Phalanx

They move in step, a living shield-wall of bone-guarded ogres, spears sharpened to death, shields scarred with old victories. The Phalanx of the Badlands form ranks in Gorgoth’s dust: heavy, steadfast, unmoving until the word to advance.
  When the enemy’s war-cry rolls down from the rocky ridges, the Phalanx braces—shoulders locked, spears leveled. Shields overlap in muddy rows, boots sinking into cracked earth. Arrows thud off hardened bone plates; blades glance uselessly off living walls. The front rank holds the line, the second rank presses forward, pushing until pressure becomes break.
  Among the Bone Ogres, the Phalanx is more than a formation: it’s doctrine. To break a Phalanx is to break the tribe’s backbone; to stand unbroken beside one is an honour few can keep when the clash rings out across the Badlands.