Soju For One

“But, don’t they kill everyone they meet?” said Fezzik.

“Obviously not,” scoffed Vizzini, “or no one would know they existed.  Besides, I’m sure that, if their captain wins, they’ll be all too happy to have us go and spread the story of his immense skill.”

“When you say skill...” said Inigo, leaning forward.

“They say he’s an accomplished duelist.  Scourge of the seas?  Known to have slain 100 men in single combat!?”  Vizzini turned away in disgust at his evident lack of knowledge.

Inigo nodded his head to either side, trying to tally up his own numbers.

He didn’t have time to share his calculations, though, as a shout came from the Revenge.

“Ho there!  Who goes?”

Their nameless employer stood up, and responded in that oddly light tone of his.

“I seek an audience with Roberts!”

The man who had spotted them, young, but already grizzled, laughed derisively.  “You’ll meet him.  Whether you get ‘an audience’ or not...”  He let the implication of their treatment hang in the air.

“Whether I give him an audience...”  Muttered their employer, hand going to the sword at his side.

A minute passed, and then, from over the side of the Revenge, there came a ladder.

“Come aboard,” said the man who had called out earlier.

They came alongside, and their employer stepped up first, nimbly climbing up.  The rest paused, there, none quite as eager, until the voice called out again.

“And the rest of you.”

Inigo went first, and Fezzik took up the rear, and they made it to the deck, where...

The deck was filled with battered, scarred, salt-worn men.  It was a motley crew, but each of them was armed, and none seemed especially friendly.

On a higher deck, a man leaned on the railing, and gave them all a careful once over.

“Well then...  Not many seek the Revenge.  Come to join the crew, then?”

Their employer shook his head.

The man pulled back, and looked closer at him.  He took in the dark, loose clothing, the mask, and the hair, cut short, but brilliant gold all the same.  And the mask...

“Then state your business.”

“I’ve come to seek an audience with Roberts,” he repeated.  “Is that who I’m speaking to?”

There was a rumble of laughter from around the deck.

“No,” came a much smoother voice, and a man in black stepped forth from the shadows.  “I am Roberts.”

He took a few paces around the four of them, but his eyes, bright beneath the mask, seemed only interested in their employer.

“Now...  By the sword at your side, you are not rich...  By the clothes you wear, you are a swordsman...  And by the mask...”  He stopped, and turned to face them in earnest.  “You have come to kill me, then.”

Vizzini, Inigo, and Fezzik would have expected a stoic affirmation, but since Roberts had stepped into the light, an indefinable change seemed to have come over him.

“You took someone from me who I held very dear.”

Roberts paused, and then shrugged.  “Perhaps.  I kill many people.”

“I came to challenge you to a duel.”

Roberts nodded.  “Naturally.”

“And you accept?”

“Of course!” he said, throwing his arms out, as if the question surprised him.  “What kind of self-respecting legend of the seas can turn down an offer to duel?”  That drew a laugh from the surrounding pirates.

“I ask that the men behind me, regardless of my fate, be left to leave freely.”

He raised his eyebrows.  “A strange request.”

“They have no valuables to steal, and they are in similar work to you.”

“Are you asking for honor among thieves?” said Roberts, and clicked his tongue.  “There is no such thing.  But, nonetheless, if it is as you say, unless they make themselves my enemies, they will be spared.”

Roberts stepped forward, and, as if on cue, the pirates on the deck pulled back, going to the railings, and some onto the higher  decks, clearing a large space in the middle.  Vizzini, Inigo and Fezzik matched the motion, until there were only two figures in the middle of the deck.

“Now,” said Roberts, “you know who I am, but I must admit, I am curious who you are.”

“I do know who you are,” said their employer, a flash of light in his eyes, a perfect match for his sword, which was suddenly aimed straight at Roberts’ chest.  Roberts seemed, for a moment, taken aback by his vehemence.  “And if you do not know who I am, then perhaps you will have to continue wondering.”

“Fezzik,” whispered Inigo, “do you see the position of the feet?”

“Mhm.”

“Do you see the way he maintains his stance despite the shifting of the deck?” the words came out rapidly, as Inigo stared intently at every inch of their employer’s posture.  “He has been trained well.”

“Oh.  Good,” said Fezzik, trying and failing to see what exactly Inigo was so fixated on.

Roberts studied his opponent, a moment longer, and drew his own sword, the motion strangely nonchalant.  Inigo’s eyes widened.

“What?” said Fezzik.

Inigo shook his head, seemingly unable to put words around what was so impressive about the motion.  Perhaps the ease with which Roberts handled the weight.

Roberts settled into his stance, and there was a moment of silence, the two of them facing each other, neither quite willing to make the first move.

Their employer struck first, the jab snaking out.  Roberts blocked ably, once, twice, thrice, the strikes coming in blisteringly quick.

“Do you see that motion?  If the feet do not move quickly enough, then he would lose his balance in an instant.”

“They’re good then?” came Fezzik’s bass response.

Roberts struck back, jabs alternating in a dizzying pattern, first from the left, then the right.

“Oh, Fezzik, if you could see it as I do.”

Roberts’ deadly offensive seemed for a second to splinter, and then fracture back on itself, a pair of thunderous clangs seeming to almost disarm him.

“The entire stance was a feint!” cried Inigo, seemingly jubilant at the concept.  “Tulis, flowing into a high lunge rather than a low slash!”

--

“I rarely find others who wear masks,” said Roberts, almost conversational as the fight roved across the deck.  “Have you been burned by acid, or do you just prefer to keep your identity a secret.”

“I have as much reason to keep my identity a secret as you do,” she hissed in response.

“You know,” he said, “I thought you seemed suspicious of something.”

“I know who you were,” she said, managing to push him back, up to the upper deck, the perfect shift of his technique as he started up the stairs prompting another excited cry from Inigo, who seemed to have gotten the pirates riled up.  They seemed to be shouting their own interpretations of the fight, though none quite so learned.

“I am Roberts, and no one else,” he said, but she knew the smile was fake.  “You are mistaken.”

“No.  Tell me, what have you been doing out here?  Searching for adventure?  Wealth?  Fame?”

“I wouldn’t presume to know my business, if I were you,” he said, his expression suddenly darkening.

“Was it the prospect of drink?  Gold?  Women?”

That seemed to hit something, and, with a perfectly timed lurch of the deck (for the waves had been choppy all day) he managed to reverse the momentum of the fight despite his tactically poor position.  Inigo, though neither heard it, interjected yet again with a rapid, excited burst.

Roberts seemed angry now.

“You say it like you have some reason for asking.  Have you come here in the hopes of seducing me by your victory?”

“I came here with the intent of killing a spineless, unfaithful coward.”

The insult was hardly subtle, and neither his response.  Both were the more effective for it, and the furious chop sent her sword flying away.  It soared across the deck, almost impaling a crewmember’s foot, and then stuck in the wood, wobbling.

She was pressed back against the railing, his sword point almost in her chest, his expression as thunderous as the sea beneath them, which, during the fight, had begun to violently rock the boat.

“I don’t believe that I will take any satisfaction in killing you,” he said, “only in not having to listen to you speak anymore.”

She grimaced, and reached up to her mask.

“Then kill me and be done with it,” she pulled away the mask, “farm boy.”

For an instant, he didn’t seem to understand what he was seeing, and then, he staggered back, as if struck.  The sword dropped from his hand.

“You.”

She nodded, grimly.

What now, Westley?

He seemed...

He seemed...