Year Seven

By L. A. Tollbeck

Corin was the last to expect an acceptance letter from a prestigious magical university. After all, he'd never cast a spell before in his life! But when the invitation arrives, he is thrust headfirst into a world he knows nothing about.

If that wasn't enough pressure, he is confronted by a strange visitor from the future. They warn him about an upcoming battle with the magical tax-evader-turned-terrorist, Walden. His new mysterious acquaintance wants to help their classmates survive and avoid repeating the school year once again. With Corin's magical ineptitude, failure may not be an option.

The year brings nothing but more questions. How can they take down this powerful wizard? Will Corin find love? Can they find a way to survive where they had failed six times before? Will King Charles VIII University of Sorcery be their grave? They'll have to get creative if they want to survive.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Fulton Books, Inc.
• Release date: Nov 20, 2023
• ISBN: 9798887318011

Book preview

Table of Contents

Title

Copyright

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

About the Author

cover.jpg

Year Seven

L. A. Tollbeck

Copyright © 2023 L. A. Tollbeck

All rights reserved

First Edition

Fulton Books

Meadville, PA

Published by Fulton Books 2023

ISBN 979-8-88731-800-4 (paperback)

ISBN 979-8-88731-801-1 (digital)

Printed in the United States of America

Chapter 1

A gentle wave of early autumn chill passed on the breeze, stirring the trees and flower beds. Otherwise, it was a most comfortable Tuesday morning in the park. Beams of sunshine bathed the dwarven stonework in the center of the serene village, giving even the dull grays a sparkle of life. This park had long been a gathering spot for the townsfolk. It was ringed on all sides by restaurants, and the wonderful smells of bistros and bakeries wafted in on the breeze. Private gardens for these businesses stood side by side with beds of hedges and flowers kept up by hobbyists and Good Samaritans. Ancient trees around the rocky walls sported leaves with vibrant hues of green, but it wouldn't be long before they faded to beautiful reds and yellows, then fell to add their own colors to the walkways. Brick houses with slate roofs lined the streets surrounding the park, which a small cluster of determined joggers now circled for the umpteenth time.

A stout, grumpy-looking old man sat on one of the stonework park benches, his eyes roving around behind large spectacles. His attention was divided between the joggers passing by, the newspaper in his lap, and the stream of idle gossip emanating from an equally ancient man seated to his right. His friend was grinning broadly as he spoke, animatedly waving the gnarled hands which marked him a skilled craftsman. Both were incredibly short—barely approaching four feet in height. Their hair was long enough that it was braided into their fully gray beards, which in turn hung down to their rotund waistlines. There were minimal distinctions between the two. The grumpy man's beard had been worked into a plated braid, and he sipped on coffee while his companion sported a bulbous red nose with several broken veins. The grinning man's conversation slacked for just a moment as he fought the chill of the morning away with a swig of something pungent from his silver flask.

Don't perpetuate the stereotype, chided the grumpy old man. Imagine what an elf would think, walking past and seeing you sucking down spirits at eight in the morning.

We're dwarves, Jett. Dwarves drink, scoffed the second, but he quickly slipped the flask into his pocket as he spoke. If any knife-eared fool wants to judge me for acting like a stereotype, they'll learn. They ought to remember the stereotype that dwarves learn how to brawl before they learn to walk. See an elf pipe up at me.

He made a haughty imitation of elven chiding, exaggerating a lisp to imitate the sibilant elven language. The two old dwarves had been in this routine for a few years now. After finishing their slow morning walk around the park, they would sit at this same bench to read the paper. Both were well over four hundred years old, which was ancient even by the long life span of their race. The two tacitly understood that these were their final years, and they'd formed a friendship fueled with the stories of nearly a millennium of fascinating misadventures. Between their shared love of politics, stonework, food, drink, and gossip, they never lacked for conversation. The two did just about everything together, slowly adopting similar styles and even taking on one another's mannerisms.

Jett was already thinking ahead to when the duo would walk down the road to their favorite breakfast spot. He'd woken up feeling more hungry than usual and was looking forward to the warm and comfortable diner with the exceptionally strong coffee. They would soon be playing checkers or cards, with Petre barely paying attention as they swapped wildly exaggerated stories of their youthful exploits. The gnomish waiter would be working, and they'd pass on wisdom to the young one between massive bites of the diner's famous double-thick buttery pancakes. His stomach rumbled just thinking about it, but a section of the newspaper caught his attention.

Petre, tell me you've seen this newest bulletin on Walden, Jett grumbled, flicking his gnarled finger against a page of the paper. They don't come out and say it's him in the article, but there's only one man going around killing folks like that.

Petre held the frame of glasses as he read through the article. He squinted at the small print, mouthing some of the words to himself.

It must be him, yep, Petre agreed. By the mother. How many folks do you think he's killed since this started? The last official numbers were a few weeks ago, and even then they showed he's massacred scores, right? That's only counting up the public deaths, none of the unconfirmed cases or strange disappearances. Well, it's enough that we know he's ordered them, even if he's not done it himself. Mark my words, we won't be around to see it, but they'll be saying his death toll is in the hundreds until everything comes to light. We'll only know for sure when they've caught the bastard.

Hundreds for sure, and that number will only go up before this is over, Jett considered, taking a long sip of his coffee. But I'm not so sure they'll catch him. He's got too many followers now. They'll never be able to track him down.

Gullible people will rally to an attractive cause, but they'll abandon him just as quick. It's mostly humans and goblins on his side, I'd reckon. They're all a fickle lot. They'll find something new once they see this taxation argument isn't getting them anywhere, Petre insisted.

Jett wasn't convinced but kept his musings quiet, busying himself with sucking an errant drop of coffee from his mustache. As Petre opened his mouth to continue his train of thought, a brilliant flash of white light exploded into existence a few yards off from where they were sitting. Jett ducked behind Petre, who shielded his eyes with the newsprint.

The light grew more intense. A whooshing noise accompanied a blast of dusty wind, hurling leaves at the two. As the light grew brighter yet, the sound drowned out Petre's screams. Jett gasped the name Walden! and clasped his friend tightly.

Having lived a life longer than expected of his people, Jett had fully accepted his own death. He had always hoped that it was something quiet, however—passing in his sleep or on the toilet like his father. Not this. Being murdered at the ripe old age of four hundred and six by a psychotic human felt unfair somehow. But there was nothing to be done. Jett sucked in a breath and waited for the inevitable.

As quickly as it arrived, the bizarre phenomenon dimmed to near nothing. The only heat was from the sun, and the only gust was from a gentle breeze. If this was death, it had indeed been painless. After a few seconds, Jett uncovered his eyes and lowered the paper. A ball of light floated before them. Jett thought that it looked like a wizardly scrying orb but made out of lightning instead of crystal. Arcs of electrical blue energy traced across and around its surface. Even with the dwarves' poor eyesight, they recognized the thing hovering before them was an extremely rare life-form.

This creature was a lightning elemental. Elementals were a sort of strange, sentient being from the age of the gods. They were a white core of pure magical energy with a surrounding corona made up of fire, earth, water, air, or lightning. This corona could take any shape or form, but they usually preferred to remain enclosed in the spherical shape. This one seemed expectant; the crackling arcs of light moved rapidly and began to spark off the central orb.

Jett righted himself on the bench, irritated. He rolled the newspaper up and used it to point at the elemental, squinting and gesturing angrily.

Ya nearly gave me a heart attack! What gives with the theatrics? he asked brusquely.

My apologies, it was not intentional, the elemental asked, its voice coming in a low hum from within the central orb. If you would assist me, I would like to know the current date.

The current…date? Jett repeated, dumbfounded. Why'd you need to know that? Actually, y'know what, never mind. Here. I'm done with the paper anyhow. Today's date is marked on the top of it. Take it and do whatever nonsense you're doing some other place.

Two tendrils of electrical energy sprouted out from the creature's sides. They looked like tentacles made from jittery lightning bolts. Reaching out, the elemental grasped the newspaper from Jett and drew it close to its core. The dwarves shared a significant look, standing and slowly edging away from the elemental.

Most excellent, the orb stated. His spell was a success, once again.

Hmm, replied Petre with a strained smile, good, good. Now be a friend and make some space. We were just heading off to get some breakfast.

The orb obliged, hovering a few paces away and flicking through the newspaper with its tendrils. Petre and Jett took a few small steps in the other direction, then broke into dead sprints, scurrying to the diner as quickly as their stubby legs could take them.

Once the door was secure behind them, the two dwarves took a moment to catch their breath. The young gnomish waiter looked at them with alarm, but they waved him off with forced smiles and weak greetings.

Oddball, Jett declared with a suspicious glance out the window. Elemental types are a queer lot, but that one? In my four hundred years on this planet, I've never seen anything like it. Did you see the way the whole place just lit up like that when he arrived? What was that?

Not sure, the bugger seemed confused. Maybe he had some sort of affliction? suggested Petre. Or maybe we just saw one being born? No way of telling how old one of those things are, they live longer than elves.

It always bothered Jett to interact with creatures that could see and speak without eyes or mouths. With another quick glance behind them to make sure the elemental wasn't following, the duo rounded the hallway of the diner toward their usual spot. The smells of browned butter and coffee grew stronger, and Jett's stomach let out a monstrous growl. Neither dwarf was used to this level of exertion, and they decided to treat themselves to a little something extra.

Petre seemed to accept the event as something that was just normal for elementals, but Jett wished he could convince himself. He'd been around an elemental once before but had never seen or even heard that the beings could explode into existence like that. After all, if it had happened before, wouldn't someone have made mention of it? The two took seats upon tall barstools meant for halfling races, mostly dwarves and gnomes in this part of town.

You two want the usual? the gnome asked as he set two mugs of coffee on the counter.

Chocolate chips in our pancakes today, Petre declared, giving a sagacious nod to the young gnome. Actually, why not get a little more—

As Petre asked for their usual order to be doubled, Jett peered out the window facing the park. He was hopeful that someone else had gone to check up on the elemental. Thankfully, he only caught a flash of the creature's corona as it left the park, heading in the opposite direction as the diner.

The elemental was gliding down the street, wholly immersed in the newspaper. They flicked through the pages, quickly taking in any information about Walden. Though the man's name wasn't specifically mentioned in the papers, the trail of disasters and police raids could only point in one direction. It helped that the elemental had read all these headlines multiple times before and already knew the ways in which these dots would be connected.

Despite overwhelming silence in the news, Walden was all anyone was talking about on the street. It was no small wonder that he had captured the imagination of the people. There had never been a magical criminal with this level of renown, especially one who had eluded both the mundane and supernatural police forces. The joint task force seeking him out had been thwarted at every critical juncture by Walden's ever-growing cabal of devotees. On top of his own infamy, his ability to evade capture had emboldened other criminals, which further tied up law enforcement resources.

Ramman was floating some fifteen feet off the ground to avoid bumping into anyone walking below. It was still early, and the humid morning mists made their whole body buzz with electrical energy. Elementals generally moved more quickly than bipedal races, and Ramman was in a hurry. Their speed, coupled with the irritable electrical discharges they were emitting, would make Ramman seem little more than a blue streak to those passing below. As they hastened toward the meeting spot, they began testing their basic memory to see if anything had gone wrong during the magical process. Ramman went through the human, elven, and gnomish alphabets with no problems. At least, no problems that they could readily identify. But how would I know? If my mind has been damaged, these might be wrong. Or it may be that I've totally made up these alphabets. No. Focus. The words printed on the newspaper make sense to me. I'm in my right mind. Shaking away the doubt, they completed some basic arithmetic and tried to recollect a few major historical events.

One event remained at the forefront of their thinking, though it hadn't quite occurred yet. Walden is about to kill everyone I know and everyone I've ever cared about. There was little time to strategize against this and even less time to act on it. Ramman felt a wave of anxiety grip them; their corona retreated into a dense ball.

It was insufferable to be thrust into this full-scale war without time to plan their moves. This was a game of speed chess. Ramman was an amateur learning the rules as they went, paired up against a professional who could plot dozens of moves in advance. Unfortunately, Ramman had been stuck rushing headlong into this same catastrophe for the last six years. They had learned much in that time, but the end result was always the same. They tried not to think about the screams. The cackling laughter. The smells of smoke and blood.

Eventually, they came upon the wizarding bazaar called Little Salem, a quaint, open-air marketplace in the city's west side, which was slowly being gentrified and renovated. Multitudes of colorful stands and shops catering almost exclusively to magic users were arranged in a long double row, stretching across a massive open lot. There were stacks of weatherproof parchment for scrolls, wooden staves, crystalline wands, and polished orbs displayed next to stands offering fresh produce, dairy, and meats. Other shops carried enchanted jewelry and clothing, and a man before a hastily constructed wooden cart was selling talismans to ward the nameless curses and evil dread beings conjured by Walden. Nearby, a battered-looking goblin strummed a fiddle which had seen better days while his companion slapped a conga with some manner of rotted, graying skin stretched atop it. Those two won't see much profit here, Ramman thought. Though goblins had been removed from the list of evil species some twenty years ago, they were still immensely distrusted by the other high races.

Ramman watched the pair of musicians for a moment. The fiddle player was a pale greenish hue and had scars roping across his head, giving the creature a bizarre hairline and removing the tip of a once-pointed left ear. Their companion was a darker shade of green but appeared to be malnourished, with small orange sores on its skin, indicating years of heavy drug use. Goblin music tended toward a twangy, antiquated sound, relying on acoustics and simple beats. They mostly limited vocalizations to chanting in their harsh, grotesque language. Although these two had some innate measure of musical skill, it was difficult to gauge their talent when it was sieved through such careworn instruments. In the brief span of time that Ramman watched, a few passersby had plunked coins into the fiddle case. It seemed to Ramman that these offerings were more compulsory, as none of the patrons stuck around to hear more.

Around the bazaar, most of the stalls were only just beginning to open, but early risers were already looking around trying to beat the back-to-school rush. Elementals did not eat, but as the stalls selling food began to open and send enticing smells across the bazaar, Ramman toyed with the idea of getting their friend's favorite food to surprise him when he showed up. It might be worthwhile to save some time. A gift would prove that I am who I claim to be, they thought, hovering across from a stall selling dried herbs and animal parts.

If they were correct, their friend would be coming here today. Although the past several meetings had all been at differing locations within the school, Ramman decided that tracking down the human before the school year began would give them a much-needed head start. Even a few extra days to prepare might give them the edge over Walden, or so Ramman hoped.

As they waited, they exerted some small amount of energy for a change in appearance. Bipedals were rather distrustful of elementals, whose spherical shape and lack of facial expressions made them strange and unfamiliar to the other high races. Elemental beings had developed the tactic of forming arms and legs with their elemental coronas. These makeshift appendages helped them to better blend in. With thousands of years to learn, their ability to control the element which their coronas were made from was unparalleled. It was nothing for them to allow the humming energy around their core to arc into vague shapes of arms and legs.

There was a small amount of space within each elemental's core. It was hotly debated as to what this space actually was. Some argued that it was a pocket dimension, while others thought it was some link between all the elementals which could be used to trace them back to their origin. Still others thought it was just an anatomical oddity and that elemental cores were simply supposed to be hollow.

Regardless of what the reason for this space was, many of the elementals used it to store important objects or transport contraband. However, in a dire situation, an elemental could fold their corona itself within their core. They would become nearly invisible in this state, and there was a core tenant of a religion popular amongst the elementals which stated that one could reach a meditative mind-set near Nirvana while they were folded into this space. Ramman had no interest in such a thing, and wasn't even sure it could be done. Elemental culture spanned centuries, and the best explanation they had heard for the space was that elementals folded in on themselves and disappeared upon their death.

Ramman thought about this as they felt around within their core using one of the makeshift arms. They had hidden three crystals, a quartz wand, and a scroll case containing seven handwritten scrolls. They had been in a hurry before the procedure and had forgotten some basic necessities.

No money, they said aloud, buzzing with irritation.

As they pondered, a sudden scream echoed from the far side of the market. Ramman buzzed upward to get a better look, tendrils hanging limp and useless as they forgot to animate them. Ramman would normally be appalled and embarrassed to be seen looking like a particularly dangerous jellyfish but forgot all about modesty when they observed a disturbance at a stand across the lot, at the other end of the bazaar.

A quick burst of speed brought them to the source, where a barrel-shaped dwarven woman selling gemstones was pointing at the retreating form of a gaunt human. Gems were scattered across the stone walkway, creating a trail after the man, who was dashing away from the market.

Thief! she called again. Someone stop him!

Ramman used one of their appendages to pull the quartz wand from their core. They maintained a short distance behind the man, hovering fluidly along as the thief made his escape. The elemental was able to keep up easily, but the thief was beginning to pant, unable to keep up the fevered dash as the pair wound away from the marketplace. Lining the wand up, Ramman focused their energy through the crystal and shot a weak bolt of lightning at the culprit. To Ramman's surprise, the bolt went through the thief and struck a metal signpost marking the street as Salem Way. As soon as the bolt passed through him, the man's form had disappeared, his body warping strangely and fading into mist.

Damn, an afterimage spell, Ramman seethed, looking around for the real target.

Despite their annoyance, they had to give grudging approval to the thief for his clever use of magic. Creating afterimages was a skill unique to practitioners of penumbra, shadow mages. Most of these wizards were upstanding folk who would be appalled to see their precious art used in the commission of such petty crimes, but bending light had its advantages when one wanted to stay hidden. If the man was skilled enough to make copies of himself, he would easily be able to use the same magic to render himself invisible.

Ramman stopped moving. Searching his quarry out normally would get them tricked again, so they let their corona of electrical energy pulsate out, discharging a multitude of almost-imperceptible currents in all directions. Like a bat using echolocation, they could sense disturbances in these currents from the presence of objects and creatures within their range. Anyone with a mastery of elemental magics could utilize this ability to some degree, but Ramman also had a long life of meditation and study in lightning magic.

An unfortunate drawback was that this ability required a high output of magical energy. Ramman might have been able to hold the spell for several moments but was able to reserve their power by pulsing the current. Ramman would take a quick feel, sensing anything that had changed and then letting the current cease. There would be plenty of time to rest while they waited for their friend, but the past few years of combat had left them paranoid. They always wanted to keep a store of magic power in reserve. There was always another challenge ahead, always more enemies around the corner.

They scanned the area, feeling with the lightning aura in the opposite direction that the afterimage had traveled. A bright orange stone—possibly carnelian or citrine—caught Ramman's attention. It stood out plainly against the dirt pathway, and they hastened toward the blatant marker, wary of running into another trap. Hovering downward, Ramman scanned the area for any further sign of the thief. There were no broken twigs or stirred leaves to indicate that the man had passed by, aggravating Ramman. Suffering a setback like this during such a minor altercation was not a good omen. Their target was Walden, the most renowned criminal in the world. How could they go after him when such a petty criminal was able to evade them?

Mentally retracing the path from the gemstone stand, passing the scattered gems, and finally coming again to the errant orange stone, they attempted to predict where the gemstone thief might have gone next. Gliding quickly ahead to an intersection not too far out, Ramman watched for a gaunt, swarthy human male. Tension made their corona fizzle excitedly, and a tendril still held the long quartz crystal, ready to send a jolt of electricity at the man.

Ten minutes later, no such person had passed by. They lowered the quartz as two police officers, an elven male and human female, passed by. The duo had been peering around the area as though they, too, were looking for something and apparently hadn't noticed the culprit either.

You think this is another of Walden's minions? the human officer asked the elf.

It wouldn't be surprising, but it doesn't matter much, the elf replied, sounding bored. The black market seems to be funneling everything in his direction. We might as well refer every little thing that happens to the task force.

This doesn't bode well, Ramman mused again.

Ramman floated back toward the shopping area, forlornly passing the dwarven woman who owned the gemstone stall. She was loudly describing the event to a gnomish officer, whose head bobbed as he jotted notes down onto a page of a small notebook. Ramman was exhausted, the scanning spell having used up much