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. 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
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