The Battle of The Stars

Chapter 1
The Beginning of the End
“My Answer is no. Hopefully that has finally penetrated that incredibly thick skull of yours.”
The speaker was standing in the middle of a massive room with the most exquisite decorations in the entire kingdom of Oreille. The beams where made of gold and carved with ornate designs. The walls were made of green marble with a deep gold trim. A huge iron door stood at one end facing a raised gold platform that held the King’s throne.
“Fair damsel, for the welfare of this kingdom, I am asking you to join forces with me. It would serve you well to get out among other people. Stop being a hermit, come out into the world. You are yet a youth but with me, you could become rich at a young age. It would also serve you well not to irritate me so much, for my patience is being tried,” declared King Methesdo.
His raiment was the finest in the land, a robe of deep blue, covered by a red cloak. He wore many rings and fine gold jewelry. His golden crown shone impressively. The jewels glittered, as their many faucets multiplied the light from the high windows. His appearance was very kingly. Even, if it were not, no one would have objected to it for fear of decapitation. The King was not one to be insulted.
His cold gray eyes gleamed like moonlight on polished slate beneath brows knitted together in anger. Their gaze showed no pity or remorse for the myriad of crimes he had committed, only greed. His slick black hair faultlessly combed sideways and ideally trimmed, thrust upon onlookers his air of superiority. His nose was long and narrow, perfect for looking down to declare that any living creature was below him in power and style.
His throne was of gold, cushioned with red velvet. Upon its sides were carved the crest of Oreille, a sword and banner crossed. Rubies, emeralds, sapphires, and other fine stones were pressed into the gold. The King’s hands were clenched around the arms, which were adorned with intricate designs wrought in silver. Undoubtedly, the Anarites had made the chair anciently.
“It would serve me better to be left alone and not bothered by stupid people such as yourself. Do not waste any more of your smooth talk on me. I did not walk all the way here in this abominable winter frost to have some idiotic royal propose ludicrous schemes to me and try to employ me as an agent in his despicable plots,” the girl replied. She was tall and slight of build. Her normally soft, gentle voice had become sharp and snappy with rage. Her long, raven hair cascaded down her shoulders like an inky waterfall. She wore a long, loose-fitting robe of light gray-blue, tied with a golden sash about her waist. Over her shoulders was cast a light, feathery shawl in the most blithesome shade of yellow. Around her head was tied a paisley scarf. Her appearance would have been most whimsical had she not been glowering at the King with such indubitable animosity. Her eyes flashed with blue fire, emphasizing her dour disposition.
“You shall find it harder to resist me after you have spent a while in the dungeons. You shall assist me in my domination of this deplorable planet. Seize her!” the king proclaimed, and the guards snapped instantly to life and sprung from the shadows as if they had been waiting for such an order the entire time, as undoubtedly, they had.
“Seize me, indeed, I’d like to see you attempt it. I will spend nay a day in your dungeons!” she retorted savagely, and, with that, she sprinted towards the great door. She was thin, flexible, and lithe, and try as they might, the guards could not catch her. As they closed in about the doors, she slipped into the entry hall. She ran towards the large iron door that would let her outside the castle. The sound of the guards pursuing feet echoed hollowly. Her own slippered feet barely graced the blue tiles as she dashed.
She made it out into the courtyard, blinking in the bright light of the noonday sun. She ran with all her might towards the drawbridge. More running feet sounded on the wall above her, as many more mercenaries rushed to the gate or to ladders. As she approached, the portcullis, warned by the now shouting soldiers, began its decent. She dodged yet another sentinel and rolled beneath the deadly spikes, missing death by a fraction. She stood wiping the dirt from her frock and shaking it free of her shawl. “Free,” she thought as she dashed into the woods, and the men now imprisoned in the castle, struggled to lift the gate.

“How dare she refuse me! I am king, am I not? I am…um… great and powerful. She shall join me. Someone get me the Captain of the Guard!” the King said while pacing the floor before his throne. He held his scepter as though it was a weapon, which it was. The power of that staff had given him the right to execute an entire race and to bring chaos to his world.
“Sire!” said the Captain saluting as he entered in the Carotian style, fist pressed to his chest. He strode briskly towards the deliberating King. He was tall for a Carotian, just less than six feet. His uniform was clean and well trimmed, much unlike the common warrior’s dusty tunic. His speech was as pronounced as his gait and his appearance. He pronounced his words with a definitive, curt clip. His dark brown hair fell across his brow, and cast a shadow over his chocolate brown eyes.
“How could she do that… be sorry… I need her…Anarites…” mumbled the King to himself. At times, his speech was thought full, at others rough, and sometimes sharp and punctuated.
“Sire?” the guard said politely, trying not to startle his monarch, but attain his attention none-the-less. His warm brown eyes rested lightly on the deliberating king.
“Oh, Addius, you’re here. Yes, I need you to assist me in a small matter,” Methesdo said, suddenly taking notice of his servant and beginning to regain his powerful composure and authoritative manner. He stopped pacing to regard the young man before him. Addius was no more than twenty-one years of age. He had been in the service of King Methesdo for thirteen years. Addius’ father had moved with his three-year-old son, to the military barracks of the castle, after the death of his wife. The King like most of his soldiers found the antics of the young boy amusing. As the boy grew up, King Methesdo doted upon him and enlisted him in his service. Addius became a page at the age of eight. By the time he was twelve, the young squire had become more skilled with a sword than any of the older soldiers. When the old Captain of the Guard had died for unexpected reasons, the King immediately appointed Addius to the job, much to the annoyance of his elders. King Methesdo, however, was very pleased with his choice.
“I shall do all in my power,” Addius answered brusquely.
“Excellent!” Methesdo said clasping his hand together in an act of exuberant joy. “I hope you are acquainted with the people known as Anarites?” He said the word “Anarites” as if it was a curse too coarse for his refined tongue. Fear and malice were mixed into his pronunciation.
“I believe that I have heard of them. Are they not… forbidden to be in this kingdom?” the guard asked wondering where his esteemed leader was going with the discussion. The Anarites were not a topic of everyday pleasant conversation. The name was often associated with children’s stories, usually portrayed as a sort of demonic monster. Many said they did truly exist and that was the reason Oreille did not conquer Nydia, the tiny neighboring country, which Methesdo had longed to conquer since the beginning of his reign. Addius had heard that they had come and inhabited Oreille anciently, but sometime before his birth, they had been driven out.
“They are indeed,” Methesdo said sneering with pleasure as he decided to reveal a little of his diabolical plot. His twisted mind found such great joy in the pain he planned to cause, especially to the Anarites. “However, I believe that if I could get but one of them to join my forces, it would be a great asset to my army. They are very powerful, if driven to use their power. Though they are illegal, we do have a few living among the peasants of Oreille or in hiding. They are quite cunning in matters of deceit and deception. One has kept herself hidden quite close to this very spot. I have located her, and have properly, politely requested that she join me in a certain political… conquest.” He paused briefly to let his servant pick up the hint, before he continued. “Unfortunately, she refuses my requests. What she does not understand is that there are many ways to exploit the power she has. It is to these means that I must turn. Thus, I am asking you to go and capture her.”
“Sire?” Addius said, brow furrowed with amazement. His thin dark eyebrows were raised in shock. The King had stated it so simply. Surely, his King was not suggesting that he could just go traipsing off and abduct such a monster as the demons of his childhood fairy tales. He had a fleeting impression of himself dead, laid to waste by a towering creature of flame. He shuddered mentally. “Are not the Anarites evil witches of an infernal world? Why would we want someone of such low caliber to join our ranks?” he asked swallowing his trepidation.
“Addius,” Methesdo said gazing out of a window, a look of contemptuous longing gracing his features. He absent-mindedly stoked a long jagged scar on his neck. “The power within one of these beings is more than the magic of all the magicians of Camotiel. If, we could gain access to such power, we could have total control of the entire universe. Do you not understand? The magic of a single Anarite could make Oreille the most influential country in Carotia. ”
“But this woman…is she dangerous?” Addius said restating his question more plainly. Hoping the King would ease his nagging fear or at least give him some comfort, rather than speaking only of the power of the item of Addius’ quest.
“She is a mere girl, but she is more perilous than you could possibly comprehend. Even she most likely does not understand the full extent of her power. Thy quest shall be precarious, do not ever doubt that. However, if you travel with as much stealth as you can muster, you shall not be in much danger. From my experience, I can vouch that the Anarites tend to not be very alert to their dire circumstances. Nothing can compare with human intelligence, not the power of magic, nor the power of any other creature’s mind. The human mind is the greatest weapon in the entire world and our greatest protection. Nothing can harm you when you have your wits.”
“Where can I find the fiend?” Addius said brushing his hair from his face, resolving in his mind that he would show his King his allegiance to Oreille. Though the King had not done much to quell his apprehension, his honor determined that duty must be put before his emotions.
“You may find her home in the great forest of Amadahy. Come into my study, and I will show you the route you should take. Then, off you go to get the little scourge,” the King said chuckling and leading his captain to a side room. Finally, he thought, “I shall be the unquestionable ruler of Carotia, and Nydia shall fall with the rest. I shall color the fields with the blood of the Anarites shed by their own kind. ” A malevolent grin spread across his gaunt face.”

Nerill ran. She did not know what else she could do. She could not run all the way to her home in Amadahy wood.
“I have two choices, I can walk, or I can use a spell. No, I cannot possibly use a spell; it is not yet night. Curse the despicable land. I hate it! I loathe it all. Oh that it would perish and leave me to myself, then perhaps I could find respite,” she thought as she dashed through the stand of trees. They were short and scraggly. Their pale color showed how little care was taken of them. Any wind above slight would have ripped them from the ground and they would have been as glad as the human that walked amongst them to be free of their pathetic existence. The wood was the Royal Court’s hunting range. Game was always kept in plentiful abundance. Now, Nerill felt as she was a hunted pheasant, doomed in the end to be killed by an arrow shot by a pompous noble, killing its horse with its seer weight.
The sun shined down on Nerill, her pale skin irritated by its glow. She had avoided the sun for almost twelve years now, by hiding in the forest and going out only nocturnally. At one time, she had loved the sun, but that was long ago before she was exiled to this dismal planet. It held something Nerill feared though she was not sure why. Nerill could sense that something vile dwelt on the bright beacon. The reason for her scorn was not simply her portentous feeling, but also its denial of magic to her. In her forsaken home, the sun was a source of a great and wonderful power that she could use at anytime. However, here its gleaming face mocked her powerlessness and taunted her vulnerability.
In the day, her power was gone, but at night when most of the world slept, magic filled her. It flowed from the ends of her hair to the tips of her toes. It surged at her fingertips and could be called upon at any moment. She was a Star Mistress, a child of the Stars, from whom she derived grand power, as a guard and protection from evil forces corroding the planet she now inhabited. She loved the night. The beauty of the sky ever amazed her. The Stars danced their beautiful dance among the moons as she danced on earth between the trees. Being a Star Mistress had its merits, like knowing the Stars personally, but most of the time, being the daughter of the Stars was a bothersome curse, or so it seemed to Nerill.
“I wish ‘King Methesdo could meet Polaria,” she thought laughing at the idea of the cocky, idiotic King meeting the wise, grand Star.
The crack of a twig brought her out of her daydreams, back to the dappled shade of the forest. She realized she had stopped running, and a bushy-tailed fox had come to walk beside her, his reddish color contrasting with the green and brown of the forest floor. Its bright, clever green eyes studied her, uncertain of the threat she might present. The fox reminded Nerill of the pursuit sure behind her. She would have to keep running if she wished to maintain her freedom and spare her life.
She dashed off again. If only she could get to Delos, a nearby town, she would have a place to hide until nightfall.
“Come, fox,” Nerill called to her rusty companion, “We shall race to Delos.”
EEE
The hiding place was a cave.
Nerill had once considered it as her residence. However, after several reckless, young boys had come to “explore” the cavern. Nerill had decided that its location, so close to the town of Delos, was not a good quality for a hermitage. It had caused her to move to the Wood, but she had always remembered the cave and its fine qualities of secrecy and isolation.
It had served her well. Twice before, she had to leave Amadahy for various reasons. Both times, she had gone to the cave. It had thrown off the chase that she had feared to be her end. She hoped it would do so once again.
As she drew back the thick, dark green ivy that covered the entrance, the warm, familiar smell of earth filled her nostrils. The tendrils of the plant swished back into their place concealing the entrance once again, hiding any trace of her passage, as she removed her hand from the herbal curtain. She stepped into the cave and followed a path down and into the deep cavern. As the small passageway abruptly widened into a much larger room, she retreated to the back corner deep into the shadows. After refreshing herself with a drink of the frosty spring water, she headed down the passage that led to the inner chamber.
Stalactites dropped from the ceiling like spindly fingers, while stalagmites thrust upward from the stone of the floor, both dreaming that one-day they might join with one of their fellows to become one of the decorative columns that were graced the passageways. Protrusions that appeared as stately as the towers of Camotiel. Pink and white stone shone and glistened with the appearance of mother of pearl. Curtain formations fell to the floor, rippling as if they were truly made of a luminous cloth. Stone naturally twisted and formed in beauty far surpassing the creations of the greatest sculpture. Phantasmal statues emerged from the stone as waters smooth hands labored steadily. The cave was an unlikely beauty hid amongst the darkness, spotted with chasms and deep wells that left just enough room for the path Nerill now trod.
The inner chamber was larger than the entry and massive stones lade the ground. Though the beauty of this chamber was not as enchanting, the room still glittered with an inspiring air of loveliness about the edges. Still far more astonishing was the colossal size of the cathedral room whose high vaulted ceiling gave the chamber an odd echoing sound. Even Nerill’s light footsteps resounded as if she was walking in the center of a drum. Nerill sat on one of the smaller stones for a moment, catching her breath from her journey.
Unlike the two times before, Nerill had many hours to wait before nightfall. The wait was tedious. She was not in the least worried about her pursuers. She would hear them as soon as they entered the cave, and surely, into complete darkness they would not choose to venture. She considered exploring the darker recesses of the cavern. She had never ventured farther than the inner chamber before, for reasons she was unsure of. It had never seemed quite right to go down the long, lightless passages into the heart of the cavern. You could have called it fear, but it was not. Nerill was not one to scare so easily. It was more a premonition of what might lurk in the vast expanses of trackless passages and chambers. Her prophetic intuition might have stopped her, if she had given it the slightest heed, but in her still seething anger, she determined to tempt fate.
She chose the passageway to the far right. She had no reasoning behind the choice; only the smooth doorway concealing its contents in shadow seemed most peculiarly inviting. The entrance was not as jagged or small as the others. It was large and rounded as if by human hands, though perhaps roughly hewn. The appearance of it assumed friendliness to those who dared to walk its dreary paths as the other’s craggy façades presented themselves as unwelcoming and hostile.
In the darkness, the engraving of the wall would have fallen unnoticed by any visitor, but the gifts endowed to her, caused darkness not to impair Nerill’s vision. She could tell that the walls were lined with writing. The curving scrawl was not that of modern Carotians or that of Anarites like herself. “It must be of some ancient Carotians,” she thought, but the power in it amazed her. Carotians were usually thought to be, by the Anarites, a cruel race, eager for the shedding of blood, and ignorant in the ways of magic, especially the inhabitants of Oreille. Yet, the inscriptions were filled with magic, such that they seemed to twist and shimmer with the power of it.
Nerill was so lost in thought about the writing; she was stunned to walk right into a door.
A large, wooden door stood in the passageway. Nerill’s foreboding returned, but with it came the enticing call of adventure. She stared at the door wondering, what she found so alarming. It was not the two luminous jewels in the center; Nerill had seen many elaborately decorated doors in Anacopane. Something else puzzled her.
Then, she realized, it had no handle. "This is very curious," she muttered running her hand up the wooden face of the door. The grain felt rough and splintery, and in patches, the bark had not been fully removed. She concluded the wood to be some strange form of oak and planed in a hurry. Her long, milk white fingers traced the carvings in the door. They were large and wide like decorative fluting, but between them, it seemed there were smaller more delicate patterns. However though, the door had been cut hastily, no time had been shaved from the adorning.
She reached up to touch the two glowing jewels. As she touched their smooth surfaces, they shone out brighter, and a silver line shot from one. It looped and twisted in a frenzied dance, until it buried itself in the other jewel. Then, in concert the jewels burned even brighter. The writing on the wall began to glow. The brilliance of the gems increased to such resplendence, that Nerill could not stand to look at the two orbs. She drew back, shading her eyes as the light flooded the passage. Then, more quickly than the performance began, the jewels returned to their original luster and the writing faded. With a deep groan, the handleless door creaked open.

What do you think?