Chapter 55
Captain Dashwood, ears ringing, lungs full of sulphur, crawled to his knees.
He was not altogether a stranger to cannon fire, but seldom this close and never on a moving vehicle.
That he had already been low and flat had helped him avoid some of the concussion from the blast, but it was still disorienting.
Wiping his watering eyes, he caught sight of Sir Walter St Martin.
The man was unquestionably dead. The Iron Adder was designed to be lighter, more mobile and with less recoil than its predecessors.
But it was also not expected that the person firing it would be leaning against the back of it at the time.
The force of the impact had crushed the former knight’s chest, killing him instantly.
Glancing back, Dashwood hoped his compatriots had been luckier.
The smoke of the firing was clearing rapidly as the wagon sped onwards, and Dashwood was able to gather his bearings.
Torres and his shattered coach were falling behind, but Dashwood could see that the driver and messenger were in one piece and there was enough of the coach left to hope for the same for Hekili.
But he also recognised that they were swiftly moving out of sight.
He turned about, assessing his situation.
In front of him the wagon driver was frantically trying to keep control of the horses, but they seemed to have had some army experience, for the cannon shot had not wholly driven them wild.
Further ahead, on the back of the other coach, he saw a rear guard reloading.
Beside him, Lucy continued to move ahead, now gaining on the St Martins’ coach, her horses seemingly spurred on by the shock rather than scattered.
He took a breath of the now fresher air and stepped towards the driver, the only other person aboard.
He did not at all expect the figure that lurched up to attack him.
The guard who had been felled by Elsa’s crossbow bolt had not pulled out the offending shard and was looking to vent his pain and fury on the nearest target.
Dashwood had no time to draw his pistol before the man barrelled into him and they both fell onto the cluttered back of the wagon.
It was a frantic, artless brawl, the wagon bumping along the lane, floor scattered with bags, barrels and the body of Sir Walter St Martin.
Finding himself pinned, Dashwood covered up to defend himself from a series of angry blows before finally managing to get his foot up and kick the man back.
They both tumbled and Dashwood landed painfully on a box of supplies.
Gritting his teeth he rose slowly, catching sight of his opponent doing the same.
The wounded man seemed to be hefting an iron bar from the floor, and Dashwood glanced about for a weapon, finding none.
Only when he faced off against the man did he realise it was no mere iron bar but Hekili’s harpoon, wrenched from the wood, its jagged point now aimed towards Dashwood. This close, in the hand of a snarling man covered in blood, it looked like a murderously dangerous weapon.
Dashwood stepped back as the harpoon point was thrust at him.
From this range he might be able to draw his pistol and fire, but the odds were not in his favour.
Instead he moved about, trying to keep the cannon between the two of them.
It was not a large cannon, but it would limit the method of attack slightly, which he hoped would be enough.
He dodged a thrust, but it came too quickly for him to grab the weapon and disarm the man.
The second attack was a wild swing, which Dashwood ducked, the steel of the blade sparking over the iron of the cannon.
‘Stop!’ Dashwood yelled with all the urgency he could muster, but the man was beyond reason.
He swung again and Dashwood dodged aside, the weapons of different eras clashing against each other.
This time what Dashwood had feared came to pass.
One spark landed on the floor of the coach, already sprinkled with debris and powder.
It crackled once and Dashwood knew instantly that the man with the harpoon was no longer his most immediate threat.
To the surprise of his attacker, Dashwood turned his back and lurched for the front of the coach.
With his foot he kicked the quick-release joint, detaching the horses from the wagon.
With his hands he wrenched the reins from the unsuspecting driver.
Then he took a step and leaped with all his might towards the back of one of the horses.
He landed awkwardly, but clung for dear life to the harnesses, the already panicked animals now released and powering ahead, out of control.
The wagon driver, with no means to steer, pulled on his brake lever to slow the speeding cart. He did not see that the sparking gunpowder behind him was rapidly spreading over the surface of the coach. It was only a few seconds later that the flame reached the half-spilled barrel.
Dashwood saw a flash, the night road around him lit up, and an instant later he felt the force of the blast. The wagon became a blossom of smoke and fire, erupting outwards, illuminating all around.
A hail of wood, fire and iron ripped into the air, and the only existing Iron Adder was thrown some distance before shattering the trunk of a tree on impact.
He gripped the rigging tightly, feeling the force and the heat, but was thankfully far enough ahead that the shrapnel missed him and the animals.
For now the horses had the sense to stay with the path, which was of good fortune for they had now reached the coast and the road was narrowing.
If the horses lost their nerve and took a wild turn to the right, they would dive off the cliff, to the rocks far below, and they would take Captain James Dashwood with them.
Inch by inch he drew himself upwards until he was at least clear of their galloping legs.
Freed from the load of the wagon, the horses had gained ground with the St Martins’ coach now close.
He glanced to see his own horses beside, Lucy holding the reins and letting them run. They were near enough to lock eyes, but at these speeds there was little they could do for each other. Then he turned his eyes to the front as another mercenary emerged from the St Martins’ coach.