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Chronicle, they called him. The Sage. Ancient beyond measure, wrinkled fingers bent from a lifetime of scratching quills, turning pages, and scratching quills again…
The wizened man leaned back in his creaky chair and hummed contentedly as the flames danced on the lenses of his spectacles. He’d been asked to record all the history pertaining to Carseld up until the present moment. Just a general summary, she’d said. A summary indeed! As if he had time for such things. Time, time, and plenty of it…
Chronicle chuckled and rearranged a stack of parchment on his desk. Where did one start with a project like this?
At the beginning, of course. Now, why hadn’t he thought of that sooner? His eyes took on a dreamy look, flashing like prisms. He remembered that day, the first day, so well…
The Creator’s hand. So massive, so powerful, yet so gentle. Chronicle had seen it, though under a different name. Quintor cupped His hand around a piece of formless, shapeless space and laughed gently, His face overflowing with immense love. Chronicle watched as His hands sculpted mountains and carved valleys, hollowed oceans and smoothed plains, coaxed life from the soil with the warmth of a huge palm and scattered stars with a flick of mighty fingers. Chronicle remembered seeing the first Tulirans, regarding their Maker with piercing golden eyes; the first Elvarians, soaking up His presence with rapt and shining faces; the first Raechal, impulsive and hot-tempered from the start. He loved seeing the six races tame the land and flourish under Quintor’s care. He remembered those days of bliss.
And he remembered the deep-rooted rage and jealousy on Cae’ach’s face as his Master called all Creation very good.
Cae’ach, head of the Guardians. Most powerful. Most deadly. It was a black day in the Highest Realm when Cae’ach turned a third of the most powerful Guardians to his side and made an advance on Quintor’s throne. In the shape of preying birds and great black cats, cunning snakes and shaggy wolves, bears and boars and all manner of dark things with teeth, Cae’ach and his minions met their first fight at the blades and claws of the Guardians.
The fight raged on for hours. Time and again Chronicle’s blade met the dark warriors and drove them back, only to find a new opponent every time he turned. Hungry, angry, and impossible to kill. At last the Guardians defeated the traitors and drove them, still in whatever gruesome shape they had taken, before Quintor’s throne. Cae’ach was brought forward, bound and snarling, by two of his former underlings. Quintor surveyed the sullen gathering, His face full of sorrow. “I had great things for you,” He said softly.
“Always under Your shadow,” Cae’ach sneered, his eyes glinting blood-red. “I want my own realm. I will be king of whatever I choose.”
Quintor sighed. “Throw them down.”
Mic’aren stepped forward, looking unusually small. “Down, my Lord?”
“Down.”
Chronicle worked beside those who cast the traitors out of the Highest Realm and shut the gates behind them. Cae’ach was the last to go. He stood before Mic’aren, mighty wings spread and stained black. “Orders,” said Mic’aren, and shoved him backward off the threshold. The gate shut with a thud of finality…
Chronicle stopped to wipe his eyes on his sleeve, then continued with difficulty.
Cae’ach almost got his wish. The mortals on the world Quintor named Eniret felt the sting of his wrath. Even after, for their defense, Quintor gifted them with dragons and magic, nearly all turned away, lured by the whisperings of the Traitor’s minions. Those were the darkest days yet. The new world saw war for the first time, and the streams ran with the blood of the slaughtered. Carrion birds flocked to the abandoned battlefields and their dark wings shadowed the lands for over a year.
In those times, magic was powerful even among the common people. In their veins flowed the power Quintor had given them, untainted and strong. The mortals divided into three groups. One group followed Cae’ach utterly and took orders from him. Their name has been forgotten, but today those who dare to mention them say that they are the Unspoken. They were marked with Cae’ach’s seal, and are to this day. Those who bear it receive power from Cae’ach himself and wear his black crescent proudly.
The second group were the Fallen, the common people, those who had strayed from Quintor’s love. Among these, all was chaos. They had no rulers and each used their potent magic how he wished. These mortals were not involved in many of the great struggles of the time because of their neutral status – they were neither good nor evil, and difficult to sway.
The third group, the only ray of light during Cae’ach’s reign, was called the Faithful. Small but devout disciples, not faultless but true. Quintor strengthened their magic and marked them as His own. The direct opposites of the Unspoken, they pitted their magic against Cae’ach’s sorcery, their white star against his black crescent. Their numbers grew strong, and for a while it seemed as though they would triumph…
Chronicle sat back, his fingers clenched tight around his quill. This was harder than he thought. But he had to finish. The sage leaned back over the parchment and pushed his spectacles up his nose.
Eventually, the Fallen tipped the balance. Desperate, they repented of their ways and looked back to their Father’s love. He forgave them, but as a safeguard He took a large part of their magic. Without the power, they had to completely trust Him. And they did.
Cae’ach was furious. He gathered his armies in a show of strength such as the world had never seen and unleashed his jealousy on Quintor’s people. In legend, they call this tragic event the Sifting, although in one ballad it is referred to as Jealousy’s Deluge.
In his anger, Cae’ach almost totally slaughtered the Faithful and a large part of the Fallen. This was the climax of his reign over Eniret, and its like has never been seen since. Chronicle remembered that horrific battle, all too well. The entire world suffered at the fall of the Faithful, whose magic held a large portion of the paradise together. To this day, the color for mourning is deep gray, because it is said that on the day of the Sifting, the skies turned gray and the clouds wept for the dead…
Chronicle tapped his fingers on his desk. Up until now, the history had nothing to do with Carseld. But that was about to change.
All of this happened in a country far to the north of what is considered livable today, but under Quintor’s power it had flourished. Cae’ach’s attack upset the magic that made it inhabitable so all were forced to move southward or freeze. Unbeknownst to Cae’ach, a group of the surviving Faithful of all races and a large group of the Fallen were building ships to take them south. They managed to get away, but the usually gentle seas were rough and many died on the voyage.
After weeks of travel, the company arrived, battered and bruised, on the northern shores of Carseld. The small country welcomed them in, offering new life in plenty. They traveled to the southern coasts and found bounty there, so they built a great city out of the creamy pink stone of the mountains and called it Elaya.
Carseld thrived under their care. The untamed land filled with cities and farms, and all the races found homes to their liking. The Faithful of all the races ruled, taking turns on the southern throne. Their numbers grew to great heights and their magic flowed deep under Carseld’s soil. Strange and wonderful things grew, full of good magic. The trees had spirits that danced in the moon’s light. The horses had horns that glowed and could fly like eagles. The stones listened patiently, and if you asked politely they might tell you what they had heard.
But all it takes is one crooked heart in the wrong place.
In this case, it was a ruler’s son, one of the Faithful by blood but something else in his mind. Cae’ach, hearing of the Faithful’s reign, sent a messenger to whisper enticing words in young Kalon’s heart. He had a choice. Everyone has a choice.
Kalon chose wrongly.
A snake had always been his favorite animal, and now he imitated one, sowing seeds of dissent among the rulers. When his father stepped down from the throne, Kalon’s seeds sprouted.
The Elvari and the Humans had never gotten along well, and now the matter came to the surface. Both the Elvari and the Humans thought it was their turn to rule. Neither would budge. The debate became so heated that the other races stepped back so as not to be stabbed by sharp words carelessly thrown. Eventually they left Elaya altogether. Matters progressed rapidly. The lord of the Elvari came to Kalon in secret to ask for help, but Kalon was almost completely insane by then and attacked the lord. The Elvari lord was found kneeling by Kalon’s body with blood on his hands, and the Humans declared war.
Chronicle had always found it ironic that the one who started it all was the first to die because of it.
Carseld’s first war was one of her bloodiest. The Faithful quickly faded into the background as the Fallen, drunk on bloodlust and hatred, began killing members of the other race on sight. The Elvari had skill in weapons and heightened senses, the Humans had greater strength and stamina, not to mention higher numbers. The fighting raged on until one of the Human captains gathered the most powerful magic-users of their race and invented the Portals.
It was a brutal but efficient move, and the war takes its name from them. They would transport anything small enough to fit through the doorway to a connecting location anywhere in the country. The magic, however, had a price – it had to be fed enough energy to transport those things, and it had to be activated by blood. The magicians rigged it to take only Elvari blood and energy. Suddenly, the Elvari were useful. Instead of being killed on sight, many were used to transport their enemy’s supplies and troops with their own blood and strength. It was a slow, cruel, sucking death as their energy seeped out into the yellow stones used to build the Portals. Many Elvarian captives committed suicide rather than being used as a living sacrifice.
The Elvarian morale dipped considerably after that. In an attempt to compensate, the Elvari magicians experimented with their own theory and formed a brilliant strategy. With the magic, they hid the reptilian crest and scales that defined their race and gave most of their troops hair like the Humans. These strange mixes were used as spies quite effectively until caught. When caught, the confused Humans named the spies Elves.
With their advantage gone, the Elves quickly lost ground and, eventually, the war. The Humans couldn’t seem to stop killing, however, so in a stroke of desperation the Elves retreated behind a natural forest barrier and set magic around it so that no Humans could pass.
The Humans had succeeded, but now there was no one to rule – all the other races had retreated and were not to be found. So, in victory, the Humans placed a king on the southern throne and ruled themselves. Meanwhile, a queen in the larger country of Andun watched. And smiled…
Chronicle frowned. Greed and pride, that’s what it all came down to. The Humans ruled the empty Kingdom for years upon years, passing the crown from father to son. The common people began to wonder if races like Elvari and Raechal and Tulirans had ever existed. The only examples of other races were Dragonriders, and they were rarely seen. So it went for over a century, until a queen in Andun, remembering her mother’s dream of ruling Carseld, sailed around the western coast of Carseld and set loose a race of savage wolves in the territory of the dragons. This went unnoticed for years until the wolves had weakened the dragons enough to stop the egg production. No more eggs, no more Riders.
That year, in Elaya, a beautiful Elven woman escaped the Boundary Forest and fell in love with the King. He married her and she bore his son Clark. A year later, she died in labor but Clark’s sister, Angelia, was saved. And still, the Andunian queen waited.
Twenty years later, black ships sailed into Carseld’s southern harbor under cloak of night…
Chronicle stood and went to the window. Rain lashed the panes. That wasn’t the whole story, but there was another book about what happened next. On impulse, he went back to the desk and picked up the quill.
Quintor never left his people unguarded. Through wars, through drought, through famine…
As he wrote, a pair of shimmering silver wings unfolded from his back.
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2 Corinthians 3:17 ~ Now the Lord is that Spirit: and where the Spirit of the Lord is, there is liberty.
eleutheria - Greek for liberty
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I really like the history. 
That was it? No more? I was really getting into it, wondering what happens next. But I'll be good and wait patiently.
I liked the unique way you wrote it.
