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The support vehicles, ox carts and wagons, the support
men - those who made the weapons, the squires who aspired
to be knights, the grooms, and the drivers - stood in the rear,
sweating in the hot sun and watching everything, wishing
that they could somehow get into the battle.
Near them was the makeshift band. Pipes and drums
and flutes that could stir the men with their melodies and
inspire them to greater efforts. They choked on the dust that
stuck in their throats. Wiped the sweat from their faces as
they waited for someone to do something. Waited for Huma
to order them forward.
The silver dragon that Huma rode was gone suddenly,
and standing next to him was a tall, slender woman with a
mane of silver hair. She wore a breastplate of green armor,
molded to her, a short, leather skirt, and shin guards that
matched the green of her breastplate. In her right hand - a
delicate, thin-boned hand with long, slender fingers - she
held the hilt of a jeweled broadsword, the silver tip stuck in
the dust at her feet. There was a look of grim determination
on her face, because she knew what this event meant. She
knew what the outcome of the battle had to be, and knew
the cost to her and to Huma
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