on his massive spear tightened. The cessation of thumping was their final warning. With a brief pause, the loxodonts pierced the view of the Spartrakus Sea. “Now!” Rangthor shouted fiercely. Leaping from their spots, the spread phalanx began jumping from the middle of the lines to the sides. A trench in the phalanx lines split open in front of the loxodonts, the assorted warriors standing ready.
Watching the first loxodont run past, Rangthor leapt onto the moving legs of the second one. Warriors that had once stood in the middle of the phalanx’s lines followed suit, scaling the treacherous moving bodies and armor of the loxodonts as they charged down the open line of the phalanx.
Rangthor’s hands grabbed at the long leather straps, his body flailing with the loxodont as he used its armor to pull himself upward. He punched themahout, clasping the body’s armor and yanking the corpse free of the saddle.
Jostling about, Rangthor gripped whatever he could, hanging onto the saddle from its bow and cantle, keeping himself steady while struggling to seat himself properly. He barely noticed the whistles falling silent as the loxodont he rode raced out the back of the riverbed. Looking back at the Thermotylus Crag, Rangthor could see the long line of loxodonts barreling down the solitary open line of the phalanx with new riders taking to the saddles to steady the mounts.
Raising his voice triumphantly, Rangthor’s cheer resounded to each of the loxodonts as they corralled to a stop in the forest clearing several hundred yards away from the Crag. The uproar of cheers raised his fervor. Patting the head of the loxodontus he now rode, Rangthor soothed the animal happily. He looked up, eyeing each of the captured loxodonts and nodding to Státin Xan’ledo. “Státin, it looks like your mount’s tower is the least damaged.”
Státin looked over his shoulders, nodding with a heavy sigh, “Yes, nelledotor.”
“Secure that loxodont at camp, Státin. You’re Sethrin’s rider,” Rangthor ordered. Nodding with a sigh, Státin didn’t reply.
“We’ll give them extra fury for you, Státin!” Cytor Vrdat called out. The burly Warrior of the Purple Sun knew Státin did not want to be excused from combat, even if it was for the greater good. Státin raised an arm in a token show of thanks, cursing under his breath that he had secured the best mount and thus was no longer viable to stand with his brethren.
“Well, I’m sure Soladanly will be happy Státin’s got to hold watch near Sethrin rather than fight with us,” Elaisegen Ulafinal smirked. The Tither’rïan amazon thought for a moment of how happy her fellow amazon, Soladanly Gifemdal, would be to see Státin return alive. Were she not in the Tither’rïan Mountains so near birthing herself, Soladanly would be in the thick of peril as well.
“I’m sure he’s thinking the same thing, Elaisegen,” Toris Ine’kimy replied.
“Enough banter,” Rangthor called out. “Prepare to charge.”
Rod’ler looked up for Kyrrest’s signals. Omeip’s bow sat silent for the moment, the pair crouching behind their square shield as arrows thudded into the bronze and leather frame. The erratic jumble of voices he could hear over the Spartrakus Sea encouraged him. “Warriors! Spears to the ready!” Rod’ler shouted.
Bronze on bronze and the shifting of leather-covered limbs sounded down the gorge. Rod’ler raised his spear horizontally, poised with his large shield in front with his left. Slowly into view, Rod’ler noted the spear shafts and points of the phalanx lines behind him lowering. The widened space between the lines quickly closed up as the assorted army rushed to form the phalanx once more.
Down the center of the gorge, the phalanx still had its pathway devoid of soldiers, a deep gouge perilous to leave unattended. With a slight shift, spears angled into the pathway from over the shoulders of a sidewall of shields. Those soldiers at the path held their shields flush to protect the phalanx’s exposed flanks, their spears overlapping and sprouting out like a zipper of weaving pikes angled towards the sea.
The view of the sea was obstructed by the jumbling shapes of disorganized soldiers running at the phalanx in a frenzy. Their wicker shields wobbled and their spears bounced with each jostling step, closing the distance between the maw of the gorge and the first lines of the phalanx.
Rod’ler and his line stayed quiet, thrusting their spears at the last moment into the guts of the oncoming soldiers. The tribes’ smaller spears flailed about, bouncing from Rod’ler’s shield while the phalanxes’ spears tore through the ornate wicker armor as if it were cloth.
Wave after wailing wave of soldiers charged at the spliced phalanx, pushing the skewered bodies of the first dead forward while trying to puncture the front phalanx lines. The much larger spears of the Warriors of the Purple Sun jutted forward beyond the first phalanx line and reaching far into the oncoming charge.
Rod’ler disregarded the blood splattering on him, cranking his spear forwards and back like a piston, bathing the weapon in blood. At his flanks, Daextine Terrangol and Vaipal Perrecard grunted and thrust. Neither the Purple Sun’s own a’tetherok nor the amazonian warrior wasted a breath on talking. Almost machine-like, the entire phalanx drove their spears back and forth, finding the wicker shields easy to pierce.
Do’lath Ti’win broke the clamor with a loud shriek, a signal from above of the impending attack. Behind the harpy soared the others of the aerial offensive: Jal Lick’elorm and Ayndelgal Salkasas of the Tither’rïan amazons and Kanok Tekfin of the Purple Sun brought up Do’lath’s back, all four harpies holding the largest boulders they could in their clawed feet.
The three a’tetheroks behind had their wings spread wide to hold them aloft on the updrafts of the Crag. Yein Tilmesen flew at their point, with Ei’elm Validaly and Liarecem Brekriggen at the back in a triangle. The three held a net filled with bent metal shards, a hornet’s nest of caltrops.
The harpies’ glide down the gorge soon came to an end as they let fall the boulders they carried into the advancing army trying to permeate the pathway down the phalanx center. Losing altitude, they veered to the gorge’s edges, quickly moving along the Crag for more rocks to drop.
Yein led her triangle further, beating each of her four wings as hard as she could to stretch beyond the crevasse. With great relief, the a’tetherok amazon dropped her end of the net. The remaining pair held on tightly, allowing the caltrops to tumble free in a rain of twisted metal.
The calls of other harpies and a’tetheroks followed in much the same formations, showering the attacking soldiers with jagged metal and heavy rocks in aerial waves. The gliding attacks constantly fell on the heads of the Rygem’dor forces.
Henen Gurseifnfel noticed Kyrrest and Omeip still huddled behind their single shield. With a sharp whistle, the archer gave the signal to all behind to fire. The caracanrei stood up over her shield bearer, Loraust Rumoruord, letting fly her arrow as quickly as she could find a target. The chasm erupted in high shrieks as bolts shot down from either side of the gorge. Those amazons too far back to make direct shots held their bows ready. They could not aim up to gather distance without hitting the aerial convoy of harpies and a’tetheroks.
Austron Belongen, jitalonr of the Nepengal tribe, shouted, “Form ranks!” Waving his bronze sword in the air, he tried his best to solidify the jumble of disorganized soldiers into their own phalanx. Line after line of men sorted themselves into squares. “Forward!” Austron barked, spurring them on while waving for more to create phalanx lines in the jumbled confusion.
Looking forward, Austron’s face grimaced in disgust. Arms and bodies were flailing at the Purple Sun’s front line: he despised undisciplined ranks racing into battle so carelessly. Sneering, Austron watched and waited for the organized lines to make their way into the heart of the Purple Sun phalanx. Directing a newly formed phalanx, he ordered, “March up their exposed center!”
Like slow herds, each phalanx square marched somberly up the shoreline into the mouth of the gorge. Their feet dove into the sand, plodding towards the cries of men dying ahead. Pushed forward by the lines, men cried out in anguish as c
altrops bit through their leather-soled shoes. The spears of the approaching armies wobbled precariously as hobbling, pained soldiers marched on. Each stumble brought new pain as hands, knees, and shins were bitten by sand-covered metal. The phalanx lines pressed forward in a teetering approach, an unyielding living device forging ahead.
Wicker shields held painfully at the ready, spears as level as possible, the more organized phalanx squares pressed into the maelstrom of dying men. Almost hidden behind the lip of their shields, the phalanx front line rudely witnessed long spears breaking through their shields and puncturing their flesh.
The spears pulled back, yanking the gouged wicker shields from the soldiers’ hands before thrusting back into the pained front line. Again and again the longer spears sank deep into the Rygem’dor lines, gouts of crimson splattering about. The porcupine of spears sawed forward like a sewing machine, pounding into the tattered flesh of each soldier to get close. The phalanx squares pushed their lines hard, stumbling over the dying and dead, using their shields to force those in front into their death.
Seeking to puncture the phalanx, other tribesmen pressed into the zipper of spears, finding the overlapping crisscross of spear points