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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.
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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."
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"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 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: Imight 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."
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"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: Iwon 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 was5:54.
"Wrong!"Westley's voice rang across the room. "Your ears you keep, so that every shriek of every child
at seeing your hideousness 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 youwill 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." [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]