpless man's shoulder. There was no hurry when you had him.

  MacPherson was screaming again—'Spaniards! Give me a Polack anytime; at least the Polacks remember to use the wall when they have one; only the Spaniards would forget to use a wall—'

  Slowly, inch by inch, Inigo forced his body up the wall, using his legs just for pushing, letting the wall do all the supporting that was necessary.

  Count Rugen struck again, but for any number of reasons, most probably because he hadn't expected the other man's movement, he missed the heart and had to be content with driving his blade through the Spaniard's left arm.

  Inigo didn't mind. He didn't even feel it. His right arm was where his interest lay, and he squeezed the handle and there was strength in his hand, enough to flick out at the enemy, and Count Rugen hadn't expected that either, so he gave a little involuntary
cry and took a step back to reassess the situation.

  Power was flowing up from Inigo's heart to his right shoulder and down from his shoulder to his fingers and then into the great six-fingered sword and he pushed off from the wall then, with a whispered, "...hello ... my name is ... Inigo Montoya; you killed ... my father; prepare to die."

  And they crossed swords.

  The Count went for the quick kill, the inverse Bonetti

  No chance.

  "Hello ... my name is Inigo Montoya; you killed my father ... prepare to die...."

  Again they crossed, and the Count moved into a Morozzo defense, because the blood was still streaming.

  Inigo shoved his fist deeper into himself. "Hello, my name is Inigo Montoya; you killed my father; prepare to die."

  The Count retreated around the billiard table.

  Inigo slipped in his own blood.

  The Count continued to retreat, waiting, waiting.

  "Hello, my name is Inigo Montoya; you killed my father; prepare to die." He dug with his fist and he didn't want to think what he was touching and pushing and holding into place but for the first time he felt able to try a move, so the six-fingered sword flashed forward—

  —and there was a cut down one side of Count Rugen's cheek—

  —another flash—

  —another cut, parallel, bleeding—

  "Hello, my name is Inigo Montoya; you killed my father; prepare to die."

  "Stop saying that!" The Count was beginning to experience a decline of nerve.

  Inigo drove for the Count's left shoulder, as the Count had wounded his. Then he went through the Count's left arm, at the same spot the Count had penetrated his. "Hello." Stronger now. "Hello! HELLO. MY NAME IS INIGO MONTOYA. YOU KILLED MY FATHER. PREPARE TO DIE!"

  "No—"

  "Offer me money—"

  "Everything," the Count said.

  "Power too. Promise me that."

  "All I have and more. Please."

  "Offer me anything I ask for."

  "Yes. Yes. Say it."

  "I WANT DOMINGO MONTOYA, YOU SON OF A BITCH," and the six-fingered sword flashed again.

  The Count screamed.

  "That was just to the left of your heart." Inigo struck again.

  Another scream.

  "That was below your heart. Can you guess what I'm doing?"

  "Cutting my heart out."

  "You took mine when I was ten; I want yours now. We are lovers of justice, you and I—what could be more just than that?"

  The Count screamed one final time and then fell dead of fear.

  Inigo looked down at him. The Count's frozen face was petrified and ashen and the blood still poured down the parallel cuts. His eyes bulged wide, full of horror and pain. It was glorious. If you like that kind of thing.

  Inigo loved it.

  It was 5:50 when he staggered from the room, heading he knew not where or for how long, but hoping only that whoever had been guiding him lately would not desert him now....

  ***

  "I'M GOING TO tell you something once and then whether you die or not is strictly up to you," Westley said, lying pleasantly on the bed. Across the room, the Prince held the sword high. "What I'm going to tell you is this: drop your sword, and if you do, then I will leave with this baggage here"—he glanced at Buttercup—"and you will be tied up but not fatally, and will soon be free to go about your business. And if you choose to fight, well, then, we will not both leave alive."

  "I expect to breathe a while," the Prince said. "I think you are bluffing—you have been prisoner for months and I myself killed you less than a day ago, so I doubt that you have much might left in your arm."

  "Possibly true," Westley agreed, "and when the moment comes, remember that: I might indeed be bluffing. I could, in fact be lying right here because I lack the strength to stand. All that, weigh carefully."

  "You are only alive now because you said 'to the pain.' I want that phrase explained."

  "My pleasure." It was 5:52 now. Three minutes left. He thought he had eighteen. He took a long pause, then started speaking. "Surely, you must have guessed I am no ordinary sailor. I am, in fact, Roberts himself."

  "I am, in fact, not the least surprised or awed."

  "To the pain means this: if we duel and you win, death for me. If we duel and I win, life for you. But life on my terms."

  "Meaning?" It could all still be a trap. His body was at the ready.

  "There are those who credit you with skill as a hunter, though I find that doubtful."

  The Prince smiled. The fellow was baiting him. Why?

  "And if you hunt well, then surely, when you tracked your lady, you must have begun at the Cliffs of Insanity. A duel was fought there and if you noted the movements and the strides, you would know that those were masters battling. They were. Remember this: I won that fight. And I am a pirate. We have our special tricks with swords."

  It was 5:53. "I am not unfamiliar with steel."

  "The first thing you lose will be your feet," Westley said. "The left, then the right. Below the ankle. You will have stumps available to use within six months. Then your hands, at the wrist. They heal somewhat quicker. Five months is a fair average." And now Westley was beginning to be aware of strange changes in his body and he began talking faster, faster and louder. "Next your nose. No smell of dawn for you. Followed by your tongue. Deeply cut away. Not even a stump left. And then your left eye—"

  "And then my right eye and then my ears, and shall we get on with it?" the Prince said. It was 5:54.

  "Wrong!" Westley's voice rang across the room. "Your ears you keep, so that every shriek of every child at seeing your hideous-ness will be yours to cherish—every babe that weeps in fear at your approach, every woman that cries 'Dear God, what is that thing?' will reverberate forever with your perfect ears. That is what 'to the pain' means. It means that I leave you to live in anguish, in humiliation, in freakish misery until you can stand it no more; so there you have it, pig, there you know, you miserable vomitous mass, and I say this now, and live or die, it's up to you: Drop your sword! "

  The sword crashed to the floor.

  It was 5:55.

  Westley's eyes rolled up into his head and his body crumpled and half pitched from the bed and the Prince saw that and went to the floor, grabbing for his sword, standing, starting to bring it high, when Westley cried out: "Now you will suffer: to the pain!" His eyes were open again.

  Open and blazing.

  "I'm sorry; I meant nothing, I didn't; look," and the Prince dropped his sword a second time.

  "Tie him," Westley said to Buttercup. "Be quick about it—use the curtain sashes; they look enough to hold him—"

  "You'd do it so much better," Buttercup replied. "I'll get the sashes, but I really think you should do the actual tying."

  "Woman," Westley roared, "you are the property of the Dread Pirate Roberts and you ... do ... what ... you're ... told!"

  Buttercup gathered the sashes and did what she could with tying up her husband.

  Humperdinck lay flat while she did it. He seemed strangely happy. "I wasn't afraid of you," he said to Westley. "I dropped my sword because it will be so much more pleasure for me to hunt you down."

  "You think so, do you? I doubt you'll find us."

  "I'll conquer Guilder and then I'll come for you. The corner you least expect, when you round it, you will find me waiting."

  "I am the King of the Sea—I await you with pleasure." He called out to Buttercup. "Is he tied yet?"

  "Sort of."

  There was movement at the doorway and then Inigo was there. Buttercup cried out at the blood. Inigo ignored her, looked around. "Where's Fezzik?"

  "Isn't he with you?" Westley said.

  Inigo leaned for a moment against the nearest wall, gathering strength. Then he said, "Help him up," to Buttercup.

  "Westley?" Buttercup replied. "Why does he need me to help him?"

  "Because he has no strength, now do what you're t
old," Inigo said, and then suddenly on the floor, the Prince began struggling mightily with the sashes and he was tied, and tied well, but power and anger were both on his side.

  "You were bluffing; I was right the first time," Humperdinck said, and Inigo said, "That was not a clever thing of me to let slip; I'm sorry," and Westley said, "Did you at least win your battle?" and Inigo said, "I did," and Westley said, "Let us try to find some place to defend ourselves; at least perhaps we can go together," and Buttercup said, "I'll help you up, poor darling," and Fezzik said, "Oh, Inigo, I need you, please, Inigo; I'm lost and miserable and frightened and I just need to see a friendly face."

  They moved slowly to the window.

  Wandering lost and forlorn through the Prince's garden was Fezzik, leading the four giant whites.

  "Here," Inigo whispered.

  "Three friendly faces," Fezzik said, kind of bouncing up and down on his heels, which he always did when things were looking up. "Oh, Inigo, I just ruined everything and I got so lost and when I stumbled into the stables and found these pretty horses I thought four was how many of them there were and four was how many of us there were too, if we found the lady—hello, lady—and I thought, Why not take them along with me in case we all ever run into each other." He stopped a moment, considering. "And I guess we did."

  Inigo was terribly excited. "Fezzik, you thought for yourself," he said.

  Fezzik considered that a moment too. "Does that mean you're not mad at me for getting lost?"

  "If we only had a ladder—" Buttercup began.

  "Oh, you don't need a ladder to get down here," Fezzik said; "it's only twenty feet, I'll catch you, only do it one at a time, please; there's not enough light, so if you all come at once I might miss."

  So while Humperdinck struggled, they jumped, one at a time, and Fezzik caught them gently and put them on the whites, and he still had the key so they could get out the front gate, and except for the fact that Yellin had regrouped the Brute Squad, they would have gotten out without any trouble at all. As it was, when Fezzik unlocked the gate, they saw nothing but armed Brutes in formation, Yellin at their lead. And no one smiling.