The following is the first installment of an original work of fan fiction. New installments will post weekly. The Dread Pirate Roberts tells the tale of Trajan, a young Guilderian on a quest to avenge the death of his father, killed by the current Dread Pirate Roberts . His efforts are quickly altered by Westley and other previous Dread Pirate Robertses, who decide to train and assist Trajan in his quest.
The Daughter
“This one left them all behind…the end.”
Her father stared at the page for a few more seconds, admiring the book before slowly closing it and taking a satisfied breath, as one does after finishing a perfect meal. He looked at her, sitting next to him on the sofa. She had a dour expression he wasn’t expecting.
“What?” he asked.
She merely shrugged her shoulders.
“You feeling alright?”
“Yeah. It’s just…”
“What?”
“Well, we’ve read it a dozen times at least.”
“So? It’s a great book. I thought you liked it.”
She fidgeted in her seat, took the book from him, and inspected the back cover description. “I love it. I just…it seems like there should be more to it. I mean, there should be other adventures to tell. Maybe with Guilder, or with Miracle Max, or something? What happened later?”
Her father took the book back from her and stood. “It’s perfect in every way. It doesn’t need a sequel. People have tried, but nothing even comes close to the original and it’s downright blasphemous to even suggest it.” He folded his arms while deflecting a skeptical look from his wife, who now briefly looked up from her own book.
“You mean,” the daughter asked, after registering what he’d just said, “there is a sequel?”
“Of course.”
“And you never told me!”
“They were cash grabs.”
“But were they any good?”
“Meh.”
She jumped up from the sofa. “Where? Do we have a copy?” She walked to the library and started searching the bookshelves.
He locked eyes with his wife. She shrugged, and he went back to watching his daughter standing on her tiptoes, searching the upper shelves of the library. He let out a resigned sigh.
He disappeared upstairs for a minute and returned carrying a book that looked fairly new, not at all like the typical books that filled their shelves, with their worn dustjackets and creased paper covers. This book was another sort, the kind read only once before being forgotten on a shelf.
“Here.”
She snatched it out of his hands and caressed the cover. “The Dread Pirate Roberts’? So, it’s about Inigo?”
“Sort of.” He sat down and picked up his phone. “You can read it if you want to. But tomorrow. It’s almost bedtime.”
She stared at it, started flipping through the pages.
“I’m telling you though, it may be a disappointment. Nothing compares to the original.”
She walked away as if she hadn’t heard him, bumped into the rocking chair on her way past, but still didn’t take her eyes off the pages. She was on page three by the time she got to the stairs.
“Good night,” he called after her.
She didn’t answer, and he heard her trip at least once as she went up the stairs.
Chapter 1: Trajan
Trajan took a bold step toward his adversary, removed the sword from its scabbard, and shifted his feet. Remember your footing, always remember your footing. He bent his knees and let the weight of the weapon meld into his grip. It was now a part of his arm, and its motions would be as fluid as if he were at a village dance. He settled on the stance that any master would deem proper for the flat, sandy terrain, with nothing to hide behind. It was just him, his foe, and the sweet scent of revenge which motivated all his instincts.
The man across from him was much older, at least three times his age, twice his weight, and confident. He was almost careless in his own stance, something Trajan immediately noticed and prepared to exploit. The man, Pilbrick, took a casual step to his left. Trajan adjusted, sword poised. Pilbrick swung his sword in a testing manner, a sweep through the air, then turned his head slightly to the left, and whistled.
He’s trying to distract me. He’s off guard. Now! Lunge!
Five minutes later, Trajan opened his eyes. He was staring into the sky as he lay flat on his back. His brain registered his surroundings; the unmistakable aroma of wine and a soft kind of cheese lingered overhead.
“Sorry,” Trajan said, staring at a cloud.
“Oh, no, it’s quite alright. Please, finish your nap, I’ll be happy to eat your portion. Of course you’ve probably worked up quite an appetite dreaming of fencing, if not actually doing it.”
Trajan rolled over and immediately felt the pain in his head, no doubt from the administration of some blunt object that had been smashed against it. Pilbrick always ended their sessions that way and often hit Trajan unconscious with a different object – his sword handle, his fist, a beam kicked loose from an overhead awning.
“If you’re going to fight a pirate, son, you must expect things of that nature. Pirates don’t follow the rules of gentlemen. The Dread Pirate Roberts, especially.”
Every day since Trajan had come to him, Pilbrick had said those words, “If you’re going to fight a pirate…” followed by a bit of wisdom, and followed further with a bashing of the head – seventeen bashings so far, though the accumulative nature of them rendered an accurate accounting by Trajan questionable. But Trajan didn’t mind the loss of simple arithmetic so long as he learned to fence (which he could do fairly well by now) along with learning the fine art of fighting dirty (which he was daily experiencing) and how to anticipate it (which he could hardly do at all).
And so it continued, day in and day out. Trajan would arrive, eat a bit of bread, smile at Pilbrick’s daughter, face off against Pilbrick, and get bashed in the head. He always learned something, and reassured his mother upon returning home that the black and blue bruises all over his head and face were, indeed, a good investment.
In his day, Pilbrick was one of the most renowned mercenaries in Florin, and the only person in Guilder known to have sailed with Roberts.
Trajan’s mother had been skeptical from the start, and not only because of his hefty fee or his hefty stature. Still, what options did she have? Her husband needed to be avenged, but the man training her son to do it kept bashing his head in. So, around bashing number six, she decided to see Pilbrick’s methods for herself.
She arrived at his cottage just in time to see the bulky man toss her oldest child into a horse’s water trough, then toss sandbags onto him to keep him there (his head was above the water line, of course). Then he settled down to eat his cheese, drink his wine, and mock the aspiring vigilante in typical pirate fashion.
Trajan’s mother was as indignant as any mother would be at the display, and stormed toward Pilbrick with one of her other children on her hip and three more in tow.
“Let him up this instant!” she demanded.
Trajan, surprised and slightly embarrassed (but actually more cold than anything), rose (in a figurative sense, since he was under six sandbags) to his master’s defense. “Mother, it’s quite alright.”
“I’m not paying him to marinate you, boy, I’m paying him to teach you how to fight!”
Pilbrick made no attempt to release Trajan. Rather, he walked confidently to the table, sliced portions of fresh bread for everyone, and began dispensing them to the grateful children while speaking.
“Madam, I agreed to teach your son how to fight a pirate, give him a fair chance at killing one, and when he’s ready, assist him in locating the one he seeks. I cannot do the latter without first doing the former.”
“I don’t know what that means,” she huffed.
“Former means first, mother.” Trajan paused to regain his breath. “He means…that this is part…of the training.”
“Quit with your fancy Florinese and speak plain, sir. I’m paying you to teach the boy enough to avenge his father. It’s been three years and the Dread Pirate Roberts still lives. As far as I can tell, you haven’t taught him anything other than how to nurse a headache, and you haven’t spent any time at all locating Roberts.”
“Mother, please…have some bread. Pilbrick, may I get up now?” Trajan shivered from the trough.
Pilbrick lifted the bags off Trajan and continued. “Good lady, finding Roberts is not hard at all. That is the least of my worries. I’m trying to ensure that your son’s encounter with him lasts longer than any of your son’s encounters with me.” He gestured to Trajan – wet, shivering, bleeding Trajan, who still showed prominent signs of bashings four through six, though bashings one through three were mostly faded.
The woman had looked at the sad spectacle of her otherwise impressive son and relented, sighing. “Alright. Teach him what he needs to know. But for the King’s sake, please stop bashing him in the head.”
Ten bashings later, Trajan rolled off of his back and sat. He pulled himself up, dizzy, head aching, and slowly took a chair at Pilbrick’s table. He took a swig from the near-empty bottle of wine. “So, what happened?”
“The same thing that usually happens. You got distracted.”
“But I clearly saw an opening. You turned, your whole right side was exposed, I lunged for the opening, my footwork was perfect. I…”
“She broke a pitcher over your head from behind,” he said, motioning to his beautiful fifteen-year-old daughter, who smiled and held up the broken handle. “Pirates never work alone.”
Trajan rubbed his head, smiled back. “Will I ever be ready?”
“Actually, I think you’re as ready as you’ll ever be.”
“Then I don’t stand a chance?”
“Never did.”
“So it’s hopeless?”
“Revenge always is.”
“What should I do?”
“Go back to Guilder, maybe take up farming. You manage livestock considerably well, much better than fighting, by the barrel load in fact. Pigs. Get some pigs and be content.”
Trajan sighed, contemplated his mission, his beloved father, and the pain the Dread Pirate Roberts had cost his family. “No, I must try. I’m willing to die if need be, but I will find him, and when I find him I will kill him.”
Pilbrick nodded. “Well, then, good luck to you. It will take a miracle, but that’s the easy part.”
Trajan was confused. “How is that easy?”
“Because unlike defeating Roberts, you can buy a miracle.”
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