The field was blanketed in a blue fog, the pennants snapping slowly in the sullen breeze.  Shoulder to shoulder, the pike men stood, a line of leather and chain; staring faces of the young men bound to meet death on this field.

            Faolaen McLonain stared unblinking; his heart thudding heavily and his breath ragged and uneasy.  He felt the heavy burden of the patched leather and chain mail, his hands wet and slick on the worn wooden shaft of the pike. 

Somewhere off to his right, a knight shouted orders and encouragement; he heard none of it.  He knew that shortly, the only thing he would hear would be the screams of the dead and dying and he prayed they would not come from him.

            He shivered as a drop of moisture dripped from the conical helm and rolled down the back of his neck.  His fingers, gripping the shaft of the pike were blue from the cold and he worried that he would drop it unfeelingly in battle.  Instinctively, he loosened his grip and switched hands momentarily.

            A priest moved along the line, praying and offering communion to the men as they stood waiting to die.  As he approached Faolaen, the priest began to pray, and asked if the young man wanted to make confession.  Faolaen confessed to a few minor sins and was granted absolution, but the priest lingered. 

            “Lord God, bless this man.  Make him a weapon for Your Holy use on the field of battle; slaying the unholy barbarians and driving them from our home.”  Then the priest smiled and moved down the line.

            As the priest reached the end of the skirmish line, he spoke briefly to a mounted knight, nodding toward Faolaen.

            Suddenly, a horn blast from across the foggy expanse and then the disturbing sound of screaming men erupted as they broke into a run.  The knight shouted, “Charge” and the line of pike men began to move forward.