The Heretic by David Drake, Tony Daniel

who was not that much older than Abel.
    Don’t think of rushing out there to drag him off, lad. You’ll just get yourself killed.
    Besides, he is already dead , Center intoned.
    Time to get into the brush and mount up.
    Abel went back into the thicket to find his dont, a creature he’d named Corie. His personal riding dont, Mot, was safely in a stable back at home. Mot was far too old and too much of a Valley-bred creature to be used for Scout work. Corie was patiently waiting, chewing on a needleplant.
    Check your carbine, lad, and have caps and cartridge limbered , said Raj. The blunderbuss dragon from your father, as well. Put it in your belt.
    Joab had insisted he carry a flintlock sidearm in addition to his military-issue rifle when he went on patrol and had given Abel his own old dragon, which had been in the family for generations. The dragon had seemed an encumbrance at times. It was singular among the Scouts, and it caused him to stand out as different among them—something he strove not to do—but now Abel was glad of having it. He checked that the dragon was at half-cock and the flashpan frizzle had not come loose and spilled his power. It had not. Then he stowed the pistol in his belt and took up his rifle, a shorter, carbine model of more modern vintage, and ran a finger down and felt the edge of the percussive cap where it covered the fire nipple leading to the barrel. Should I cock my rifle now? he asked.
    What, and tear the head off poor Corie with a misfire? answer Raj with a chuckle . Wait till you reach the wagons, then give it the flick.
    Abel spurred his dont and raced up and out of the brush. Then he turned the beast to the south to circle around the melee in front of him and get to the wagons if he could. He pushed his dont to her ultimate speed, and with only Abel’s light weight to support, she was soon up on her back feet and racing.
    The wagons loomed ahead. Abel fumbled for a moment, then managed to cock his rifle.
    He felt his finger snaking toward the trigger and consciously pulled it away. He’d been lectured time and again on the need to keep one’s finger out of the trigger guard until it was time to fire, but in the heat of the moment, he found it extraordinarily hard to do so.
    There were three carts with half a dozen occupants or attendants nearby. Two wore the billowy, multicolored patchwork pants and shirts of Redlander men. The others had the flowing white robes worn by the Blaskoye women. He’d heard tell that Blaskoye women were not only allowed to serve as muleskinners and drovers, but were actually the clan’s traders and merchants as well. Abel found this hard to believe, but Kruso and Sharplett had assured him it was so. In the Land, a female merchant would have been inconceivable.
    Just another way the Redlanders behave as complete heathens, Abel thought.
    Don’t be so sure, and don’t underestimate the does, lad. Might be your last thought.
    I think I can take a woman, at least.
    You must concentrate on the animals first, boy, said Raj sternly. At least one on each cart must be put out of commission to bring the wagons to a halt.
    The motley-clad driver of the first of the carts was armed, and he pointed a gun at Abel and fired. A flintlock. Even running at full tilt, Abel saw the flashpan ignite and the smoke rising. A whistling sound nearby.
    Was that a bullet?
    Aye, lad. Be glad about the ones you hear. It’s the ones you don’t hear that are the problem.
    He grew closer, closer—the driver with the rifle was attempting to reload by pouring powder out of a horn down the muzzle. Abel smiled and aimed the carbine at him.
    The move must have registered, for the driver suddenly gave up what he was doing and leapt behind the cart in blind panic.
    Abel adjusted his aim for one of the daks in the middle of the team.
    He pulled the trigger. Nothing happened.
    Damn it, bad cap or—
    Look down, lad.
    Abel did as instructed. His Scout tunic had wafted up and gotten between