Mark of The Nibrilsiem: Set before The Ascension of Karrak (The Karrak Trilogy Book 4) Read online

  Pordan.

  Robert J Marsters’ magical world!

  Wave a wand, brandish a staff or unsheathe your sword, there are no rules.

  Mark of the Nibrilsiem is the fourth book following the adventures of the imaginary races who dwell here.

  After completing the Karrak trilogy, Robert was overjoyed by how many loyal readers had entered his world, but they wanted more!

  This is a prequel to his trilogy, but there are even more in the pipeline.

  Robert attends as many events and fayres as possible amongst his busy schedule. Who knows, you may get to meet him one day.

  Follow him on The Ascension of Karrak Facebook page.

  Or, check out his website: www.robertjmarsters.com.

  Acknowledgements

  To my wife, Jane, my best friend in both of my worlds.

  To Scott Stitcher, artist and tattooist extraordinaire, for the original cover artwork of this book. Instagram Scott_Stitcher, and Facebook. Thank you, brother.

  To my existing readership. Your loyalty and support is priceless. Thank you to you all.

  Other titles by Robert J Marsters:

  The Ascension of Karrak

  The Bane of Karrak

  The Cessation of Karrak

  Robert J Marsters

  Mark Of The Nibrilsiem

  Copyright © Robert J Marsters (2019)

  The right of Robert J Marsters to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

  Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

  A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

  ISBN 978-1-7122222-1-8 (Paperback)

  EBook

  CHAPTER 1

  As Ballorn stared across the village square, he shook his head in frustration. He didn’t hate, or even dislike the villagers, but he wasn’t overly fond of them either. Not a single one had done anything in particular to deserve his cold demeanour, just the opposite, in fact. They knew he had been orphaned as an infant and tried to include him in any celebrations that arose in the village. Throughout the years, many had tried to befriend him, to no avail. Somehow, he would always manage to come up with an excuse or simply slip away undetected. As Ballorn grew into adulthood the villagers became less concerned, resigning themselves to the fact that it would be best to allow him to lead the solitary life with which he seemed content.

  He had reached the age of fourteen before finding something which he not only enjoyed, but also helped to drown out the incessant chatter of the villagers. Within a few short years he had become an accomplished blacksmith. The nemilar, as a race, hated getting their hands dirty and frowned upon Ballorn’s chosen trade. However, they never frowned upon the quality of his work, something that had now given him an innate sense of pride for over twenty years.

  Focussing his attention on his forge, he pulled the handle of the bellows. The sound of the roaring flames was home to him. He raised his hammer, grunting as he brought it down heavily, creating a shower of sparks that lit up the failing light of dusk. It was nothing new for him to work late into the evening, in fact it was the most pleasurable time of the day for him. No pesky questions from annoying villagers who had placed orders for horseshoes or garden tools would delay him once night fell. They were everyday harmless nemilar he could easily dismiss.

  Dannard however was one nemilar he could have happily flattened as soon as look at. He was the local cooper and always complained that the barrel hoops that Ballorn had forged were somehow lacking in quality, then attempted to haggle for a better price. Ballorn never wavered and, in return, always flatly refused. He knew that his workmanship was worth far more than he actually charged, his way of repaying the villagers for their kindness to him as a child. Above that, he also had the smug pleasure of knowing that the nearest blacksmith to him was almost a hundred miles away.

  Hammering loudly, Ballorn did not hear the approaching footsteps until they were right behind him. He wasn’t startled and turned slowly to face the nemilar who was nervously edging closer. The blacksmith was huge for a nemilar. Standing over five feet tall and with a deep barrel chest and muscular arms, he could be most intimidating to the average nemilar who stood not much above four.

  “Evening,” said Ballorn, gruffly.

  “Good evening,” replied the stranger, “I wonder if I could place an order?”

  “Aye,” replied Ballorn, “What do ye need?”

  “Well, that’s the thing,” began the stranger, “I’m not sure. I was hoping that you could suggest something.”

  “I can try,” said Ballorn. He looked the stranger up and down. He was slender and wiry, a farmer, was Ballorn’s guess. How could he not know what he needed? “What’s it for?” he asked, tossing his hammer aside with a sigh.

  “I need something sharp enough to cut through…” he replied with a nervous laugh, “this will sound silly, I’m afraid.”

  “Come on, spit it out,” said Ballorn, impatiently. “I’m not here all night. Sharp enough to cut through what?”

  The stranger leaned closer to Ballorn, “Erm… dragon hide,” he whispered.

  Ballorn raised his eyebrows and leaned on the counter, “Dragon hide?” he asked with mocking disbelief.

  “Exactly,” replied the nemilar. “So, I’m not sure whether I need a sword, or perhaps an axe, or something like a really large scythe. Either way,” he urged, “it has to be razor-sharp.”

  Ballorn had had some strange requests in the past, but this was the most unusual by far. “I’m guessing you’re a farmer?” he suggested.

  “Yes, that’s right. So, you see, I’m not sure what type of weapon I may need.” He was looking at Ballorn, hoping that the blacksmith could provide an answer that he, himself could not, “Or do you think a selection would be best?”

  Still leaning on the hatch, Ballorn beckoned the farmer forward, “What’s your name?” he asked.

  “Lonny,” replied the farmer, stepping toward the counter eagerly.

  “Listen to me carefully, Lonny,” Ballorn said quietly, grabbing the farmer by his collar and almost lifting him from the ground with one hand. “I’ve not got time for your jokes and japes. So, tell whoever sent you that the next time someone comes here trying to make a fool of me, he’ll be going away from my forge with his head in a sack. Got it!” He pushed the nemilar away, turned and picked up his hammer.

  “Ahem, excuse me.”

  Ballorn dropped his chin to his chest and closed his eyes. Why were there always interruptions? Couldn’t he just be left in peace to get on with his work? He turned slowly, looking over his shoulder. Lonny was still standing there patiently. Physically shaking but determined to place his order, he smiled nervously at Ballorn. Ballorn sighed and placed his hammer gently onto his anvil. Opening the hatch, he stepped out from behind the counter and stood before the farmer.

  “Before you do anything, sir,” Lonny pleaded, taking out a coin purse and showing Ballorn the gold coins inside. “I am neither joking nor mocking you. I have seen the beast with my own eyes. For the sake of my family, forge me a weapon with whi
ch to protect them. I’ll pay in advance, simply name your price.”

  Ballorn shook his head, “It wouldn’t be right,” he muttered. “You’re obviously off your bonce. I won’t take money from a loony, however easy it is.”

  “I assure you, sir, I am quite sane. I have seen the monster, black scales, huge teeth, sparks flying from its body as it walks. Please sir, I implore you, take my order.”

  “There’s no dragons around any more!” bawled Ballorn. “They’ve been gone for over a thousand years. If there were any left, don’t you think others would’ve seen ‘em?”

  “I cannot speak for others, sir, only myself,” Lonny replied, grabbing his arm. “Please Ballorn, even if you think me insane, forge me a weapon.” The farmer began to pour coins onto the hatch. Ballorn had never been swayed by money, but what now lay on the counter was easily as much as the humble blacksmith could have made in a good year.

  Ballorn dragged his hand across his face, smearing the black soot and mixing it with the sweat on his brow. He threw his hands into the air, “Alright, I give in. What do you want?” he sighed.

  “What would you suggest?” asked Lonny, eagerly.

  “Well, if it was me, and if there was a real dragon, I suppose a broadaxe would be my first choice.”

  “Excellent,” said Lonny with relief. “A broadaxe it is then.”

  Ballorn looked Lonny up and down, gauging his height. The length of the handle had to be right if he was to wield the axe properly. Although exactly what he would be wielding it against, was a mystery. Dragon indeed, he thought.

  Advising the farmer to return in a week, Ballorn watched as he hurried away. He raised his hand to his neck, rubbing the silver pendant that had belonged to his father. He wondered how things would have turned out had his parents lived long enough for him to remember them.

  ***

  His thought strayed to the tale he had been told as a child. His father, merely wanting to provide for his family, had taken him and his mother into the forest on a hunting trip. The forest was vast and teemed with wildlife. Deer, rabbit and glamoch were aplenty. Add to that the many species of fish that swam in the Rebnar river and you had the ingredients for a banquet suitable for any table. Ballorn’s father was a carpenter, not a big game hunter. So, once his hunting trips were done, it was not surprising that his bounty was somewhat lacking. His greatest achievement was that he caught a deer, once.

  Alas, the glorious day they had spent together, would be their last. They were on their way home, Ballorn’s father carrying a brace of rabbits and some fish and his mother, carrying him. He was less than a year old and therefore had no recollection of that fateful day.

  His parents were in high spirits and had almost cleared the edge of the forest when his father lost his footing. Rolling down a steep embankment, he crashed through the bushes below. Slightly winded but luckily uninjured, he scrambled to his feet. He brushed himself off, laughing at how stupid he must have looked as he went head over heels down the bank. Holding his hands out to his sides, he waited for his wife to begin teasing him and glanced up lovingly at his young family. But his expression quickly changed as he saw the horror on his wife’s face. Dumbstruck, she pointed behind him. He turned slowly, terrified at what he might see. The horns and wet, black skin of the glamoch glistened. During his fall he had not heard it emerge from the river behind him, but it was there now. Its dark red eyes glared at him, steam rising from its back as the noon-day sun beat down. Shaking its’ head from side to side, it snorted. Was this a warning or a challenge? Ballorn’s father began to back away slowly, not wanting to startle or antagonise the beast that towered above him. But as he took a step, so did the glamoch. His wife was calling for him to run, but he was almost petrified with fear and struggling to move his feet. His wife placed Ballorn on the ground, pushing him under the roots of a nearby tree. Her thoughts, to keep her son safe until she could retrieve him. Half walking, half stumbling, she hurried down the embankment, calling for her husband to grab her hand. But in her haste, she too lost her footing!

  Many hours later, a few of the villagers noticed their absence. The whole village knew one another’s business and very quickly banded together, heading into the forest to find the missing family. It did not take long for them to discover where Ballorn’s parents had met their grisly end. The glamoch had moved away but could still be seen in the distance. “They must have fought hard,” said one of the village elders. “I don’t know what he used, but he put a few good gouges into the side of the beast.”

  The nemilar were in a state of shock at what had transpired, but suddenly their hearts leapt as Ballorn began to cry. Dashing over to where Ballorn had been hidden, a young girl reached down and scooped him up in her arms, staring up in disbelief at the rest of the villagers, “He’s alright!” she cried, stroking his cheek. “There’s not a mark on him.” But then the realisation that Ballorn was now an orphan, dawned on her. A single tear trickled down her cheek as she gazed with pity at the baby, “Oh, the poor little mite,” she cooed.

  ***

  It was not yet light as Ballorn fired up his forge. It had been many years since anything had brought him even a glimmer of excitement. I’ll get all of the nonsense jobs out of the way early, then I can spend the rest of the day working on that axe for Lonny, he thought. He knew that it was impossible to complete the axe in a single day and looked forward to working on something that would test his skill as a smith.

  By mid-afternoon, the head was taking shape and he barely noticed the inquisitive looks he was being given by the villagers as they tried to work out what he was making. He shook his head as thoughts of Lonny ran through his mind. Would the farmer even have the strength to lift it, let alone wield it against his imaginary foe? he thought. As the day drew to an end, Ballorn shut down his forge and headed into the woods. No good producing a masterpiece and then sticking it on a crap handle. Selecting a suitable branch, he began chopping it from the tree. He made his living as a blacksmith but was also a competent carpenter, a skill he must have inherited from his father. It was getting dark and Ballorn placed the branch across his shoulder, content that he had done enough for one day. “You’ve paid for perfection, Lonny, so that’s what you’re going to get,” he said quietly as he headed home.

  The following day he began work even earlier. He had barely slept and feverishly fired up his forge. He had become fixated, determined that the axe would be a work of art. He worked long hours shaping the axe-head, honing and polishing it to a mirror-finish. But that was only the first step. Taking some of the gold coins he had been given by Lonny, he dropped them into a melting pot and watched as they began to liquify. He had engraved the axe and began spooning the molten gold into the patterns. Many times the villagers tried to interrupt him but he would not allow them to break his intense concentration and rudely ignored them. Unblinking, he peered closely as he intricately shaped the gold until each side of the axe was adorned with a fire-breathing dragon. For some reason, he had even chosen to lay runes that spelt out Lonny’s name.

  Ballorn was not yet finished. He began to carve the handle with a precision that had never been witnessed, inlaying even more gold into each notch and groove. The final stage, three coats of wax, which he polished and buffed to a brilliant shine. Joining the pieces together, he gazed at them smugly. He had used at least half of the gold with which the farmer had paid him, but he did not care. His chest swelled with pride. “Oh Lonny,” he chuckled quietly, “you mad old bugger! I’ve created a weapon that any warrior would be glad of. I hope your imaginary dragon’s worth it.”

  CHAPTER 2

  The week passed quickly. Ballorn was excited, but a little impatient as he regularly scanned the village square waiting for Lonny to collect his axe. He wondered if the farmer would be as impressed with it as he was himself or would simply view it as another tool. He pottered around finding menial tasks to occupy his time but was completely guilty of neglecting any pressing work that needed doing. Throu
ghout the day, various nemilar would enquire about work they needed doing or enquire as to whether their orders were ready. Ballorn would give a lame excuse as to why an item would take more time than usual, or, was already overdue. Tomorrow, he’d say, come back at noon, I’ll have it ready by then. All he could focus on, was the axe. All day he waited, but there was no sign of the farmer. He had seemed so desperate when he placed the order. Why had he not collected it? He’d even stressed that he needed it to protect his family. Maybe I was right, thought Ballorn. Maybe he was just a nutter.

  The square was emptying as the hour grew late. Ballorn, realising that the mad farmer would not be collecting that day, began packing his things away. Leaning beneath the counter, he took out the axe he had carefully wrapped in an oilcloth. Opening it, he tapped his finger against the handle thoughtfully. What to do, he thought. He had never felt this way before. Usually he dreaded customers returning to him for any reason, because it meant he would have to talk to them. For the first time ever, he decided that he would find out where Lonny’s farm was, and hand deliver it. After all it was paid for, and it shouldn’t take too long. It’ll probably do me good to get away from this place for a while anyway, he thought.

  He spent the following day quizzing the villagers about Lonny.

  Who was he?

  Did they know him well?

  Had he ever shown any signs of eccentricity?

  But mostly: Did they know the whereabouts of his farm?

  Although most of the villagers were unfamiliar with the farmer, there were a few who knew him well and where his farm could be found. They told Ballorn that it was located to the south of the village. “Mind you,” warned one of the villagers, “it’s half a day’s walk and you’ll have to go through the Garlann forest to reach it.” It seemed that Garlann was plagued by ferocious beasts, the worst of which being wolves. A few of the older villagers took delight in relating tales of mysterious disappearances that were thought to be the result of unfortunate meetings with monsters and mythical beings. Ballorn ignored the fanciful tales. “Flaming superstitious nonsense,” he mumbled to himself after they had left.