shouting in his lines and the bowmen drew the strings of
their weapons back. As one, they let their arrows fly, a
black cloud of death that arced at the Queen’s waiting men,
slamming into their ranks. As the second volley was fired,
the pikemen began a slow advance on the enemy, their
shields held in front of them, the tips of their pikes pointed
at the Queen’s soldiers.
A shout seemed to rise from one-hundred-thousand
throats, a roar that came from both armies. The Dark
Queen, a beautiful woman dressed in black armor and
mounted on a black horse, waved her men forward. They
came on, running across the no-man’s land of dried, dead
grass, raising a cloud of dust that obscured them and the
obsidian obelisk behind them.
Like the sound of the sea smashing onto a beach, the
two armies collided. There was the ringing of metal against
metal and a grunting of effort as the men of both sides
fought with one another. Huma’s men momentarily
retreated under the heavy onslaught of the Dark Queen’s
men, but their line finally stabilized.
From his position on the hillside, Huma, astride the
silver dragon, could watch the fight. His men waded into
the conflict, their swords swinging, chopping at the enemy.
Men fell, wounded, screaming in pain and fright. Others
dropped, dead before they hit the ground. A few broke and
ran, but no one paid attention to them. Even as far from the
battle as he was, Huma could see the blood beginning to
flow. Puddles of it under the bodies. Streams of it began to
form rivers. The dust, churning under the feet of the men,
was suddenly wet with blood.
Huma’s men forced those of the Queen to retreat. As
their line collapsed and her men died, fresh soldiers forced
their way into the front ranks. Some, armed with maces,
tried to crush the skulls of the attackers. Others, using
spears and pikes, thrust into Huma’s forces, killing and
wounding.
The sight of the battle was almost too much for Huma to
bear. It had turned into the bloodiest, goriest affair he’d ever
been witness to, as the men killed and were killed. Huma
tore his eyes away, unable to stand the sight, but he could
still hear the sound of it. He could hear the grunts and cries
of the fighting men. Hear the ringing of the metal of their
weapons as they slammed into each other. Hear the screams
of agony of the wounded and the shrieks of pain from the
dying. He realized that there was no glory in war. There was
only the bloody and cruel deaths of brave fighting men.
Huma had not been cut out to be a leader. He hated
sitting safely on the hillside, watching the battle while his
men fought and died on the plain below him. But, from his
position, he could see all of it, could see how the Queen was
deploying her army and could counter it with his. He could
spot his weaknesses and strengthen them, and he could spot
hers to exploit them. Flanking him were the knights, the
flower of his army, waiting for their orders to attack.
It should have been a quick, easy victory. The Queen
had little left in the way of an army. Huma had pursued her
all summer, gaining strength as she lost it. He had pushed
her, he thought, across the dried plains until her back was
against the ominous obsidian obelisk. She lost men in every
skirmish. More men than Huma.
And with each loss, her supporters deserted her.
Sometimes, using her magic, or that of the black-robed
magic-users, she created illusions to frighten Huma’s men.
Once, believing they were being attacked by a race of tall,
raven-haired female warriors who didn’t know fear, Huma’s
men had turned and fled, leaving him alone astride his silver
dragon.
Huma had ridden forward, head bowed like a man in a
high wind, the dragonlance held point down. He had ridden
into the hordes of women, ridden unharmed through the
illusion of their arrows and the illusion of their swords. He
had ignored all that, attacking into the ranks of the black-