something before the final attack.
Huma, his army spread out on the hills overlooking the
black tower, climbed from the back of the silver dragon he
rode and studied the scene below him, looking for the trap
he knew to be there. The Queen’s line of retreat had been
straight, as if this had been her destination.
Glancing to his right, he could see the movement of his
men, the knights on horseback, and the bowmen in front of
them but behind the pikemen, as they formed just below the
crest of the hills. Long, straight lines, marked by colored
flags. The movement of their feet, the pawing of the horses,
stirred the dry soil, creating a choking cloud of dust that
engulfed them like a thick, morning fog. Slowly, their
equipment rattling as the metal pieces struck one another,
they fell into a strict military formation. They were a silent
group, tense and strained, waiting for Huma to order them
forward to the attack.
The scene to the left looked much the same. The men
were moving forward. Their weapons, held at the ready,
flashed in the afternoon sun. The women and children
stayed at the rear of the battle line, setting up their camp and
preparing bandages and splints, preparing to clean up the
battlefield after the fighting.
The support vehicles, ox carts and wagons, the support
men – those who made the weapons, the squires who aspired
to be knights, the grooms, and the drivers – stood in the rear,
sweating in the hot sun and watching everything, wishing
that they could somehow get into the battle.
Near them was the makeshift band. Pipes and drums
and flutes that could stir the men with their melodies and
inspire them to greater efforts. They choked on the dust that
stuck in their throats. Wiped the sweat from their faces as
they waited for someone to do something. Waited for Huma
to order them forward.
The silver dragon that Huma rode was gone suddenly,
and standing next to him was a tall, slender woman with a
mane of silver hair. She wore a breastplate of green armor,
molded to her, a short, leather skirt, and shin guards that
matched the green of her breastplate. In her right hand – a
delicate, thin-boned hand with long, slender fingers – she
held the hilt of a jeweled broadsword, the silver tip stuck in
the dust at her feet. There was a look of grim determination
on her face, because she knew what this event meant. She
knew what the outcome of the battle had to be, and knew
the cost to her and to Huma.
She turned to look at Huma, a huge man with a big,
flaming mustache and long/black hair that brushed his
shoulders. He wore armor of silver, a helmet with a plume
of crimson on his head, and he held the dragonlance that
was nearly twelve feet long. The barbed tip was of pure
silver, and the shaft was of polished wood. It was a special
weapon, forged by the dwarves with the Hammer of Kharas.
The weapon that could destroy the Queen and her army –
maybe the only weapon in the whole world that could do
the job.
Huma stepped to his right and touched the woman’s
shoulder, as if assuring himself that she was real flesh and
blood and not a mirage created by the enemy. She reached
up and took his hand in hers, turning her face, framed by
her silver hair, so that she could smile at him.
“We have her trapped now,” said the woman, her voice
quiet, almost soothing.
“Yes,” Huma agreed. “There is nowhere for the Dark
Queen to go now. Still . . .” He didn’t finish the sentence,
feeling an anxiety that he couldn’t place. It was almost as if
evil were radiating from the obelisk … as if the Dark Queen
had led them to the spot to be destroyed.
“It will soon be over,” she said, quietly, as if speaking
to herself. “All over.” She stared at Huma, her heart
pounding in her chest. Slowly, she reached out and touched
his bearded cheek with the tips of her fingers.