Syllon took a moment to catch his breath and drink some warm wine from his flask. He was in a little pocket a ways back from the front line. He had someone's red sash wrapped around his head; his morion was long lost. He had lost his helmet when he was struck in the head.
He was still dizzy when he moved too quickly, but that didn't happen often on this impossibly crowded and blood-soaked ground. He knew he'd come close to death when he'd been struck by a warhammer. He remembered a vision of blinding light and something about Galzar's Great Hall- but already the memory was fading. It was good; men weren't supposed to know their gods' will.
If the battle current hadn't passed away from him, he might have been trampled or had his throat slit by Sastragathi robbers or Harphaxi camp followers. Whether or not he had visited Galzar's Hall, he owed the War-god his life and he would make the proper sacrifices at the next temple he visited.
Once again Syllon began to move in the press of bodies. He realized the movement away from the frontline was like a slow river current; you could push against it, but it would still have its way. The entire Hostigi center was moving back up the hill, pressed upon the front and both sides by the Grand Host. The guns were silent; the smaller ones had been moved while the bigger ones were spiked or now in the hands of the godless Styphoni.
A few Hostigi had broken ranks and tried to run, but they were shot dead by their fellow soldiers. Better a bullet from a friendly gun than the agony of the red-hot branding iron of the Holy Investigation of Styphon's House. It wasn't just former Captain-General Harmakros' warning either; it was the stories everyone had heard from the refugees fleeing Beshta and Sashta that had convinced every man jack of the Hostigi Army that if they broke formation they would die-and die horribly. "No quarter, no mercy from Styphon's House!"
Galzar the Wargod and Judge, despite his vision, was not at Ardros Field today!
His arquebus was a memory, but Syllon carried a pistol he'd ripped out of the hands of a dead Harphaxi cavalryman. What he needed was a pike! He searched the battleground, careful to maintain his footing. The dead and the wounded covered the ground like rusty autumn leaves.
At last, he spotted an unbroken pike, dropped by one of the Nostori soldiers. He held the ash stock lovingly; it was as smooth as his wife's cheek.
Syllon raised the pike to high port and began to push his way to the front. Other pikemen in Nostori green and black saw him and followed his lead. A few musketeers dropped their muskets to pick up abandoned Harphaxi and Hostigi pikes.
One of the petty-captains took up the cry, "Hedgehog! Pikes forward!" Other captains joined the cry.
Soon the pikes reached the front of the battle-line, forming at first one thin rank, then two and suddenly three and four ranks. The arquebusiers and riflemen began to fill the files. A huge grin split Syllon's face. This was the natural order of warfare.
"Pikes down!"
A group of Harphaxi lobsters, in three-quarters armor, slowed as their horses fell back from the sudden forest of pikes. Several of them were shot out of their saddles by the riflemen in the files. Syllon pushed his pike head into the face of an unarmored horse, which reared up and threw an arquebusier off his saddle. After a short pause, the line started to fall back again, but this time it was at a measured cadence-the Styphoni press had relaxed.