“But I am afraid.”
“It will all be happy at the end. Consider: a little over three years ago, you were a milkmaid and I was a farm boy. Now you are almost a queen and I rule uncontested on the water. Surely, such individuals were never intended to die in a Fire Swamp.”
“How can you be sure?”
“Well, because we’re together, hand in hand, in love.”
“Oh yes,” Buttercup said. “I keep forgetting that.”
Both her words and her tone were a trifle standoffish, something Westley surely would have noticed had not a R.O.U.S. attacked him from the tree branch, sinking its giant teeth into his unprotected shoulder, forcing him to earth in a very unexpected spurt of blood. The other two that had been following launched their attack then too, ignoring Buttercup, driving forward with all their hungry strength to Westley’s bleeding shoulder.
(Any discussion of the R.O.U.S.—Rodents of Unusual Size—must begin with the South American Capybara, which has been known to reach a weight of 150 pounds. They are nothing but water hogs, however, and present very little danger. The largest pure rat is probably the Tazmanian, which has actually been weighed at one hundred pounds. But they have little agility, tending to sloth when they reach full growth, and most Tazmanian herdsmen have learned with ease to avoid them. The Fire Swamp R.O.U.S.s were a pure rat strain, weighed usually eighty pounds, and had the speed of wolfhounds. They were also carnivorous, and capable of frenzy.)
The rats struggled with each other to reach Westley’s wound. Their enormous front teeth tore at the unprotected flesh of his left shoulder, and he had no idea if Buttercup was already half devoured; he only knew that if he didn’t do something desperate right then and right there she soon would be.
So he intentionally rolled his body into a spurt of flame.
His clothes began to burn—that he expected—but, more important, the rats shied away from the heat and the flames for just an instant, but that was enough for him to reach and throw his long knife into the heart of the nearest beast.
The other two turned instantly on their own kind and began eating it while it was still screaming.
Westley had his sword by then, and with two quick thrusts, the trio of rats was disposed of. “Hurry!” he shouted to Buttercup, who stood frozen where she had been when the first rat landed. “Bandages, bandages,” Westley cried. “Make me some bandages or we die,” and, with that, he rolled onto the ground, tore off his burning clothes and set to work caking mud onto the deep wound in his shoulder. “They’re like sharks, blood creatures; it’s blood they thrive on.” He smeared more and more mud into his wound. “We must stop my bleeding and we must cover the wound so they do not smell it. If they don’t smell the blood, we’ll survive. If they do, we’re for it, so help me, please.” Buttercup ripped her clothes into patches and ties, and they worked at the wound, caking the blood with mud from the floor of the Fire Swamp, then bandaging and rebandaging over it.
“We’ll know soon enough,” Westley said, because two more rats were watching them. Westley stood, sword in hand. “If they charge, they smell it,” he whispered.
The giant rats stood watching.
“Come,” Westley whispered.
Two more giant rats joined the first pair.
Without warning, Westley’s sword flashed, and the nearest rat was bleeding. The other three contented themselves with that for a while.
Westley took Buttercup’s hand and again they started to move.
“How bad are you?” she said.
“I am in something close to agony but we can talk about that later. Hurry now.” They hurried. They had been in the Fire Swamp for one hour, and it turned out to be the easiest one they had of the six it took to cross it. But they crossed it. Alive and together. Hand very much in hand.