Twenty eighth wave.

[Oton]

The Nomad Horde Chieftain Xaoc, called by everyone Steppe Wolf, bit the land of Imperia by its throat, tearing it up.
This time the elite imperian armies faced a fearsome foe they had never seen before.
Xaoc arranged his armies with precision, attacking all main imperian Fortresses simultaneously, effectively cutting off all retreat routes. He did not care about the civil population, he wanted to "catch" in his claws as many royal armies as possible. That is why he brought all available siege machines with him. The Emperors took the bait, and, overconfident in their guardians' might, faced him in field battles.
Only to soak the ground with the blood of their soldiers.
The elite imperian guard clashed against a worthy enemy in the face of Mongols. Though the dreadful nomad infantry had not surpassed the imperians by strength or skills, it was more than enough to equal the balance in the center of the front line. The Guardians were pulled to deep. Too deep. And that fact unleashed the heavy steppe cavalry.
Which was unstoppable. The maneuver, call "The Anvil", was invented by Xaoc himself. The fearsome nomad Chieftain was famous in using it, "catching" many enemy armies that way. Too many rulers felt his military genius on their backs the hard way.
Millions of imperian soldiers fell today, because their commanders underestimated the small at first glance, but extremely well arranged nomad army Xaoc offered them on the battlefield.
The blow was lightning and merciless. The Steppe Wolf destroyed nearly two thirds of all imperian armies and after that... the strongholds they were defending... soon followed suit. They all simply... disappeared.
There were few royal victories. Too few.
The ray of hope, which had appeared after the glorious victories over his Marshalls, was totally faded out by the brilliant Chieftain.


Xaoc slowly started to cover the free lends with the darkness of despair.
"The age of Imperians is over. The age of the Steppe Sons has come", Xaoc thought, while receiving the reports from other battles.
He was holding the land of Imperia in his fist.
And he was the one to decide its fate and future.

Twenty eighth wave results:

Imperian Fortresses destroyed: 1478
Defenders' victories: 147

Nomads killed: 6674170
Imperian soldiers killed: 5662983

The pain was unbearable. Universal. It could be felt with every piece of Flinstoun's entity.
The places where the back skin was sawed again were swelled and covered with grotesque blisters. The Wild one, during the few moments in which his mind could go through the fog of pain, was wondering how is he still alive.
"I doubt I will last any longer."
In fact, he did not want to last too long. He simply... wanted to die already.
Something touched his lips.
Wine.
He opened them and eagerly drank. And again. And again.
'Not all of it, Marshal. You will faint. Let the wine have its effect.'
He recognized the voice immediately. It was not possible.
He managed to open one of his eyes... just to see Oton's cold gaze.
Despite the hellish pain Flinstoun burnt with fury.
'You were the one who betrayed me, you cold-blooded snake', he wheezed and cough.
Instead of reply the Butcher put the wine to his lips again.
'There are some herbs in the wine which will stop the pain for several hours. The Black Marshal, despite having his brown-skinned savages die by millions, turned out to be a healer as well.'
Flinstoun drank again and looked into his greatest rival's eyes again.
'Why?'
'I think you have other thing to think about. For example - what will you explain to Xaoc', the bloody commander replied and closed the bowl to his lips third time, 'Enough. If you drink a little more, the Chieftain will sense you are drugged and then... we will all hang on this damned tree right beside you.'
Oton spilled the rest of the wine on the ground and hid the bowl in a sack.
Then he suddenly grabbed Flinstoun by his jaws.
'Do not fall asleep', he said through his teeth, 'I do not need you dead or humiliated. How will I know who I am and where I stand in this world if I do not have anyone to hate and to be a rival with?'
The Butcher turned and headed to his tent, wide pacing.
The last thing Wild one saw, before the drugs made him faint, was Oton's right arm. It was cut off three fingers above the elbow.