But not by ambush. Not the coward’s way. Nothing unsportsmanlike. His parents had always taught him to go by the rules. Fezzik stood in shadow, the great rock tight in his great hand. He could hear the footsteps of the man in black coming nearer. Nearer.
Fezzik leaped from hiding and threw the rock with incredible power and perfect accuracy. It smashed into a boulder a foot away from the face of the man in black. “I did that on purpose,” Fezzik said then, picking up another rock, holding it ready. “I didn’t have to miss.”
“I believe you,” the man in black said.
They stood facing each other on the narrow mountain path.
“Now what happens?” asked the man in black.
“We face each other as God intended,” Fezzik said. “No tricks, no weapons, skill against skill alone.”
“You mean you’ll put down your rock and I’ll put down my sword and we’ll try to kill each other like civilized people, is that it?”
“If you’d rather, I can kill you now,” Fezzik said gently, and he raised the rock to throw. “I’m giving you a chance.”
“So you are and I accept it,” said the man in black, and he began to take off his sword and scabbard. “Although, frankly, I think the odds are slightly in your favor at hand fighting.”
“I tell you what I tell everybody,” Fezzik explained. “I cannot help being the biggest and strongest; it’s not my fault.”
“I’m not blaming you,” said the man in black.
“Let’s get to it then,” Fezzik said, and he dropped his rock and got into fighting position, watching as the man in black slowly moved toward him. For a moment, Fezzik felt almost wistful. This was clearly a good fellow, even if he had killed Inigo. He didn’t complain or try and beg or bribe. He just accepted his fate. No complaining, nothing like that. Obviously a criminal of character. (Was he a criminal, though, Fezzik wondered. Surely the mask would indicate that. Or was it worse than that: was he disfigured? His face burned away by acid perhaps? Or perhaps born hideous?)
“Why do you wear a mask and hood?” Fezzik asked.
“I think everybody will in the near future” was the man in black’s reply. “They’re terribly comfortable.”
They faced each other on the mountain path. There was a moment’s pause. Then they engaged. Fezzik let the man in black fiddle around for a bit, tested the man’s strength, which was considerable for someone who wasn’t a giant. He let the man in black feint and dodge and try a hold here, a hold there. Then, when he was quite sure the man in black would not go to his maker embarrassed, Fezzik locked his arms tight around.
Fezzik lifted.
And squeezed.
And squeezed.
Then he took the remains of the man in black, snapped him one way, snapped him the other, cracked him with one hand in the neck, with the other at the spine base, locked his legs up, rolled his limp arms around them, and tossed the entire bundle of what had once been human into a nearby crevice.
That was the theory, anyway.
In fact, what happened was this:
Fezzik lifted.
And squeezed.
And the man in black slipped free.
Hmmm, thought Fezzik, that certainly was a surprise. I thought for sure I had him. “You’re very quick,” Fezzik complimented.
“And a good thing too,” said the man in black.
Then they engaged again. This time Fezzik did not give the man in black a chance to fiddle. He just grabbed him, swung him around his head once, twice, smashed his skull against the nearest boulder, pounded him, pummeled him, gave him a final squeeze for good measure and tossed the remains of what once had been alive into a nearby crevice.
Those were his intentions, anyway.
In actuality, he never even got through the grabbing part with much success. Because no sooner had Fezzik’s great hands reached out than the man in black dropped and spun and twisted and was loose and free and still quite alive.
I don’t understand a thing that’s happening, Fezzik thought. Could I be losing my strength? Could there be a mountain disease that takes your strength? There was a desert disease that took my parents’ strength. That must be it, I must have caught a plague, but if that is it, why isn’t he weak? No, I must still be strong, it has to be something else, now what could it be?
Suddenly he knew. He had not fought against one man in so long he had all but forgotten how. He had been fighting groups and gangs and bunches for so many years, that the idea of having but a single opponent was slow in making itself known to him. Because you fought them entirely differently. When there were twelve against you, you made certain moves, tried certain holds, acted in certain ways. When there was but one, you had to completely readjust yourself. Quickly now, Fezzik went back through time. How had he fought the champion of Sandiki? He flashed through that fight in his mind, then reminded himself of all the other victories against other champions, the men from Ispir and Simal and Bolu and Zile. He remembered fleeing Constantinople because he had beaten their champion so quickly. So easily. Yes, Fezzik thought. Of course. And suddenly he readjusted his style to what it once had been.
But by that time the man in black had him by the throat!
The man in black was riding him, and his arms were locked across Fezzik’s windpipe, one in front, one behind. Fezzik reached back but the man in black was hard to grasp. Fezzik could not get his arms around to his back and dislodge the enemy. Fezzik ran at a boulder and, at the last moment, spun around so that the man in black received the main force of the charge. It was a terrible jolt; Fezzik knew it was.
But the grip on his windpipe grew ever tighter.
Fezzik charged the boulder again, again spun, and again he knew the power of the blow the man in black had taken. But still the grip remained. Fezzik clawed at the man in black’s arms. He pounded his giant fists against them.
By now he had no air.
Fezzik continued to struggle. He could feel a hollowness in his legs now; he could see the world beginning to pale. But he did not give up. He was the mighty Fezzik, lover of rhymes, and you did not give up, no matter what. Now the hollowness was in his arms and the world was snowing.
Fezzik went to his knees.
He pounded still, but feebly. He fought still, but his blows would not have harmed a child. No air. There was no more air. There was no more anything, not for Fezzik, not in this world. I am beaten, I am going to die, he thought just before he fell onto the mountain path.
He was only half wrong.
There is an instant between unconsciousness and death, and as the giant pitched onto the rocky path, that instant happened, and just before it happened, the man in black let go. He staggered to his feet and leaned against a boulder until he could walk. Fezzik lay sprawled, faintly breathing. The man in black looked around for a rope to secure the giant, gave up the search almost as soon as he’d begun. What good were ropes against strength like this. He would simply snap them. The man in black made his way back to where he’d dropped his sword. He put it back on.
Two down and (the hardest) one to go . . .
Vizzini was waiting for him.
Indeed, he had set out a little picnic spread. From the knapsack that he always carried, he had taken a small handkerchief and on it he had placed two wine goblets. In the center was a small leather wine holder and, beside it, some cheese and some apples. The spot could not have been lovelier: a high point of the mountain path with a splendid view all the way back to Florin Channel. Buttercup lay helpless beside the picnic, gagged and tied and blindfolded. Vizzini held his long knife against her white throat.
“Welcome,” Vizzini called when the man in black was almost upon them.
The man in black stopped and surveyed the situation.
“You’ve beaten my Turk,” Vizzini said.
“It would seem so.”
“And now it is down to you. And it is down to me.”
“So that would seem too,” the man in black said, edging just a half-step closer to the hunchback’s long knife.
With a smile the hunchback pushed the knife harder against Buttercup’s throat. It was about to bring blood. “If you wish her dead, by all means keep moving,” Vizzini said.
The man in black froze.
“Better,” Vizzini nodded.
No sound now beneath the moonlight.
“I understand completely what you are trying to do,” the Sicilian said finally, “and I want it quite clear that I resent your behavior. You are trying to kidnap what I have rightfully stolen, and I think it quite ungentlemanly.”
“Let me explain—” the man in black began, starting to edge forward.
“You’re killing her!”the Sicilian screamed, shoving harder with the knife. A drop of blood appeared now at Buttercup’s throat, red against white.
The man in black retreated. “Let me explain,” he said again, but from a distance.
Again the hunchback interrupted. “There is nothing you can tell me I do not already know. I have not had the schooling equal to some, but for knowledge outside of books, there is no one in the world close to me. People say I read minds, but that is not, in all honesty, true. I merely predict the truth using logic and wisdom, and I say you are a kidnapper, admit it.”
“I will admit that, as a ransom item, she has value; nothing more.”
“I have been instructed to do certain things to her. It is very important that I follow my instructions. If I do this properly, I will be in demand for life. And my instructions do not include ransom, they include death. So your explanations are meaningless; we cannot do business together. You wish to keep her alive for ransom, whereas it is terribly important to me that she stop breathing in the very near future.”
“Has it occurred to you that I have gone to great effort and expense, as well as personal sacrifice, to reach this point,” the man in black replied. “And that if I fail now, I might get very angry. And if she stops breathing in the very near future, it is entirely possible that you will catch the same fatal illness?”
“I have no doubt you could kill me. Any man who can get by Inigo and Fezzik would have no trouble disposing of me. However, has it occurred to you that if you did that, then neither of us would get what we want—you having lost your ransom item, me my life.”
“We are at an impasse then,” said the man in black.
“I fear so,” said the Sicilian. “I cannot compete with you physically, and you are no match for my brains.”
“You are that smart?”
“There are no words to contain all my wisdom. I am so cunning, crafty and clever, so filled with deceit, guile and chicanery, such a knave, so shrewd, cagey as well as calculating, as diabolical as I am vulpine, as tricky as I am untrustworthy . . . well, I told you there were not words invented yet to explain how great my brain is, but let me put it this way: the world is several million years old and several billion people have at one time or another trod upon it, but I, Vizzini the Sicilian, am, speaking with pure candor and modesty, the slickest, sleekest, sliest and wiliest fellow who has yet come down the pike.”
“In that case,” said the man in black, “I challenge you to a battle of wits.”
Vizzini had to smile. “For the Princess?”
“You read my mind.”
“It just seems that way, I told you. It’s merely logic and wisdom. To the death?”
“Correct again.”
“I accept,” cried Vizzini. “Begin the battle!”
“Pour the wine,” said the man in black.
Vizzini filled the two goblets with deep-red liquid.
The man in black pulled from his dark clothing a small packet and handed it to the hunchback. “Open it and inhale, but be careful not to touch.”
Vizzini took the packet and followed instructions. “I smell nothing.”
The man in black took the packet again. “What you do not smell is called iocane powder. It is odorless, tasteless and dissolves immediately in any kind of liquid. It also happens to be the deadliest poison known to man.”
Vizzini was beginning to get excited.
“I don’t suppose you’d hand me the goblets,” said the man in black.
Vizzini shook his head. “Take them yourself. My long knife does not leave her throat.”
The man in black reached down for the goblets. He took them and turned away.
Vizzini cackled aloud in anticipation.
The man in black busied himself a long moment. Then he turned again with a goblet in each hand. Very carefully, he put the goblet in his right hand in front of Vizzini and put the goblet in his left hand across the kerchief from the hunchback. He sat down in front of the left-hand goblet, and dropped the empty iocane packet by the cheese.
“Your guess,” he said. “Where is the poison?”
“Guess?”Vizzini cried. “I don’t guess. I think. I ponder. I deduce. Then I decide. But I never guess.”
“The battle of wits has begun,” said the man in black. “It ends when you decide and we drink the wine and find out who is right and who is dead. We both drink, need I add, and swallow, naturally, at precisely the same time.”
“It’s all so simple,” said the hunchback. “All I have to do is deduce, from what I know of you, the way your mind works. Are you the kind of man who would put the poison into his own glass, or into the glass of his enemy?”
“You’re stalling,” said the man in black.
“I’m relishing is what I’m doing,” answered the Sicilian. “No one has challenged my mind in years and I love it. . . . By the way, may I smell both goblets?”
“Be my guest. Just be sure you put them down the same way you found them.”
The Sicilian sniffed his own glass; then he reached across the kerchief for the goblet of the man in black and sniffed that. “As you said, odorless.”
“As I also said, you’re stalling.”
The Sicilian smiled and stared at the wine goblets. “Now a great fool,” he began, “would place the wine in his own goblet, because he would know that only another great fool would reach first for what he was given. I am clearly not a great fool, so I will clearly not reach for your wine.”
“That’s your final choice?”
“No. Because you knew I was not a great fool, so you would know that I would never fall for such a trick. You would count on it. So I will clearly not reach for mine either.”
“Keep going,” said the man in black.
“I intend to.” The Sicilian reflected a moment. “We have now decided the poisoned cup is most likely in front of you. But the poison is powder made from iocane and iocane comes only from Australia and Australia, as everyone knows, is peopled with criminals and criminals are used to having people not trust them, as I don’t trust you, which means I can clearly not choose the wine in front of you.”
The man in black was starting to get nervous.
“But, again, you must have suspected I knew the origins of iocane, so you would have known I knew about the criminals and criminal behavior, and therefore I can clearly not choose the wine in front of me.”
“Truly you have a dizzying intellect,” whispered the man in black.
“You have beaten my Turk, which means you are exceptionally strong, and exceptionally strong men are convinced that they are too powerful ever to die, too powerful even for iocane poison, so you could have put it in your cup, trusting on your strength to save you; thus I can clearly not choose the wine in front of you.”
The man in black was very nervous now.
“But you also bested my Spaniard, which means you must have studied, because he studied many years for his excellence, and if you can study, you are clearly more than simply strong; you are aware of how mortal we all are, and you do not wish to die, so you would have kept the poison as far from yourself as possible; therefore I can clearly not choose the wine in front of me.”
“You’re just trying to make me give something away with all this chatter,” said the man in black angrily. “Well it won’t work. You’ll learn nothing from me, that I promise you.”
“I have already learned everything from you,” said the Sicilian. “I know where the poison is.”
“Only a genius could have deduced as much.”
“How fortunate for me that I happen to be one,” said the hunchback, growing more and more amused now.
“You cannot frighten me,” said the man in black, but there was fear all through his voice.
“Shall we drink then?”
“Pick, choose, quit dragging it out, you don’t know, you couldn’t know.”
The Sicilian only smiled at the outburst. Then a strange look crossed his features and he pointed off behind the man in black. “What in the world can that be?” he asked.
The man in black turned around and looked. “I don’t see anything.”
“Oh, well, I could have sworn I saw something, no matter.” The Sicilian began to laugh.
“I don’t understand what’s so funny,” said the man in black.
“Tell you in a minute,” said the hunchback. “But first let’s drink.”
And he picked up his own wine goblet.
The man in black picked up the one in front of him.
They drank.
“You guessed wrong,” said the man in black.
“You onlythink I guessed wrong,” said the Sicilian, his laughter ringing louder. “That’s what’s so funny. I switched glasses when your back was turned.”
There was nothing for the man in black to say.
“Fool!” cried the hunchback. “You fell victim to one of the classic blunders. The most famous is ‘Never get involved in a land war in Asia,’ but only slightly less well known is this: ‘Never go in against a Sicilian when death is on the line.’“
He was quite cheery until the iocane powder took effect.
The man in black stepped quickly over the corpse, then roughly ripped the blindfold from the Princess’s eyes.
“I heard everything that happ—” Buttercup began, and then she said “Oh” because she had never been next to a dead man before. “You killed him,” she whispered finally.
“I let him die laughing,” said the man in black. “Pray I do as much for you.” He lifted her, slashed her bonds away, put her on her feet, started to pull her along.
“Please,” Buttercup said. “Give me a moment to gather myself.” The man in black released his grip.
Buttercup rubbed her wrists, stopped, massaged her ankles. She took a final look at the Sicilian. “To think,” she murmured, “all that time it was your cup that was poisoned.”
“They were both poisoned,” said the man in black. “I’ve spent the past two years building up immunity to iocane powder.”
Buttercup looked up at him. He was terrifying to her, masked and hooded and dangerous; his voice was strained, rough. “Who are you?” she asked.
“I am no one to be trifled with,” replied the man in black. “That is all you ever need to know.” And with that he yanked her upright. “You’ve had your moment.” Again he pulled her after him, and this time she could do nothing but follow.