Pivot! Lock the vault!" Sol shouted.
PHEW! PHEW!
The sharp, high-pitched blare of the bone-whistles cut through the air. The rear row of the two hundred and sixty recruits skidded to a halt, their heavy boots tearing up chunks of wet dirt before they slammed the bottom rims of their shields deep into the mud with a definitive THUD.
The mud splattered across their shins, but they didn't flinch. In the exact same heartbeat, the front rows stepped sideways, sliding perfectly into the remaining gaps with a loud clatter of bone-on-bone, locking their gear together to form a solid, unbroken stone wall right on the marker line.
Sol stood right in the center of the locked vault, his arms crossed over his black Rockhorn carapace armor. He didn't offer a single word of praise. His silver-crimson eyes slowly tracked the precision of the movement.
