In The Wreckage: A Tale of Two Brothers by Simon J. Townley

said. Conall read her thoughts from the look in her eyes. She thought it was madness, to start a farm on soil shipped over the ocean. And she didn’t much believe him, either, as though she suspected he hid something, his real story still unspoken.  
    “We must go,” Erica Hudson whispered in Conall’s ear. She made her excuses, thanked the mayor for the food, but insisted she must look for supplies. “Can’t trust the sailors to buy food,” she said. “It’ll all be bacon, and not a shred of greens among it.”  
      They took one of the sailors with them as a guard, and toured the shops and market stalls of Bergen. Traders sold fresh fish, prawns and crabs, caught that day they claimed. Erica visited every flower stall, every trader with vegetables, anyone selling seeds or roots or saplings. “Botany is a study of mine,” she said as they walked from a stall, her arms laden with flowers.  
    They wound through side-streets as she continued to explore, until Conall realised they were a quarter of a mile or more from the quayside. The streets were narrower and more enclosed. He sensed something. They weren’t safe. He couldn’t say why. He’d seen nothing. But they were being watched. Followed. Stalked. He stopped, called out to Erica but she was too far ahead. The sailor looked back at him, read his expression and bellowed at the top of his voice. The captain’s wife turned, and the sailor gestured for her to stop, to come back to where they stood. He had his long knife in his hand as if ready to fight, and gestured to Conall to do the same.  
    “What did you see?” the sailor asked.  
    “Nothing. It’s just…”  
    “I know. I feel it too.” The sailor dropped the flowers he carried into the gutter and took the captain’s wife by the arm. “We have to leave,” he said.  
    At that moment a group of six men surrounded them, coming from different directions. They kept well back, not threatening directly, but watching, letting them know they were trapped.  
    The sailor swore. They’d have to fight, might die here. But Conall’s only thought was Rufus. Not his brother, his mother or father, or his duty to The Arkady . The only image in his mind was the dog, never knowing what happened, not understanding, pining for him, hoping he’d return one day, staring over the side of the ship in Heather’s arms, longing for Conall to come home.  
    The sailor had drawn his long sword, waving it threateningly in the air.  
    “Now boys, no need for that,” one of the men said. “Let us have the woman and you can go.”  
    Conall took the knife from his waist, held ready in his right hand. Could he use it? Stab a man with cold steel?  
    “Conall, no.” Erica put her hands on his shoulders protectively, as if he were a child. He shook her off instinctively, angry. Didn’t she understand? This was real. These men would take her. He’d fight, die here if it came to it rather than back down. It didn’t matter. When someone came at you, you stood up to them. It’s the way it was.  
    Conall glanced at the sailor. He held his sword lower, his body less tense. He was wavering, thinking about their offer.  
    “Run,” Erica whispered to Conall. “You’re too young. Get away.”
    “Keep back,” Conall shouted at the men. He shouted louder than needed. Loud enough to be heard half way across the town. A yell. “Keep back or we’ll fight,” he screamed. In his fear, his throat was tight, his voice the high-pitched screech of a boy, not the commanding bellow of a man that he’d intended. The men surrounding them laughed. He held a knife in his hands, an eight inch blade clean and sharp, ready to cut them. And they laughed.
    He had one thought then. Out here, in this town, somewhere, there was an inn. And Jonah Argent would be there with his men, with Faro, laughing and singing and drinking. Making too much noise. All the same, it was worth a try. He breathed deep into his belly and yelled as loud