Men fell, shot through, and others stepped up from behind them. The gaps were filled, the line remained unbroken. Ahead, the enemy spearmen had donned their shields and were standing with spears levelled.
“Advance!” Jason shouted, and up and down the line the Centurions took up the call. In front and rear of the line the experienced file leaders and closers led the way or shoved on the backs of those before them. The line shunted into motion. The Paean, which had died away, now began again. One of Gasca’s sandals was sucked off by the churned mud of the riverbank but he never paused, grinding forwards with the shield of the man behind him occasionally dunting him in the back, stepping on the heels of the man in front, fighting to keep his spear upright in the press and the wicked sauroter-spike from slashing his lower legs. So busy was he with these tasks, and so utterly exhausted by the struggle in the river, that he had not a moment to feel fear. Merely advancing took up all his energies, mental and physical. Around him, that sea of men and metal marched with the remorseless efficiency of some great machine, but on the level of the individual spearmen there was only the treacherous sucking of the mud underfoot, the shoving of neighbours, and the blinding sweat trickling down in the confines of the bronze helm. When the Macht battle line finally struck the Kufr defenders there was nothing that registered with Gasca, save the fact that they had halted at last. The man behind him leant into his back with his shield and said, “Push.” So he did so. Up ahead, in the leading ranks, he could see the levelled spears going in and out, stabbing at the Kefren ranks. The Macht were shorter than their enemies, but more heavily built. They shoved the enemy line asunder through sheer brute strength, and as the line splintered and gaps appeared, so the wicked aichmes licked out. There was no extravagance to the fighting; no glory, Gasca realised. These men were doing their job. They were at work. They did not raise battle-cries, or scream curses. They pushed with their comrades, they looked for openings, and they stabbed out with a swift, economic energy, like herons seeking minnows. The Kefren were shouting and snarling and trying to beat down the Macht shields, but their impetuosity fragmented their own line. One of their champions would physically batter down a Macht warrior’s shield, but as the Kufr then raised his spear to strike, three Macht aichme would riddle him.
The Kefren could not match this remorseless efficiency. At first in pockets, then in struggling masses, they began to turn away from the Macht line and drop their shields in a frenzied panic. The Macht spearheads killed most of those in the first two ranks who did this, but those farther back were getting away. And now a great animal growl seemed to go up in the phalanx, as the tide of battle turned. The line surged forward, but still men kept within the shadow of their neighbour’s shield, and the centurions could be heard shouting, “Hold your line!” Someone struck up the Paean again, and the hymn steadied them. They began to advance, dressing their gaps and putting their feet in step with scarcely a conscious effort. They stepped over corpses uncounted. Up in the front ranks the best killers in the army were still at their work, cutting down the hindmost of the fleeing foe.
It is over, Gasca realised. This thing is won. I have been in my first battle and I am alive, and I am not disgraced. A wave of cool relief washed over him. He felt lighter, and yet weak as a half-drowned pup. His spear was unbloodied, but that did not matter. He had gone into the othismos, the heart of battle, with the rest of the veterans and had come out alongside them with his shield still on his arm.
The Kefren army abandoned its baggage and became a hunted mob of individuals, all order lost as the line shattered and the Kufr looked to their own lives, tossing away anything that might slow down their flight. The Macht heavy infantry stood down and opened ranks. Through the gaps came the skirmishers, the light troops who were fleet as deer and who would complete the destruction of the enemy army. Gasca saw Rictus at the forefront of these wild, hallooing fiends, but to his friend he was just one more anonymous, helmed spearman, and his triumphant greeting was drowned out by the general cacophony. The skirmishers coursed after the retreating Kefren like a pack of hounds and began stabbing these tired warriors in the back as they caught up with them. They generally worked in groups of four: fists, they were called, and while the fleetest member of the fist would trip up their quarry, the rest would pounce on him and cut him into quivering meat. Then they would move on. Mercenaries did not loot the dead while the enemy was still on the field, and in general did not pursue their foe to the death; it was foolish, dangerous, and uneconomical. But they were not fighting in some inter-city battle of the Harukush now, and Phiron wanted to set an example. So he had loosed his Hounds with orders to slaughter every Kufr on the eastern bank who fell into their hands. And the bloody business was thus scattered over the plain to the east of the Abekai River, and carried on to the very surrounds of Tal Byrna itself. The gates of the city were shut in panic, cutting off a mass of the Kefren soldiery who had marched out the day before. The last remnants of this army had their throats cut within sight of the city walls.