Welcome back to a new Sweet Saturday Sample.
In the abyss between projects, I have started a short story, "The Sword of Korma Monroe." Loosely connected to my recently completed Duty, it depicts events many years before. It is written in the first person from Lord Dentin's perspective. I hope you enjoy it.
“Cursed rain!” Blair’s normally blotchy face deepened to almost purple as he screamed his anger at the sky.
A bolt of lightning washed the sky blinding white. Thunder answered, drowning out Blair’s tirade. Water poured upon our heads in great waves, miring the heavy wagon all the deeper in mud. At least the axle was still intact.
I turned my mount, prepared to redirect the men’s focus to wrestling the back wheels free, but their superior officer spoke first.
“Cease your bawling, soldier,” Major Dyrease’s cool tone cut through Blair’s bluster. “Save your breath and put that anger to the task.”
“You would curse too if you dealt with mud in your boots, sir.” The challenge in Blair’s words silenced the other men’s murmurings. Their attention shifted between soldier and officer and back.
The major dismounted. The mud swallowed his legs to the knee with a squelch. He tested the resistance and then waded through the muck to the back of the wagon. Setting his shoulder to the waterlogged wood, he readied himself to push. “Ready back here.” Dyrease called. The men resumed their places around him.
Blair sullenly returned to his place.
“On three.” Dyrease’s voice carried despite the rain.
“One.” The men tensed as one.
“Two.” They breathed deep.
“Three.” The air filled with chorus of guttural protests. Hardly music by the loosest definition, but the groan and creak of protest from the wagon’s axels as the heavy vehicle lumbered forward elicited a cheer.
“Keep those oxen moving.” The major’s voice cut through the celebration. “It isn’t free yet, men. See the task through.”
A few less strenuous heaves and the wagon found purchase on the ever worsening road and resumed its tortoise’s pace. The men scattered to reclaim their discarded gear.
“Finally on the move again, I see.” Simon Tarend’s smooth voice teased my ear.
Suppressing the inclination to shoo the man away like he was a gnat, I reminded myself he was a respected craftsman. He claimed he had an artist’s temperament, but I called it something else, whining. Ignoring the man, I kept my gaze on the men.
Did it hook you?
For more sweet samples, go to
Thank you for stopping by.