Our priest spits at the naked druids dancing in front of the Saxon line. These men have no fear as it is considered the worst omen to kill a holy man. They have painted their bodies with blue woad and their hair stands in strange spikes, hardened by dung. They hop on one foot and scream their incantations while making profane gestures. The true Christians in our line are bored by their antics, but the old believers worry their curses may have effect. I am in the center of the shield wall, the place of first attack. It is a place of honor and only war-hardened soldiers hold this position. We have fought many hard years to drive the Saxons back, and most believe this will be the last great battle. The one that will finally drive them off our lands. Their druids are finished cursing and draw behind enemy lines as their commander paces on his horse in front of his troops rallying them for the moment of attack. I feel my brethren tense even as I am aware of holding my breath. This is it.