The ride from RhyDin City to the Barony of Sainte-Ouen was not very long, especially not at a gallop, but to the young knight Roland Gravois it seemed to stretch on forever. War seemed upon the realm he had sworn to protect, to give his life for if necessary, and on his way out of the city he had met with Jack, Baron DeMuer's Aurkindar bodyguard, who had given him an 'intelligence' update on the mounting crisis.

It's true -- they've been raiding the roads in the edge-realm west of the Ostmore -- but now we're sure they've found the way into the realm. About two hundred by what we've heard, and one sighting by the River Sterling. They call themselves the Dream Horde... they follow a sort of shaman who's supposed to See realm-rifts. They're using muskets, but good muskets... enough to overwhelm Edgewood. Seems they want Esp?rance's silver...

The Dream Horde. Roland had heard stories from travelers passing through the Barony from the west, about the blind shamans who led vicious raiders on horseback from town to town, taking what they could carry and burning all the rest. The Noubretons, and the freed slaves who had settled in the Barony with them, and all the others had suffered so much already -- these raiders could not, would not be allowed to bring any harm to them.

Roland had no time to see VeeJay before he left in the middle of the night, and instead had a letter delivered to her that explained he would be away from RhyDin for a few days to deal with a minor conflict in the Barony. It was a little understated... but he could not bear to put the word war in that message. It would make her sick with worry, he felt certain.

There were still three hours until sunrise when he reached Grenmarsh Bend; he changed horses and learned that the Baronial Guard and volunteers from Noirmont and Esp?rance were on their way to join Armand's Rifles, a small but seasoned militia organized by the proprietor and Chief Councillor of Armand's Tavern. Volunteers and additional members of the Guard were on their way from Sainte-Ouen and Teobern, and his brethren in the Order apparently had something planned...

The Dream Horde, or this lesser army of the Horde, anyway, was camped five miles southwest of Esp?rance in the edge of the Ostmore. The hilly terrain would give them the element of surprise, but they would have to strike by seven a.m. or risk a large, experienced army better-prepared to face them.

He reached Armand's Tavern before five a.m. Armand, it is good to see you are ready, he said to the tall, balding, potbellied man cleaning a rifle before his tavern in their native Noubreton pidgin, as the knight himself dismounted. There were only forty men assembled, each with a horse and a rifle, and they looked nervous and uncertain, and very expectant at young Roland. It was briefly a terrifying moment for Roland, knowing they looked to him for leadership...

My men, they are ready to fight, Armand said, gesturing to his militia, and I think I speak also for the others here. What will you have us do?

Roland looked to his fellow knights, Jacques and Seamus, who nodded gravely to him. Then he called out to the men around him -- Which of you have .308-caliber rifles?

They shifted on their feet, looked around at each other, and then some raised their hands. Only fourteen... It would have to be enough.

Good. You will be under my direct command. Take five incendiary rounds apiece from Sir Jacques and Sir Seamus -- we will take the long road around their encampment and set up on the high ground to the northwest, and fire the first shots. Armand, take fifteen of your men, see to it they do not break free to the east -- Jacques, you are sergeant to the remaining men, set them up to the south and support Armand's Rifles. We will rout them to the west.

The assembled soldiers and volunteers grew solemn, all quiet and staring at their leader, Roland Gravois, Captain of the Order of Saint Ouen. We have all seen war before -- it has stolen our land and laid our lives to ruin. We have a new beginning here, a peace and prosperity, that no one, so help me Almighty God, will ever take from us by force! We will show the bastards the Barony of Sainte-Ouen will never fall!

They cheered, many raising their rifles, bellowing and whistling, and Roland, now very red in the face, moved to Seamus and Jacques to help organize the units and distribute the rounds.

"M'Lord Seer?" the large guard at the entrance to the Dream-Shaman's tent rumbled, cautious as ever to enter the blind man's abode. He was one of the Dream Horde's greatest and most seasoned warriors, thirty-four years of age, entrusted with the command of fifty muskets, and he cut an imposing figure at over six feet tall and nearly three wide at the shoulders, with a shaggy, wild mane of greying hair. Two wicked black hatchets and seven scalps hung from his belt, and his was among the finest muskets in the Horde, and he was a good shot with it... but the mysterious ways of their Lord and Guide, the Dream-Shaman, still frightened him.

The last lieutenant to cross him saw three death omens that day, and the warriors of the Horde were sure the Shaman had conjured them himself. The man was decapitated in a raid the following morning. Not a soul took it for coincidence.

"Steady, Bernard. Michelle, move two meters forward and stay there." Roland Gravois was crouched low on a tall, steep-sided hill overlooking the little vale the Dream Horde had picked for a camp. The horizon before them began to glow gold and orange, and he could hear the sounds of activity beginning in the camp below. He waved a hand twice over his shoulder, and everyone dropped -- then he crawled forward on his belly...

"M'Lord Seer," the guard repeated, and his master groggily replied, "Enter, child -- my body has rejoined my mind's waking..."

The man hesitated before stepping through the tent flaps. "It's nearly sunrise, M'Lord Seer, and we should catch the silver mines by surprise..."

"Yes, yes. Rouse the others. We shall attack soon." The Dream-Shaman's milky eyes opened and the guard felt certain he was staring at him, somehow... He bowed stiffly and made a hasty exit.

"They are waking up... We have to attack now." Roland squinted out over the vale past the camp with the initial stirrings of activity, and saw movement as the other groups settled into position. It was all about timing -- if they lingered too long before the attack, they might be spotted, and the ambush would be ruined... "...Fire."

* * *

The first volley created chaos in the Dream Horde's camp. A dozen tents rapidly erupted into flame, and there was barely time for them to roll out of bed when another dozen caught fire. One man, engulfed in flame, ran screaming away from the camp until he was gunned down, and the first several of the raiders to make a run for the horses now going wild suffered the same fate, cut down by rifle fire from every side, all firing downhill to avoid crossfire.

The alley of fire for each group of the Barony's soldiers and volunteers was limited, but together they easily covered the entire vale.

Sir Roland, to the south! one of the sharpshooters nearby cried, pointing towards Jacques' group - musketeers were rapidly assembling and returning fire, and Roland saw two of Jacques' men go down.

Save Sir Jacques! Roland bellowed, and after a few lingering shots towards the center of the camp, his sharpshooters turned on the musketeers to the south. They began to fall and retreat, but also turned their attention at last on Roland's little hill. Soon musketballs were whizzing their way, even as a number moved to retreat through the pass to the west. The thick smoke was a blessing in disguise for the Horde, allowing many to reach their horses unhindered and gallop away from the massacre, while others fled on foot.

All around the vale the Barony's soldiers edged in towards the burning camp, putting more pressure on the Horde. As the number fleeing built up, Armand's Rifles charged into the vale, and Roland thought he heard the whooping and warcries of Alain's horsemen on the other end of the pass as they picked off many who fled...

The shooter beside Roland rose to a crouch for a better angle and regretted it at once when a musketball struck him in the shin. He fell with a groan and was dragged back by his comrades, and Roland squinted through the smoke for the source. He made out the bright colors of the largest tent in the middle of the camp or what remained of it as flames consumed it, and two men on horseback to either side of a third, bald and dressed in strange layered robes, waving his staff and barking orders. One of the guards pointed out Roland's hill to the other, and they fired shots, and Roland returned fire, catching one in the skull and toppling him. The robed figure broke free of Armand's charge, and looked ready to charge through Alain's men coming into the pass, followed at twenty yards by his guard...

Roland shouted in the confusing din at Bernard to hold the hill and then turned to race, nearly tumble, down the steep southern slope towards a confusing rabble of fighting and fleeing horsemen. Halfway down he saw the Dream-Shaman race past, and a musketball tore through the edge of his left arm. He groaned as he dropped his rifle, stumbling, the pain nearly blinding his sense, but he remained focused and leapt into the guard on the horse that followed, knocking him from his mount and tumbling to the ground. The guard kicked Roland off to the side and went for his sabre, but the knight fired his pistol twice into the man's belly, and not bothering to even wait for him to collapse, scrambled to his feet to catch and mount his horse.

He was not bleeding as badly as he thought, he had a chance to see, as he galloped away through the battle and gunsmoke, keeping low to keep from getting shot (again), and broke out onto the main road away from the Barony after the Dream-Shaman. Roland proved the better rider, closing the distance, and the Horde leader did not realize he was being followed until it was too late.

He wheeled around to face the knight with fire in the blind eyes and raised his staff, sending out a bright white blast towards Roland, who leaned hard to the right to avoid it, sending his horse nearly into a frenzy; but he kept control and galloped on, and when the blind man raised his staff again, Roland raised his sword, swung it once over his head, and brought it around in a mighty arc.

Whiff! The blade went through neck and bone like warm butter, and the Dream Shaman's head toppled off down the side of the road, and his body fell sideways off the horse. The fury of battle did not leave Roland with that stroke, and he leaned down low to scoop up the head as he passed it and return to the vale.

The last of the Horde's horsemen that had not escaped were attempting to edge away from the pass and regroup, trying to fight the Barony's guns in close quarters with their blades, but when Roland galloped their way, holding their leader's head aloft, they broke rank and fled.

So ended the Barony's first war, with seven of their own wounded, and nineteen of the Horde dead.