Cogswell, beside Watson with the wrist radio, said excitedly, "Here comes a cavalry charge, Barry. Reif says right behind it the nomad infantry is coming in." Cogswell cleared his throat. "All of them."
Watson held up a hand in signal to his officers. The phalanx ground to a halt, received the charge on the hedge of sarissas. The enemy cavalry wheeled and attempted to retreat to the flanks but were caught in a bloody confusion by the pressure of their own advancing infantry.
Cogswell, his ear to the radio, said, "Their main body of horse is hitting our right flank." He wet his lips. "We're outnumbered there something like ten to one. At least ten to one."
"They've got to hold," Watson said. "Tell Reif and Chessman that flank has to hold."
The enemy infantrymen in their hundreds of thousands hit the Tulan line in a clash of deafening military thunder. Barry Watson resumed his pacing. He signaled to the drummers who beat out another march. The phalanx moved forward slowly, and slowly went into an echelon formation, each division slightly ahead of the one following. Of necessity, the straight lines of the nomad and rebel front had to break.
The drums went boom, ah, boom, ah, boom, ah, boom.
The Tulan phalanx moved slowly, obliquely across the valley. The hedge of spears ruthlessly pressed the mass of enemy infantry before them.
The sergeants paced behind, shouting over the din. "Dress it up. You there, you've been hit, fall out to the rear."
"I'm all right," the wounded spearman snarled, battle lust in his voice.
"Fall out, I said," the sergeant roared. "You there, take his place."