Dragonlance Tales, Vol. 3 – Love and War

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-

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