Storm Surge

Storm Surge

Lyryk Starsong strummed the tune running through her mind as her horse shambled along the trade road behind the dusty caravan.

A storm comes, she heard in her mind.

She almost dropped the lute she was playing when she spied Biscuit, the giant dog who sometimes traveled with her since she washed ashore all those months ago. Lyryk hadn't seen him for weeks and had been melancholy since his departure.

"Hey, boy. Missed you."

I know. I guide you to safety. This track will soon be not safe.

"Then I shall follow your lead."

Biscuit led her west, toward an incline up which she had to dismount and guide her horse. She was glad she'd purchased the mare at the trading post. Times like this, though, reminded her that traveling afoot sometimes offered a greater variety of passage.

I sense shelter.

"Good, I'm ready for a break."

Half a hand later, Biscuit led them to a forest-shrouded ruin at the top of a steep hill. A sturdy wooden door led into a spacious barn filled with hay and straw in each stall. Lyryk found the well and carried several buckets of fresh water to the trough while her horse, Minerva, drank almost as fast as she filled.

"Slow down, you silly beast," she said to the mare. "You'll burst your belly!" Minerva threw her head back in disgust, gave Lyryk a chuff, and wandered off in search of hay.

Bard, follow.

Biscuit led her through a door in the back into a courtyard blooming with exotic plants. Trees she had never seen before created a thick forest of shrubbery that obscured the building into which he led her.

An ivy-covered arch led into a walled enclosure. Flowers covering every stem let off a fragrance Lyryk couldn't identify. One aroma caught her attention, but the whiff was so faint, and gone so quickly, that her mind couldn't identify it.

They went through a door into an opulent hall lined with suits of armor standing at attention, glaives, halberds, and spears at their sides. The hound led her through a Great Hall, up a set of curved stairs, and into a conservatory. Wind instruments, string instruments, and drums lined the walls. Some she had seen only in pictures when she had spent time at the bard's college a lifetime ago. She recognized the pipes, with the air bladders, and the shawm with its double reeds. Some she had never seen, like the giant viol that sat propped in a corner. She wondered what sound that monstrosity made.

Use care, Bard, came the voice of Biscuit, as she reached for the instrument. What you touch becomes yours. Only one may you have.

Lyryk pulled her hand back and looked around for a dulcimer, lyre, or lute. As she gazed upon each instrument, none called to her. Then a jaunty tune sprang into her mind, echoing what she had strummed earlier in the day. The sound was from no horn, pipe, or flute she had ever heard before. Rather, it sounded like all of them.

She closed her eyes and followed the upbeat melody around the room. The ditty grew louder as she reached the end of the wall of flutes. A contraption that looked like a combination of a flute with a metal horn, slightly curved at both ends, stood in front of her.

Without a conscious thought, her hand wrapped around the instrument. She brought the mouthpiece to her lips, wet the thin wood with her tongue, and blew a mournful note from the horn end. The sound startled her enough that her next note came out with a squeak.

We must return. The storm surge approaches. Hurry, we must be under shelter.

Urgency accompanied Biscuit's mind speech as he raced down the stairs and through the Great Hall. They burst into the courtyard as the smell of rain filled their senses. The first hard chunks of ice and rain spattered the walls as they reached the door to the stable.

Minerva greeted them as they entered, her eyes losing the wild stare of the frightened prey animal.

"I won't leave you," soothed Lyryk as she led the horse back to a stall.

When they settled, she examined the strange instrument that had chosen her. The mouthpiece looked almost like a shawm, only with a single piece of thin wood to vibrate. It curved down, then swept back up on itself, ending in what looked like a cornet horn. The holes opened and shut using a series of metal pads attached to a complex of rods.

She spent the next several hours feeling her way around the rich tones the instrument elicited.

Rest soon. The storm abates. Tomorrow you travel.

"Will I be late to Lady Pamila's party?"

Fear not, you will complete the contract.

Lyryk knew he would ensure her timely arrival. She lay down on the straw, Minerva at her back, Biscuit guarding the door.

The storm passed. It is safe, Biscuit's voice mind spoke to her hours later.

The path they had followed up was still visible as they wound their way down to the trade road. Not all the caravan masters had heeded the signs of the impending storm. They had suffered because of it. Those who hadn't paid attention showed signs of the damage caused by the surge.

The pair headed towards the city, on their way to Lyryk's next mission from the Spymaster: to uncover the dark secret of the Redthorne mansion.