Dragonlance Tales, Vol. 3 – Love and War

And then, again, the sky closed over, the clouds boiled,

and the heavens flashed with their anger. Another new army

sprang from the remains of the old. Fresh men leaped to

fight the exhausted men that Huma had led to this spot. A

dozen, two, and then one-hundred more came at them,

rising from the bloody ground strewn with the bodies of the

slain. The Queen could call on this army, reinforcing it until

all of Huma’s men were dead.

These new soldiers moved forward with a fury that was

impossible to stop. They chopped their way through the

ranks of the pikemen, lopping heads from bodies and

crushing skulls with the detachment of men clearing vines

from a forest trail. The ground was slick with blood and

jellied brains.

Huma, seeing his army disintegrating around him, stood

his ground. His armor was slimy with the blood of those he

had killed. There were patches of splattered gray from the

brains of his victims. Sweat from the effort of the fight

soaked his underclothes. His feet were wet from standing

ankle-deep in the blood of those who had died in the battle.

But there was no more retreat. If the Queen won now,

she won for good because too much had happened. Too

many had already died. Their bodies were piled around him.

These were the men who had trusted him.

The Queen’s soldiers came at them with a renewed

vengeance. Huma held his ground for a moment, fighting

them. Slowly, as more of his men died, he was forced to

retreat, selling the bloody ground to the Queen at the high

price of the deaths of her own soldiers.

And then he was at the dragonlance, his back against it.

There was nowhere for him to go, nowhere for him to

retreat to. It was time to make his last stand, because to do

less would be a betrayal of the men who had ridden with

him. Arms shaking with fatigue, he swung his sword,

dripping with gore, and held the enemy at bay.

Two of the enemy came at him, one feinting to the left

and moving to the right. That man struck at the woman who

was busy fighting another adversary. Huma, sensing the

attack on her, dived between her and the man. The enemy’s

blade slammed into Huma’s armor near the shoulder,

cleaving it easily. Huma felt white-hot pain wash down his

side and into his chest as his blood spilled.

Huma held onto his sword with a super-human effort, and

swung it, catching the man in the side. There was a crunch

as the metal of the enemy’s armor caved in. Drawing on all

of his strength, Huma twisted his blade free. But the force

caused him to stumble. He went to one knee and began

toppling forward. His hand shot out and held him up. Out of

the comer of his eye, he saw his opponent raising his sword

above his head like an axe. Huma didn’t wait for the deadly

blade to fall; he rolled to his right, onto his wounded

shoulder, screaming in agony. At that same instant, he

thrust his own weapon upward into the stomach of the

Queen’s soldier.

The enemy took a staggering step forward and then

dropped his own blade behind his back. He reached with

both hands, touching the sword that extended from his

stomach. Clumsily, he sat down as blood dripped from his

mouth. He tried to grin, his teeth stained crimson, and then

toppled to his side with a bubbling croak.

Huma felt cool hands on him and turned. The woman

was crouched next to him, her silver hair splattered with

blood, her armor covered with it. She had removed her

helmet so that he could see her face. Without a word, she

helped Huma to his feet. He staggered back a step and

reached out, grabbing the dragonlance to steady himself. He

leaned on it, using it for support.

Around him were the tattered remains of his army. They

had trusted his judgment, and he had led them to

annihilation. They had followed him blindly, and he had

brought them to destruction. He was sick with the horror