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. He
stood upright, the pain in his shoulder and chest almost
forgotten. He stared at the obelisk. An evil black tower forty
feet tall, the top glowing with a golden, malevolent light. At
the base, the Queen, the second most beautiful woman he
had ever seen, was astride her horse, watching the
destruction of Huma's army. She had taken off her helmet
and held it tucked under her arm as she studied the progress
of the battle. She was grinning because Huma had fallen
into her trap.
He could stand the agony of losing no longer. The rage
burned in him like a blazing forest because there was
nothing more he could do. The battle was lost. The war was
lost. And his men had all died in vain. In desperation he
jerked the dragonlance free of the ground and aimed it at the
tower in a final gesture of defiance. No longer could he beat
the Queen. She had drawn him into the battle so that she
could destroy his army. She had won the battle, and with the
battle . . . the war.
With the strength that remained in him, Huma hurled
the lance at the tower. The motion dropped him to his
knees, shooting pain through his body. When he looked up,
he saw that the lance had buried itself in the obsidian of the
obelisk above the Queen's head
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