“Shall I do it?” the Turk wondered.
The Sicilian shook his head. “No, Fezzik,” he said finally. “I need your strength to carry the girl. Pick her up now and let us hurry along.” He turned to the Spaniard. “We’ll be heading directly for the frontier of Guilder. Catch up as quickly as you can once he’s dead.”
The Spaniard nodded.
The Sicilian hobbled away.
The Turk hoisted the Princess, began following the humpback. Just before he lost sight of the Spaniard he turned and hollered, “Catch up quickly.”
“Don’t I always?” The Spaniard waved. “Farewell, Fezzik.”
“Farewell, Inigo,” the Turk replied. And then he was gone, and the Spaniard was alone.
Inigo moved to the cliff edge and knelt with his customary quick grace. Two hundred and fifty feet below him now, the man in black continued his painful climb. Inigo lay flat, staring down, trying to pierce the moonlight and find the climber’s secret. For a long while, Inigo did not move. He was a good learner, but not a particularly fast one, so he had to study. Finally, he realized that somehow, by some mystery, the man in black was making fists and jamming them into the rocks, and using them for support. Then he would reach up with his other hand, until he found a high split in the rock, and make another fist and jam it in. Whenever he could find support for his feet, he would use it, but mostly it was the jammed fists that made the climbing possible.
Inigo marveled. What a truly extraordinary adventurer this man in black must be. He was close enough now for Inigo to realize that the man was masked, a black hood covering all but his features. Another outlaw? Perhaps. Then why should they have to fight and for what? Inigo shook his head. It was a shame that such a fellow must die, but he had his orders, so there it was. Sometimes he did not like the Sicilian’s commands, but what could he do? Without the brains of the Sicilian, he, Inigo, would never be able to command jobs of this caliber. The Sicilian was a master planner. Inigo was a creature of the moment. The Sicilian said “kill him,” so why waste sympathy on the man in black. Someday someone would kill Inigo, and the world would not stop to mourn.
He stood now, quickly jumping to his feet, his blade-thin body ready. For action. Only, the man in black was still many feet away.
There was nothing to do but wait for him. Inigo hated waiting. So to make the time more pleasant, he pulled from the scabbard his great, his only, love:
The six-fingered sword.
How it danced in the moonlight. How glorious and true. Inigo brought it to his lips and with all the fervor in his great Spanish heart kissed the metal…
Inigo
In the mountains of Central Spain, set high in the hills above Toledo, was the village of Arabella. It was very small and the air was always clear. That was all you could say that was good about Arabella: terrific air—you could see for miles.
But there was no work, the dogs overran the streets and there was never enough food. The air, clear enough, was also too hot in daylight, freezing at night. As to Inigo’s personal life, he was always just a trifle hungry, he had no brothers or sisters, and his mother had died in childbirth.
He was fantastically happy.
Because of his father. Domingo Montoya was funny-looking and crotchety and impatient and absent-minded and never smiled.
Inigo loved him. Totally. Don’t ask why. There really wasn’t any one reason you could put your finger on. Oh, probably Domingo loved him back, but love is many things, none of them logical.
Domingo Montoya made swords. If you wanted a fabulous sword, did you go to Domingo Montoya? If you wanted a great balanced piece of work, did you go to the mountains behind Toledo? If you wanted a masterpiece, a sword for the ages, was it Arabella that your footsteps led you to?
