Read Online Flight From Blithmore by Jacob Gowans - Free Book Online Page A

head on the open lid
of the abandoned coffer as the blade of the spade crashed down on his face and
knocked him unconscious.
    When
Brandol opened his eyes, he had no idea if he’d been out for seconds, minutes,
or hours. What he did know, however, was that his nose, forehead, and the back
of skull ached terribly. Water and mud drenched his clothes, the forgotten key
to the chest dug into his back, and he still had a shovel covering his face.
Slowly, he sat up, looked around, and remembered how he’d gotten in such a
messy predicament. He wiped his nose with his hand.
    “I
shouldn’ta done this,” he moaned when he saw the blood on his palms. Blood
always made his vision go red. “What’m I doing?”
    Getting
up proved difficult on the slick ground. He looked toward Lord Oslan’s manor,
then down at the shovel. The reddish-black world grew yellow spots, and Brandol
lost all heart. He closed his eyes and clutched his leg, feigning horrendous
pain. Leaving the shovel where it lay, he crawled back to the woodshop,
dragging his arms and knees through the mud and slick grass. He thought he
heard shouts coming from Oslan Manor behind him, but didn’t dare look back. He
slumped to the floor of the shop, wondering what to do next. When nothing came
to mind, he simply sat in his misery and watched the world turn more and more
colors. Would Maggie find him like this? He hoped not. Several minutes later,
the street door opened and Master Henry walked in, shaking the rain off his
cloak.
    He
saw Brandol’s state and asked, “What happened to you?”
    Brandol
ignored Henry’s question and explained as best he could in his current state of
distress about Isabelle, Lord Oslan, and the gold. Words never came easily for
him, but any distress made speaking much more difficult. Henry didn’t listen
long. As soon as he heard about Isabelle being dragged off, his expression
became furious and he ran through the side door. Brandol stayed on the floor
long after Henry had gone, trying to ignore the pain in his nose, waiting for
the bleeding to stem, and feeling absolutely worthless.

 
     
     
     
    Nine -
    The Fury of Lord Oslan
     
     
    Lord
Oslan’s key rattled in the lock before the door burst open. Isabelle
turned to look at her father. His face was red and puffy like a huge blister.
It gave his bared teeth an even yellower hue. His eyes blazed with the fires of
hell. For once, he paid no mind to the muddy spots on the floor. He walked over
to Lady Oslan’s fireplace, withdrew an iron poker, and advanced toward her.
    “Where
is the gold?” He punctuated each word by tapping the poker on the floor.
    Somehow,
her voice remained calm. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
    “M—Master.”
Isabelle heard Norbin’s exhausted voice at the stairs as he slowly climbed.
“Please . . . . You must come to your senses before something happens that you
will regret.”
    “Tell
me where it is, girl, or I’ll beat it out of you.”
    He
moved forward, brandishing the poker like a sword, and Isabelle knew she must
either confess or die. Her father had lost his reason, and Norbin could do
nothing to save her. She recoiled back, trying to sink herself into the wall,
and closed her eyes. She remembered her mother’s admonishment to not give in to
her father’s intimidation.
    Summoning
her strength, she raised her head and said, “Give me your best, Father!”
    “My
Lord,” Norbin cried as he appeared in the room, “Master Vestin is at the back
door. He appears intent on coming inside, and he is armed.”
    Lord
Oslan swung the poker savagely. Isabelle closed her eyes and braced herself.
The iron struck the wall right above Isabelle’s head, and sent pieces of stone
showering into her hair. Her father marched down the stairs, screaming and
cursing God and heaven.
    “I
told that fool of a boy I never wanted to see him again!”
    Isabelle
tried to get up and stop him, but her body was drained. A groan escaped her as
she slumped