“Kip!” his wife called from the carriage.
“Don’t look back!” he started to cry but suddenly the wood of the carriage splintered as buckshot thudded into it, tearing back some of the cyan fabric. Kip looked over his shoulder and saw a squad of six privateers on horseback pounding towards them, one holding the blat gun that had been used to pepper the carriage.
“Stay with the convoy,” he ordered Talisker, before peeling away on his horse, pulling his spinners and rotating them hard. He felt the rhythm of the horse below him, and as he pitched upwards, he aimed low and fired at the privateer with the blat gun. One bullet blew out the man’s chest and he swung back in his saddle. Kip holstered the pistols and went for his sabre. The blade was halfway out of his scabbard when the privateers we
