Trembling With Fear 6-15-25

Baetyl Blade, by Alex McNall

The Queen’s last words were whispered in a breath that reeked of terror.

“Beware…” She gripped the prince’s wavy hair and pulled him to her side. “Beware the Baetyl Blade.”

Batt watched his mother’s eyes go dark, two embers dying in the night. He tried to rekindle the flame with all the fury of his grief, but no amount of bellowing could stoke it.

The Queendom mourned, reflecting on her majesty’s reign of peace and pride. Batt’s coronation, however, ushered in an age of apprehension. The new king relied on advisors that spoke of treaties, truces, taxes, trades, and tariffs. Batt cared deeply, understood little, and quickly grew to hate the weight upon his head. 

He saw his council crack and shatter into havok. Bickering begat bloodshed. The young king feared his throat would soon be cut after finding thirteen daggers in his bed, one for each year he’d walked the cursed earth.

“Who disturbed my chambers?” he demanded, spiraling down the tower stairs. 

“No one, My Lord,” the captain of the guard replied. “Not a soul has passed.”

The king had locked himself in a windowless tower and still his foes could reach him.

“What do you want!” he hollered from atop the castle wall.

“Your crown, of course,” came a voice that floated in on smoke. 

A hooded figure shuffled from the shadows clutching a cane like an owl upon a branch.

“They can have the crown,” Batt spat. “And take the throne as well.”

The old man raised his wooly brows, revealing eyes the color of the predawn sky. He took a puff from his ivory pipe and led Batt across the parapet.

“One could possess those things and never know true power.” 

“Just like me,” Batt said. “The weakest fool who ever sought to rule.”

“Oh?” the old man stopped, head cocked like a hungry hound. “Do you seek the might, My Lord?” 

“No….” Batt turned his gaze away. “A dormouse has more might than I.”

A grin tugged the corners of the old man’s mouth. 

“Have I told you the tale of The Dragon and the Mouse?”

The wizard Lucas, who had served as court conjuror before Batt’s great-great-grandfather captured the throne, was the only counselor to catch the young king’s ear. He did so by weaving fantastic stories that were lessons in disguise. Under his tutelage, Batt began to comprehend the complexity of governance, as well as life itself.

Death remained a bolted door, although he’d spied the keyhole more than once. Before his mother passed, he lost a brother to the Baetyl Blade. Ron was not the first to fall, but Batt hoped he’d be the last. The test had claimed their father’s life, and ol’ Grandad’s as well.

The sword bestowed invincibility and everlasting life upon its holder. Forged by an archangel from the slag of a fallen star, legend claimed it was the only weapon capable of killing God himself and the single thing He feared.

How one obtained the mythic blade, nobody lived to tell. 

###

On the eve of his fourteenth year, Batt awoke to leather clamped upon his mouth. No, it was the wizened hand of Lucas, who pulled him out of bed.

“We must go,” he hissed. “Wolves have breached the gates!”

Lucas hustled him inside the hearth and depressed a chimney brick. A hidden passage to the undercroft led to a waiting boat. The wizard whispered wind into its sails that propelled them across the moat. The keep and castle both were quiet as a tomb.

Why is the fight so silent?

“Your men are dead,” Lucas said, in answer to Batt’s thought. “But soon you will rise as king to wreak a harsh and holy vengeance.”

The means of such a feat could only be one thing — Batt would face the fated Baetyl Blade. His mother never sought the sword and wisely warned against it, but he lacked her strength and valor, could never match her deeds. It troubled him to wonder why she had to die.

“Is it true that all things happen for a reason?” Batt asked, once they reached the Northern Sea.

“No.” Lucas turned and gave the boy a reassuring wink. “But there are reasons all things happen.”

At dawn a glacial cliff materialized in the mist, low tide revealing a tunnel to a chamber. In a scarlet pool ringed by ice the Baetyl Blade pointed to the heavens.

“What now?” Batt asked in puffs of steamy breath.

“The sword unlocks upon the taste of righteous blood.” Lucas lifted the boy onto the frozen berm. “Only worthy rulers can survive its stellar bite.”

“But I don’t want to be a ruler.” 

“That’s what makes you worthy, son.” The warm words gave the young king courage. “The purest soul my heart has ever known. Now go, and keep your gaze upon the blade.”

Batt waded through the ruddy pool, sensing what he shouldn’t see — his brother’s bones and many more resting on the bottom. He reached the sword, took a breath, and closed his weary eyes. Batt pressed a palm against the meteoric edge. Blood ran down the blade and filled a vial on the hilt.

“Seize it!” Lucas shouted. “And your wound will surely heal!”

The boy did as he was told and plucked the relic from the pool. His slashed hand knit together as all weakness left his body. Batt tossed his head and crowed, releasing years of fear.

“I did it…” he said with awe. “I passed the impossible test!”

“Indeed,” Lucas sniffled, choking back his tears. “The day has come at last.”

Batt strode across the pool and stepped upon the frozen ring. He passed the sword to Lucas, then leapt into the boat.

“I’ve got you, My Lord,” Lucas said, gripping Batt behind the shoulder.

His other hand held the Baetyl Blade, plunged into his pupil’s chest. Batt blinked, balked, and tumbled from the boat. 

As he sank into the frigid depths he heard the wizard laugh.