that was unfolding around him. But he was powerless to
change it. Powerless to stop the carnage. He leaned on the
lance and stared at the battlefield. Stared at the dead men
lying on it and at the soldiers who still fought on it. The sun,
touching the horizon, threw a blood-red glow over the plain
that seemed fitting.
Pockets of fighting surrounded the obelisk, but it was
clear that the Queen had the upper hand now. Around Huma
were the hacked-up bodies of his own dead soldiers. Bodies
missing hands and arms and feet and legs. There were
bodies without heads and bodies that were little more than
chopped-up trunks. Under them, the ground was covered
with a thick layer of bloody mud.
The din of battle had dropped off as Huma’s men died.
He could hear the shouting of his knights, calling
encouragement to one another as the Queen’s soldiers
slowly cut them to ribbons. They were brave men dying
bravely in a losing cause. Brave men who wouldn’t give up
until they were all dead. Brave men who believed that
Huma would still, somehow, lead them to victory. Brave
men who believed that their loss was their own fault. They
hadn’t given enough of themselves to win the battle or the
war. They believed their sacrifice was somehow less than
worthy, so they were not destined to win.
Huma felt the frustration and rage bum through him. It
was he who was the failure. If he had been smart enough or
strong enough, they would have won. If they failed, it was
his fault because his men gave all that they had in them. He
stood upright, the pain in his shoulder and chest almost
forgotten. He stared at the obelisk. An evil black tower forty
feet tall, the top glowing with a golden, malevolent light. At
the base, the Queen, the second most beautiful woman he
had ever seen, was astride her horse, watching the
destruction of Huma’s army. She had taken off her helmet
and held it tucked under her arm as she studied the progress
of the battle. She was grinning because Huma had fallen
into her trap.
He could stand the agony of losing no longer. The rage
burned in him like a blazing forest because there was
nothing more he could do. The battle was lost. The war was
lost. And his men had all died in vain. In desperation he
jerked the dragonlance free of the ground and aimed it at the
tower in a final gesture of defiance. No longer could he beat
the Queen. She had drawn him into the battle so that she
could destroy his army. She had won the battle, and with the
battle . . . the war.
With the strength that remained in him, Huma hurled
the lance at the tower. The motion dropped him to his
knees, shooting pain through his body. When he looked up,
he saw that the lance had buried itself in the obsidian of the
obelisk above the Queen’s head. The lance, forged over the
fires of dwarves, forged with the Hammer of Kharas by
dwarves, was more than an ordinary weapon. It had a
strength of its own. Designed to kill dragons, it held an
internal power that was now directed against the obelisk. A
power that could destroy the largest of monsters. A power
that was stronger than that of the Dark Queen.
Huma grinned then and saw that the glow had faded
from the top of the obelisk. There was a rumbling in the
ground, as if the tower were trying to shake the lance from
its side like an animal chewing at an arrow in its flank.
Cracks, bathed in a cold, blue light appeared, radiating
outward from the point where the lance was buried in the
obsidian surface. There was a roaring, like a gale through
trees, as the cracks expanded up and down the side of the
obelisk from the top to the bottom.
The Queen turned, saw the damage, and knew what it
meant. She knew that the source of her sudden power, of
her impossible victory, was being destroyed. She screamed,
“Nol NO! It’s too late!”