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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
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