The Princess Bride

every hour of every day of his years of experience. But he was blocked. By the man in black. He was shackled. By the man in black. He was baffled, thwarted, muzzled.

Beaten.

By the man in black.

A final flick and the great six-fingered sword went flying from his hand. Inigo stood there, helpless. Then he dropped to his knees, bowed his head, closed his eyes. 'Do it quickly,' he said.

'May my hands fall from my wrists before I kill an artist like yourself,' said the man in black. 'I would as soon destroy da Vinci. However'—and here he clubbed Inigo's head with the butt of his sword—'since I can't have you following me either, please understand that I hold you in the highest respect.' He struck one more time and the Spaniard fell unconscious. The man in black quickly tied Inigo's hands around a tree and left him there, for the moment, sleeping and helpless.

Then he sheathed his sword, picked up the Sicilian's trail, and raced into the night....

'HE HAS BEATEN Inigo!' the Turk said, not quite sure he wanted to believe it, but positive that the news was sad; he liked Inigo. Inigo was the only one who wouldn't laugh when Fezzik asked him to play rhymes.

They were hurrying along a mountainous path on the way to the Guilder frontier. The path was narrow and strewn with rocks like cannonballs, so the Sicilian had a terrible time keeping up. Fezzik carried Buttercup lightly on his shoulders; she was still tied hand and foot.

'I didn't hear you, say it again,' the Sicilian called out, so Fezzik waited for the hunchback to catch up to him.

'See?' Fezzik pointed then. Far down, at the very bottom of the mountain path, the man in black could be seen running. 'Inigo is beaten.'

'Inconceivable!' exploded the Sicilian.

Fezzik never dared disagree with the hunchback. 'I'm so stupid,' Fezzik nodded. 'Inigo has not lost to the man in black, he has defeated him. And to prove it he has put on all the man in black's clothes and masks and hoods and boots and gained eighty pounds.'

The Sicilian squinted down toward the running figure. 'Fool,' he hurled at the Turk. 'After all these years can't you tell Inigo when you see him? That isn't Inigo.'

'I'll never learn,' the Turk agreed. 'If there's ever a question about anything, you can always count on me to get it wrong.'

'Inigo must have slipped or been tricked or otherwise unfairly beaten. That's the only conceivable explanation.'

Conceivable believable, the giant thought. Only he didn't dare say it out loud. Not to the Sicilian. He might have whispered it to Inigo late at night, but that was before Inigo was dead. He also might have whispered heavable thievable weavable but that was as far as he got before the Sicilian started talking again, and that always meant he had to pay very strict attention. Nothing angered the hunchback as quickly as catching Fezzik thinking. Since he barely imagined someone like Fezzik capable of thought, he never asked what was on his mind, because he couldn't have cared less. If he had found out Fezzik was making rhymes, he would have laughed and then found new ways to make Fezzik suffer.

'Untie her feet,' the Sicilian commanded.

Fezzik put the Princess down and ripped the ropes apart that bound her legs. Then he rubbed her ankles so she could walk.

The Sicilian grabbed her immediately and yanked her away. 'Catch up with us quickly,' the Sicilian said.

'Instructions?' Fezzik called out, almost panicked. He hated being left on his own like this.

'Finish him, finish him.' The Sicilian was getting peeved. 'Succeed, since Inigo failed us.'

'But I can't fence, I don't know how to fence—'

'Your way.' The Sicilian could barely control himself now.

'Oh yes, good, my way, thank you, Vizzini,' Fezzik said to the hunchback. Then, summoning all his courage: 'I need a hint.'

'You're always saying how you understand force, how force belongs to you. Use it, I don't care how. Wait for him behind there'—he pointed to a sharp bend in the mountain path—'and crush his head like an eggshell.' He pointed to the cannonball-sized rocks.

'I could do that, yes,' Fezzik nodded. He was marvelous at throwing heavy things. 'It just seems not very sportsmanlike, doesn't it?'

The Sicilian lost control. It was terrifying when he did it. With most people, they scream and holler and jump around. With Vizzini, it was different: he got very very quiet, and his voice sounded like it came from a dead throat. And his eyes turned to fire. 'I tell you this and I tell it once: stop the man in black. Stop him for good and all. If you fail, there will be no excuses; I will find another giant.'

'Please don't desert me,' Fezzik said.

'Then do as you are told.' He grabbed hold of Buttercup again and hobbled up the mountain path and out of sight.

Fezzik glanced down toward the figure racing up the path toward him. Still a good distance away. Time enough to practice. Fezzik picked up a rock the size of a cannonball and aimed at a crack in the mountain thirty yards away.

Swoosh.

Dead center.

He picked up a bigger rock and threw it at a shadow line twice as distant.

Not quite swoosh.

Two inches to the right.

Fezzik was reasonably satisfied. Two inches off would still crush a head if you aimed for the center. He groped around, found a perfect rock for throwing; it just fit his hand. Then he moved to the sharp turn in the path, backed off into deepest shadow. Unseen, silent, he waited patiently with his killing rock, counting the seconds until the man in black would die....

Fezzik

TURKISH WOMEN ARE famous for the size of their babies. The only happy newborn ever to weigh over twenty-four pounds upon entrance was the product of a southern Turkish union. Turkish hospital records list a total of eleven children who weighed over twenty pounds at birth. And ninety-five more who weighed between fifteen and twenty. Now all of these 106 cherubs did what babies usually do at birth: they lost three or four ounces and it took them the better part of a week before they got it totally back. More accurately, 105 of them lost weight just after they were born.

Not Fezzik.

His first afternoon he gained a pound. (Since he weighed but fifteen and since his mother gave birth two weeks early, the doctors weren't unduly concerned. 'It's because you came two weeks too soon,' they explained to Fezzik's mother. 'That explains it.' Actually, of course, it didn't explain anything, but whenever doctors are confused about something, which is really more frequently than any of us would do well to think about, they always snatch at something in the vicinity of the case and add, 'That explains it.' If Fezzik's mother had come late, they would have said, 'Well, you came late, that explains it.' Or 'Well, it was raining during delivery, this added weight is simply moisture, that explains it.')

A healthy baby doubles his birth weight in about six months and triples it in a year. When Fezzik was a year old, he weighed eighty-five pounds. He wasn't fat, understand. He looked like a perfectly normal strong eighty-five- pound kid. Not all that normal, actually. He was pretty hairy for a one-year-old.

By the time he reached kindergarten, he was ready to shave. He was the size of a normal man by this time, and all the other children made his life miserable. At first, naturally, they were scared to death (even then, Fezzik looked fierce) but once they found out he was chicken, well, they weren't about to let an opportunity like that get away.

'Bully, bully,' they taunted Fezzik during morning yogurt break.

'I'm not,' Fezzik would say out loud. (To himself he would go 'Woolly, woolly.' He would never dare to consider himself a poet, because he wasn't anything like that; he just loved rhymes. Anything you said out loud, he rhymed it inside. Sometimes the rhymes made sense, sometimes they didn't. Fezzik never cared much about sense;