The ripened crops were still in the fields, waiting to be harvested, though the first frosts had already appeared and geese and skylarks had begun their migratory flights to warmer climes. This part of western Semgallia comprised fertile lowlands watered by numerous lakes and rivers and was dotted with dozens of villages. Many of the male inhabitants of those villages now stood nervously in the shield wall, waiting for the enemy to arrive. They huddled together, the round wooden shields of the front rank overlapping to give the impression of an unbreakable wall. The morning was dull and cool; the air filled with mizzle that drifted down from the low-lying clouds above. The position of the Semgallian army was a good one, its right, ‘unshielded flank anchored on a wide, deep stream and its left resting against a thick wood of linden trees. White-robed pagan priests called Kriviai were going among the warriors to bless their weapons, calling upon Perkunas, the god of war, to infuse them with courage and reassure them that if they fell in battle their souls would enjoy everlasting bliss in the afterlife.
