since the forces of men and orcs, though weakened, in alliance would still be as powerful as their own hosts, but perhaps not for much longer…
Part 1:
The Dragons’ Mountain
The secret covenant
Frienia, year 1815 of the second era.
The majestic fortified city of Belquecia towered over a hill that dominated an area of several kilometers around.
It was not possible to attempt a surprise attack against it, since its high situation and the few natural features of all the surrounding lands made any army visible from all points of the horizon. At the east and on very clear days, one could see the Hope River, natural border with Teberion, kingdom of the orcs. Far to the west, too far even for the extraordinary eyesight of the elves to reach, was the Belquio Sea, to the north and south were valleys and flat lands where numerous villages and farms were settled, dominated by many noble fortresses of the high aristocracy.
The formidable outer walls of Belquecia would have the most powerful armies desist from attempting a siege against such a fortification, since the vast lands encircled by its walls included wells, orchards, and estates that guaranteed the city's self-sufficiency, practically indefinitely.
Right in the heart of the city stood the royal palace of Lorimar, the habitual residence of the Delfia royal family since immemorial times. The palace had four sturdy towers that rose to great heights, one in each of its corners, surrounded by beautiful gardens also enclosed by a solid wall that was interrupted, in the center of each side of the square that formed, by entrances strongly guarded by the brave royal guard.
The central palace consisted of five extensive floors with numerous rooms. From one of the most luxurious of them, Syriel, heir prince to the throne of Delfia looked through the window, heartbroken.
His mother, Clariel, descended from an ancient elf lineage, one of the few remaining, according to the wise historians. One of them was Baldrich, his mentor, who was also one of the few real elves still living in Delfia.
Syriel had cried only once in his twenty-three years of life, on the day of his mother's sad death after a long and painful illness that consumed her little by little, when he was only six years old.
Today, Syriel's eyes let tears escape again; tears of sorrow for seeing the decadence of the kingdom that his lineage had been reigning for so many centuries; tears of longing for an era of splendor where humans and elves lived in harmony and usually in peace, which he had only known through books and stories by his master Baldrich; And tears of resignation because he was forced to marry Lirieth, the heiress of the Orc's King, whom he imagined as horrible as stinking.
Syriel repressed the last tear as he saw the long retinue escorting the luxurious carriage carrying his future hated political family approach his palace. He had dressed in his most elegant clothes at his father's request to receive them, and he did not know what oppressed him more, whether the majestic, though uncomfortable clothes, or the uneasiness produced by the unnatural union that awaited him and which anguished him deeply.
Syriel girded himself at the waist with his elfic sword, Almafiel, which had shed so much orc blood, to surrender to the submission of the Orc king. He knew that soon he would raise it against the dark ones and he began to wish that the magic protection with which the elves had endowed it would cease to function in the next battle so that he would end its sad life once and for all.
The sword, which was one of the few material inheritances he had preserved from his ancestors, possessed unparalleled beauty. The brightness of its steel had not diminished with the passage of time nor its light weight, which together with its extraordinary hardness, turned it into a manageable and deadly weapon. Its edge was ornamented with some engravings in a strange writing, which formed magical words in an ancient language that no one could ever tell Syriel what they meant, but which endowed the sword with certain magical powers that on more than one occasion had saved the life of its owner.
But the most striking thing about the sword was its grip, which ended in a dragon head masterfully sculpted and ornamented with a gold-colored precious stone that stood out from the rest of the elements of the weapon. It consisted of an elongated gem of considerable size that a human hand could barely cover when wielding it. Syriel was told that once the jewel shone with its own light, but now it did so only by reflecting the rays of the sun.
He walked down the stairs to the entrance courtyard, standing next to his father. His slender figure of almost six feet high contrasted with his father's mediam height and rather chubby workmanship, and his mane, as blonde as it was long contradicted the king's scarcity of black hair as well. The only attribute that reflected Jorion's fatherhood in his first-born was the lively blue eyes they both had, the rest of the prince's features, undoubtedly semielphic had been inherited from the beautiful features of Clariel, his kind mother.
The royal chariot of the orcs stood in front of the reception retinue. The first to come down was Gulrath, who greeted his hosts politely. Shortly afterwards, Syriel saw, with dissimulated exasperation, how Gulrath was helping an orc woman of undetermined age, of considerable robustness and a rather unpleasant physiognomy to come down from the carriage, who gave him the most frightful smile Syriel had ever thought he could receive.
To the great relief of the royal suitor, Gulrath presented her as his wife Baldia. Suddenly, everyone looked at the prince as if expecting something from him, and Syriel remembered that the rules of courtesy bestowed upon him the great honor of helping the princess to descend from her chariot. However, he did not move until he felt a painful nudge from his own father, more with despair than with dissimulation.
He approached the door resignedly and extended his arm, they said almost inaudibly:
"Welcome, Your Highness."
A thin hand, with a pale, slightly greenish skin rested on his arm shyly, but firmly, and a warm beautiful voice mused:
"I thank you, Prince Syriel."
A silky white dress encircled a slender figure that dazzled everyone as she stepped out of the carriage. Her movements were firm, though not without grace.
Suddenly, the prince was surprised to see a face framed by lush black hair full of spirals, and a pretty smile adorning a prominent jaw with undeniable orc features, but not devoid of beauty in the eyes of a human. Not even the slight greenish tone of the skin of the young orc, similar in age to that of Syriel, prevented the prince from being amazed at the exotic appeal of the princess.
But what really plunged Syriel into the most unexpected of surprises were luminous green eyes, almost at his own height, in which he read a lively intelligence and an exceptional purity of heart.
The prince had inherited from his elfic ancestors the ability to read the souls of creatures of any kind through their eyes. This quality had never failed him and had always helped him to surround himself with collaborators and lieutenants of remarkable courage, intelligence, and insurmountable loyalty. It had also helped him to reject countless candidates to become his wife, in whom he had read the ambition and lack of good feelings that, unfortunately, increasingly characterized the human race.
Instead, in Lirieth's eyes he read the most beautiful that he had ever observed in any creature, except for the little that he already remembered from the magical and kind gaze of his mother.
Syriel took a while to recover from his surprise and when he kissed the hand of the princess which seemed soft and warm to the touch, he also noticed a pleasant fragrance of fresh flowers and wild, but not
