The Princess Bride (33 page)

Inigo crept along the wall top in dead silence. Far across he could see the castle entrance and the armed soldiers flanking it. And closer at hand was the Zoo. And off in the deepest brush in the farthest corner of the wall, he could make out the still body of the albino. Nothing had changed at all. They were, at least so far, safe. He gestured down to Fezzik, who scissored the man in black between his legs, began the arm climb noiselessly.

When they were all together on the wall top, Inigo stretched out the dead man and then hurried along until he could get a better view of the main gate. The walk from the outer wall to the main castle gate was slanted slightly down, not much of an incline, but a steady one. There must be—Inigo did a quick count—at least a hundred men standing at the ready. And the time must be —he estimated closely—five after five now, perhaps close to ten. Fifty minutes till the wedding. Inigo turned then and hurried back to Fezzik. “I think we should give him the pill,” he said. “It must be around forty-five minutes till the ceremony.”

“That means he’s only got fifteen minutes to escape with,” Fezzik said. “I think we should wait until at least five-thirty. Half before, half after.”

“No,” Inigo said. “We’re going to stop the wedding before it happens—that’s the best way, at least to my mind. Before they’re all set. In the hustle and bustle beforehand, that’s when we should strike.”

Fezzik had no further rebuttal.

“Anyway,” Inigo said, “we don’t know how long it takes to swallow something like this.”

“I could never get it down myself, I know that.”

“We’ll have to force feed him,” Inigo said, unwrapping the chocolate-colored lump. “Like a stuffed goose. Put our hands around his neck and kind of push it down into whatever comes next.”

“I’m with you, Inigo,” Fezzik said. “Just tell me what to do.”

“Let’s get him in a sitting position, I think, don’t you? I always find it’s easier swallowing sitting up than lying down.”

“We’ll have to really work at it,” Fezzik said. “He’s completely stiff by now. I don’t think he’ll bend easy at all.”

“You can make him,” Inigo said. “I always have confidence in you, Fezzik.”

“Thank you,” Fezzik said. “Just don’t ever leave me alone.” He pulled the corpse between them and tried to make him bend in half, but the man in black was so stiff Fezzik really had to perspire to get him at right angles. “How long do you think we’ll have to wait before we know if the miracle’s on or not?”

“Your guess is as good as mine,” Inigo said. “Get his mouth as wide open as you can and tilt his head back a little and we’ll just drop it in and see.”

Fezzik worked at the dead man’s mouth a while, got it the way Inigo said, tilted the neck perfect the first time, and Inigo knelt directly above the cavity, dropped the pill down, and as it hit the throat he heard, “Couldn’t beat me alone, you dastards; well, I beat you each apart, I’ll beat you both together.”

“You’re alive!” Fezzik cried.

The man in black sat immobile, like a ventriloquist’s dummy, just his mouth moving. “That is perhaps the most childishly obvious remark I have ever come across, but what can you expect from a strangler. Why won’t my arms move?”

“You’ve been dead,” Inigo explained.

“And we’re not strangling you,” Fezzik explained, “we were just getting the pill down.”

“The resurrection pill,” Inigo explained. “I bought it from Miracle Max and it works for sixty minutes.”

“What happens after sixty minutes? Do I die again?” (It wasn’t sixty minutes; he just thought it was. Actually it was forty; only they had used up one already in conversation, so it was down to thirty-nine.)

“We don’t know. Probably you just collapse and need tending for a year or however long it takes to get your strength back.”

“I wish I could remember what it was like when I was dead,” the man in black said. “I’d write it all down. I could make a fortune on a book like that. I can’t move my legs either.”

“That will come. It’s supposed to. Max said the tongue and the brain were shoo-ins and probably you’ll be able to move, but slowly.”

“The last thing I remember was dying, so why am I on this wall? Are we enemies? Have you got names? I’m the Dread Pirate Roberts, but you can call me ‘Westley.’“

“Fezzik.”

“Inigo Montoya of Spain. Let me tell you what’s been going on—” He stopped and shook his head. “No,” he said. “There’s too much, it would take too long, let me distill it for you: the wedding is at six, which leaves us probably now something over half an hour to get in, steal the girl, and get out; but not before I kill Count Rugen.”

“What are our liabilities?”

“There is but one working castle gate and it is guarded by perhaps a hundred men.”

“Hmmm,” Westley said, not as unhappy as he might have been ordinarily, because just then he began to be able to wiggle his toes.

“And our assets?”

“Your brains, Fezzik’s strength, my steel.”

Westley stopped wiggling his toes. “That’s
all?
That’s it? Everything? The grand total?”

Inigo tried to explain. “We’ve been operating under a terrible time pressure from the very beginning. Just yesterday morning, for example, I was a hopeless drunk and Fezzik toiled for the Brute Squad.”

“It’s impossible,” Westley cried.

“
I am Inigo Montoya and I do not accept defeat
—you will think of something; I have complete confidence in you.”

“She’s going to marry Humperdinck and I’m
helpless
,” Westley said in blind despair. “Lay me down again. Leave me alone.”

“You’re giving in too easily, we fought monsters to reach you, we risked everything because you have the brains to conquer problems. I have complete and absolute total confidence that you—”

“I want to die,” Westley whispered, and he closed his eyes. “If I had a month to plan, maybe I might come up with something, but this . . .” His head rocked from side to side. “I’m sorry. Leave me.”

“You just moved your own head,” Fezzik said, doing his best to be cheery. “Doesn’t that up your spirits?”

“My brains, your strength and his steel against a hundred troops? And you think a little head-jiggle is supposed to make me happy? Why didn’t you leave me to death? This is worse. Lying here helpless while my true love marries my murderer.”

“I just know once you’re over your emotional outbursts, you’ll come up with—”

“I mean if we even had a wheelbarrow, that would be something,” Westley said.

“Where did we put that wheelbarrow the albino had?” Inigo asked.

“Over by the albino, I think,” Fezzik replied.

“Maybe we can get a wheelbarrow,” Inigo said.

“Well why didn’t you list that among our assets in the first place?” Westley said, sitting up, staring out at the massed troops in the distance.

“You just sat up,” Fezzik said, still trying to be cheery.

Westley continued to stare at the troops and the incline leading down toward them. He shook his head. “What I’d give for a holocaust cloak,” he said then.

“There we can’t help you,” Inigo said.

“Will this do?” Fezzik wondered, pulling out his holocaust cloak.

“Where . . . ?” Inigo began.

“While you were after frog dust—” Fezzik answered. “It fit so nicely I just tucked it away and kept it.”

Westley got to his feet then. “All right. I’ll need a sword eventually.”

“Why?” Inigo asked. “You can barely lift one.”

“True,” Westley agreed. “But that is hardly common knowledge. Hear me now; there may be problems once we’re inside—”

“I’ll say there may be problems,” Inigo cut in. “How do we stop the wedding? Once we do, how do I find the Count? Once I do, where will I find you again? Once we’re together, how do we escape? Once we escape—”

“Don’t pester him with so many questions,” Fezzik said. “Take it easy; he’s been dead.”

“Right, right, sorry,” Inigo said.

The man in black was moving verrrrrry slowly now along the top of the wall. By himself. Fezzik and Inigo followed him through the darkness in the direction of the wheelbarrow. There was no denying the fact that there was a certain excitement in the air.

Buttercup, for her part, felt no excitement whatsoever. She had, in fact, never remembered such a wonderful feeling of calm. Her Westley was coming; that was her world. Ever since the Prince had dragged her to her room she had spent the intervening hours thinking of ways to make Westley happy. There was no way he could miss stopping her wedding. That was the only thought that could survive the trip across her conscious mind.

So when she heard the wedding was to be moved up, she wasn’t the least upset. Westley was always prepared for contingencies, and if he could rescue her at six, he could just as happily rescue her at half past five.

Actually, Prince Humperdinck got things going even faster than he had hoped. It was 5:23 when he and his bride-to-be were kneeling before the aged Archdean of Florin. It was 5:24 when the Archdean started to speak.

And 5:25 when the screaming started outside the main gate.

Buttercup only smiled softly. Here comes my Westley now, was all she thought.

It was not, in point of fact, her Westley that was causing the commotion out front. Westley was doing all he could to simply walk straight down the incline toward the main gate without help. Ahead of him, Inigo struggled with the heavy wheelbarrow. The reason for its weight was that Fezzik stood in it, arms wide, eyes blazing, voice booming in terrible rage: “I AM THE DREAD PIRATE ROBERTS AND THERE WILL BE NO SURVIVORS.” He Said that over and over, his voice echoing and reverberating as his rage increased. He was, standing there, gliding down through the darkness, quite an imposing figure, seeming, all in all, probably close to ten feet tall, with voice to match. But even that was not the cause of the screaming.

Yellin, from his position by the gate, was reasonably upset at the roaring giant gliding down toward them through the darkness. Not that he doubted his hundred men could dispatch the giant; the upsetting thing was that, of course, the giant would be aware of that too, and logically there must somewhere in the dimness out there be any number of giant helpers. Other pirates, anything. Who could tell? Still, his men held together remarkably staunchly.

It was only when the giant got halfway down the incline that he suddenly, happily, burst into flame and continued his trip saying, “NO SURVIVORS, NO SURVIVORS!” in a manner that could only indicate deadly sincerity.

It was seeing him happily burning and advancing that started the Brute Squad to screaming. And once that happened, why, everybody panicked and ran. . . .

Eight - HONEYMOON

Once the panic was well under way, Yellin realized he had next to no chance of bringing things immediately under control. Besides, the giant was terribly close now, and the roar of “NO SURVIVORS” made it very hard to do any solid thinking, but fortunately he had the sense to grab the one and only key to the castle and hide it on his person.

Fortunately too, Westley had the sense to look for such behavior. “Give me the key,” Westley said to Yellin, once Inigo had his sword securely pressuring Yellin’s Adam’s apple.

“I have no key,” Yellin replied. “I swear on the grave of my parents; may my mother’s soul forever sizzle in torment if I am lying.”

“Tear his arms off,” Westley said to Fezzik, who was sizzling a bit himself now, because there was a limit as to just how long a holocaust cloak was really good for, and he wanted to strip a bit, but before he did that, he reached for Yellin’s arms.

“This key you mean?” Yellin said, and he dropped it, and after Inigo had taken his sword, they let him run away.

“Open the gate,” Westley said to Fezzik.

“I’m so hot,” Fezzik said, “can I please take this thing off first?” and after Westley’s nod, he pulled the flaming cloak away and left it on the ground, then unlocked the gate and pulled the door open enough for them to slip through.

“Lock it and keep the key, Fezzik,” Westley said. “It must be after 5:30 by now; half an hour left to stop the wedding.”

“What do we do after we win?” Fezzik said, working with the key, forcing the great lock to close. “Where should we meet? I’m the kind of fellow who needs instructions.”

Before Westley could answer, Inigo cried out and readied his sword. Count Rugen and four palace guards were rounding a corner and running toward them. The time was then 5:34.

The wedding itself did not end until 5:31, and Humperdinck had to use all of his persuasive abilities to get even that much accomplished. As the screaming from outside the gate burst all bounds of propriety, the Prince interrupted the Archdean with gentlest manner and said, “Holiness, my love is simply overpowering my ability to wait—please skip on down to the end of the service.”

The time was then 5:27.

“Humperdinck and Buttercup,” the Archdean said, “I am very old and my thoughts on marriage are few, but I feel I must give them to you on this most happy of days.” (The Archdean could hear absolutely nothing, and had been so afflicted since he was eighty-five or so. The only actual change that had come over him in the past years was that, for some reason, his impediment had gotten worse. “Mawidge,” he said. “Vewy old.” Unless you paid strict attention to his title and past accomplishments, it was very hard to take him seriously.)

“Mawidge—” the Archdean began.

“Again, Holiness, I interrupt in the name of love. Please hurry along as best you can to the end.”

“Mawidge is a dweam wiffin a dweam.”

Buttercup was paying little attention to the goings on. Westley must be racing down the corridors now. He always ran so beautifully. Even back on the farm, long before she knew her heart, it was good to watch him run.

Count Rugen was the only other person in the room, and the commotion at the gate had him on edge. Outside the door he had his four best swordsmen, so no one could enter the tiny chapel, but, still, there were a lot of people screaming where the Brute Squad should have been. The four guards were the only ones left inside the castle, for the Prince needed no spectators to the events that were soon to happen. If only the idiot cleric would speed things along. It was already 5:29.