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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
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
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