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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
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