Posting from Book 8 of The Academy of the Accord series this month.  Terhesh is a Wyverian, a race that looks rather like a human/dragon hybrid: they have wings, a tail, scales instead of skin, and talons on their toes.  He is roughly fifteen years old.

Picking up a few paragraphs from last week’s snippet. Radenth is being treated in the infirmary and Terhesh is trying to stay out of the way.  He has been talking to Brythel, the cadet that stood at his side earlier.

“Boys.”

Both of them were on their feet, Brythel in respect and Terhesh standing defensively in front of him, his eyes flaring as he faced another warrior, this one accompanied by a Master.

“It’s all right,” Brythel said, touching his shoulder.  “Terhesh, this is Marsden, the Commander of the garrison, and his wizard, Vinadi, our Headmaster.  Commander Marsden, Master Vinadi, this is Terhesh.”  He looked up at Marsden.  “He’s a Warder, sir.”

Marsden nodded.  “Welcome to the Academy of the Accord, son,” he said, extending his hand.  “And I want to apologize for your earlier reception.”

“Thank you, sir.  And it was no more than what I should have expected.”

“Maybe at Arcane,” Marsden said. “But not at Accord.  Rest assured, they will be dealt with.  That sort of behavior is not tolerated here.”

“It is not tolerated from apprentices, either,” Vinadi said.  He was a bit taller than Marsden, lean, with short sandy brown hair and blue eyes surrounded by smile lines, and Terhesh hesitantly accepted his outstretched hand: touching a Master was forbidden.  “I know that at Arcane they look down on the warriors, think of them as nothing more than hirelings, but that is not our way.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Marsden gave his upper arm a friendly squeeze.  “I’ll let you get settled,” he said.  “We’ll get a full report later after you’ve had some food and a chance to get your bearings.” 

“Bry,” Vinadi said.  “I believe I saw lights in the dining hall and smelled food.  Would you take Terhesh?”

“And tell Kord to save some for the rest of us,” Marsden growled.

Brythel grinned.  “Yes, sirs.”  He touched Terhesh’s arm. “Come on.”

Terhesh was lost in confusion. This was not what he had come to expect of humans. No one was calling him names or avoiding him, and everyone seemed friendly and accepting of him, as if it was the most natural thing in the world for a Wyverian to be among them.

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Posting from Book 8 of The Academy of the Accord series this month.  Terhesh is a Wyverian, a race that looks rather like a human/dragon hybrid: they have wings, a tail, scales instead of skin, and talons on their toes.  He is roughly fifteen years old.

Picking up from last week’s snippet.  Terhesh is surrounded by four cadets with drawn swords, and has drawn his own in response.

“What is going on here?”

A new voice cut through the night and all four cadets stepped back and came to attention as a tall bearded blond man approached them.  He wore the robes of a Master, but there was a sword at his hip and he moved with the sure easy grace of a warrior.  At his side was another cadet;  he was smaller than the others but he pushed through their ring to stand at Terhesh’s side, one hand resting casually on the hilt of his sword, his body relaxed and at ease, but poised and alert.

“Master Yhonshel,” one said.  “It was going to attack us.  You saw it, it drew its sword.”

“That’s enough.”

The cadets flinched at the anger in the man’s voice.  “D’temmar, report.”

“Sir.  We were on curfew patrol when we saw… this.”  The cadet gestured toward Terhesh and Radenth.  “They seemed to be struggling and then the warrior went down.  He appears weak, as if injured, but we don’t know what it did to him.”

Terhesh could see the Master’s jaw tighten in anger and he trembled, despair colder than the early spring night clutching him.  The cadet standing beside him touched his arm in gentle reassurance, and Terhesh looked at him, startled as much by the touch as by the feelings of protectiveness that swept through him, but the cadet’s gaze was focused on the Master he had come with, as if waiting for a cue.

“I said that was enough.”  The Master’s voice was sharp, but quiet.  “The four of you will wait here until Commander Marsden comes for you.  You will not move or speak until he does.”  One cadet opened his mouth to protest, but no sound came out.  Another tried to back away but found himself rooted to the spot.  “Be aware,” the Master continued, his voice deathly soft, “that your swords will likely be broken and the four of you confined to the stockade.”

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