For a moment, no one moved. The battle had slowed
and stopped during the aerial display. Both sides regrouped.
Now, without a command from their Queen, the black
soldiers advanced, slowly at first, their weapons thrust out
before them, forming a deadly steel wall. Huma, forcing the
thoughts of his love from his mind, grinned at them in
defiance, and his army spread out all around him, waiting.
One man leaped forward, landing directly in front of
Huma. The man swung his sword in a wide arc, trying to
lop Huma’s head from his shoulders. Huma countered by
shifting his weight and his sword, blocking the blow. As he
did, he twisted his weapon down, forcing the point of the
enemy’s blade to the ground. When it hit the dirt, Huma
stomped on it, shattering the blade like glass. He then
swung upward, his weapon knifing through his enemy’s
breastplate easily, slicing into the soft flesh beneath it with
the sound of ripping silk.
The man dropped his sword and grabbed at his stomach,
shrieking with pain as he tried to keep his entrails from
spilling to the bloody ground. He fell to his knees, his eyes
on Huma as he pawed at his intestines, futilely trying to
stuff them back into the gaping wound. Then his eyes rolled
up into his head and he collapsed on the steaming mass with
a whimper.
Almost as if the man’s gory death signaled the
beginning of a new battle, the black soldiers surged
forward, engaging Huma’s troops. The ringing of the metal
rose again, along with the shouts and grunts and curses of
fighting men. The noise increased until it was a din,
overpowering all other sound.
Huma pushed his way forward, swinging with his own
weapon, cutting into the Queen’s forces. Slashing at them,
hacking at them, he pressed on, the woman with the silver
hair at his side. A huge soldier, his black breastplate slick
with the blood of others, thrust a sword at Huma. Using his
own weapon, Huma blocked the blow, leaped back, and
waited. The soldier advanced, swinging his blade, grunting
with the effort. Huma ducked under the blow and, holding
his sword in both hands, ripped upward.
The enemy danced to the right, away from the thrust,
and came back with one of his own. Huma parried, forcing
the blade away from him, and stepped in. With his elbow,
he smashed the soldier’s jaw with a splintering of bone and
teeth. Blood splashed down the front of his armor, but the
man ignored it, fighting to keep his balance. He threw an
arm out as Huma struck again, severing the limb at the
shoulder. A gout of blood washed to the ground. The man
roared in pain and fear and anger, but he held onto his
weapon with his remaining hand.
Huma stared into the soldier’s eyes, seeing the fear
clouded in them. The man wanted to retreat but could not.
Instead, he attacked with renewed fury, swearing at the top
of his voice. But the attack was short as the man, weakened
by the loss of blood, almost fell, tripping on his own feet.
Huma dodged to his right, almost colliding with the
woman. He turned as the enemy soldier slipped and fell on
his side, shrieking with pain. The soldier lost his grip on the
sword. With his remaining hand, he clawed at the muddy,
bloody ground. Rolling to his back, he stripped the helmet
from his head, tossing it to the side. Huma was shocked by
the youth in that face. His opponent was a young man who
couldn’t even grow a beard or a proper moustache; he’d had
no chance to live. Now his skin was waxy and unnatural-
looking, as the last of his blood pumped itself onto the
ground. The young man died, a scream bubbling on his
crimson-stained lips.
All around Huma the battle continued to rage. Men
hammered each other to the ground, caving in heads and
hacking limbs from bodies. Men shouted and screamed and
fought. Even the reinforcements the Queen had found in the
obelisk were not enough to save her. Slowly, her army
shrank as her soldiers died.