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Author Topic: Twenty fifth wave.  (Read 1225 times)
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Oton
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« on: August 11, 2008, 15:56:53 PM »

'We are losing the right flank, Marshall', yelled the breathless captain. His forehead was bleeding from a deep wound, 'It will not last another charge!'
'Send half of the cavalry to support it', Oton ordered carelessly, looking at the sky.
"The vultures are already here. The will be the only ones fisting today."
'But that way they will be all stabbed on the pikes, My Lord! The enemy Phalanx is regrouping too quickly...'
'Do not stop the barrage. We need a little more time', the Butcher replied.
'Barrage them with what, Commander', the captain was trying to keep his voice down, 'The Imperian cavalry swept all our center! Half of the army is gone! Our own cavalry and parts from the two flanks are all that is left! In ten minutes they will be gone too. And the Imperian heavy infantry will scatter us!'
'The other half of the cavalry will encircle and push them up. You have your orders, Captain.'
The nomad officer clenched his teeth, took a deep breath and answered firmly:
'With all due respect... I refuse to send my people against an elite imperian guardians, Marshal! I suggest we retreat...'
He did not finished, because his head flew several yards up from his body and landed with muted rolling on the parched ground.
The Butcher pointed his blade at each of the rest of his commanders, looking them in their eyes, one by one.
'Will there be anybody else, suggesting a retreat?'
They were all silent.
'That's what I thought', Oton stated and poked his war horse, 'Cavalry - with me! Charge!'
And in the enemy camp Empress Isolde, personally leading the defending army, grinned, watching the galloping barbarian soldiers, led by the most disgusting fiend ever to be born in this world.
"You are way too transparent, Butcher!"
She raised her hand and ordered:
'Archers - to the front! Nail that nomad scum to the ground! The Phalanx in reserve will enclose them! I want the head of that abomination on a plate!'

Twenty fifth wave results:

Successful pillages: 2104
Defenders' victories: 504

Nomads killed: 28596098
Imperian soldiers killed: 5617326

Civilians killed or taken into slavery: 27398813

Oton succeeded in getting to the nomad camp, after a saran patrol had found him alone in a forest, eating grass and drinking rain water, gone mad.
His whole army had died, not in battle with the enemy, but to preserve his life.
Nobody survived.
He had taken an arrow in his left shoulder and in the stomach.
Wounds, of course, soon infected and bought a heavy fever with them, his left hand paralyzed.
He was lying in his bed, wrapped up in skins, still trembling. His lips were brutally cracked, bleeding.
He turned to his captive and looked at her for some time.
She had herself cleaned up, her bruises and wounds healing. Her face was becoming normal colored. And the hatred radiance in her eyes was replaced by contempt.
The blond bared her teeth"
'Does it hurt, Butcher? How do the defeat and humiliation taste? Where is that insolent and wild smile of yours now?'
"I do not know why, but the only thing that had kept me, was to return here, to you!"
The thought pierced his mind so quickly it was frightening. The fever was to be blamed. Obviously.
He reached for that thought, grabbed it and killed it, before it made him say it out loud.
'If you do no shut up, I will drag you out by your hair and slaughter you like a pig', he said and turned his back to her.
And on the other side of the camp... his biggest rival - Flinstoun - was preparing himself for a new attack.
With the Butcher out of the picture for quite some time... he would be the biggest fool in the world if he did not take an advantage from the situation.
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