The Tear of Gramal

by Phillip Jones

  Richard Hatch (Apollo – Battlestar Galactica)

  Actor, Writer, Director and Producer

  From the day I was introduced to the “Worlds of the Crystal Moon” I was enthralled. When you’ve been in the business as long as I have, it doesn’t take long to recognize real talent and a writer gifted with that rare ability to create a compelling world that not only entertains, but profoundly touches the heart, mind and soul. The Worlds of The Crystal Moon is such a story. I implore you to enter and explore this powerful and magical story which will stir and inspire you and your loved ones imagination for generations to come.

  Special thanks to the Worlds of the Crystal Moon artists

  Todd Sheridan - Cover

  sheridan.todd@gmail.com

  Cindy Fletcher - Ultorian King

  cinfl37@yahoo.com

  Kathleen Stone - Black & White Illustrations

  www.kastone-illustrations.com

  Aaron Bristow - Coin Designer

  aaronshardwork@gmail.com

  Worlds of the Crystal Moon, The Tear of Gramal

  View high-def maps of the Worlds of the Crystal Moon

  www.WorldsoftheCrystalMoon.com

  Phillip “Big Dog” Jones’ Facebook fan page:

  www.facebook.com/worldsofthecrystalmoon

  Copyright © 2012 by Phillip E. Jones and WOTCM Media, LLC.

  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 or otherwise without the written permission of the publisher. If you have purchased this book without a cover, then be aware this book is stolen property—and has been reported as “unsold or stolen” to the publisher; neither the publisher nor author has received payment for this book.

  The language of the Elves acquired on the web from English to Elvish translators.

  Principal Editor: William Zavatchin - William@worldsofthecrystalmoon.com

  Author: Phillip E. Jones

  Project Funded by: NWQ Ventures – Bryant Hayward

  The author has dedicated this book to his two sons: Christopher and Chase Jones

  This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, events, incidents and places are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, people or events is purely coincidental. This story is not based on any religious beliefs.

  Crystal Moon, The Tear of Gramal

  First published in 2010 under ISBN — 978-0-9856415-2-8

  Phillip E. Jones (Big Dog)

  Author of the Worlds of the Crystal Moon

  CHAPTER 1

  Traveling Companions

  THE PEAK OF THE MOST TREACHEROUS MOUNTAIN on Northern Grayham was just ahead, and beyond, the frigid lands of the Isorian King covered a vast territory.

  Mosley stopped his ascent. He took a moment to admire his surroundings. The valley below the path he was standing on was an undulating sea of white that extended as far as the eye could see. The snowfall from the night before had become another hardened layer and added to the daunting task of climbing to the summit.

  The night terror wolf took a deep breath. Though his magic was protecting him, the bite in the air was becoming more severe as he approached the peak. A shiver followed as he muttered, “My coat was not meant for these temperatures.”

  After commanding the warming effect of his magic to increase, he lowered his snout to the base of the boulder that was next in line to climb. “Hmmm ... must be my lucky Peak,” he assessed while he lifted his hind leg to give the rock a squirt. “I must claim as much of this territory as I can. I may not be fortunate enough to pass this way again.”

  Grinning, Mosley sniffed the yellow ice before he took a step back. He crouched, dug his claws into the snow that covered the boulder he was standing on and then sprang to the top of the next rock. With his climb far from over, he sang to pass his moments.

  One big wolf just climbin’ up a mountain.

  Don’t mess with me ... don’t mess with me.

  Who has territorial dominance and breath to make you slumber.

  Don’t mess with me ... don’t mess with me.

  I will hunt for George and make him tremble.

  Don’t mess with me ... don’t mess with me.

  This night terror wolf is comin’ for…

  Suddenly, Mosley’s footing slipped. He was forced to stop his tune. He had to fight to pull himself back onto the rock. Once his footing was again secure, he smirked as he looked down at the rocks that would have greeted him if he had fallen. “Perhaps I should pay attention.”

  The morning passed, and so did the Peak of Bailem before the wolf reached the summit. With the change in terrain, the ice was now working against the curve of his claws as he began his descent. The moments it took to find a secure grip made his destination seem that much farther away.

  It was just before Late Bailem when Mosley was forced to stop climbing. A path lay ahead, but to get to it, he had to jump down a small cliff.

  The path was covered with a crusty layer of ice just as the boulders behind him had been. Mosley sighed. “I’m beginning to wonder if revenge is worth the hassle.” A moment later, he grinned. “Of course, it is. George must perish”

  Though the landing would be smooth, and the path was nearly two paces wide, Mosley was unsure if he would be able to stop himself from plummeting off the edge before he secured his grip. “There must be a better way.”

  Lifting his head to study his surroundings, his eyes scanned the area. Only a short series of moments passed before he grumbled, “There aren’t any other options. My father could have made this jump. So can I.”

  With his front paws dangling over the edge as far as they could, Mosley crouched to reduce the distance he would need to fall. He pushed off with his hind legs and extended his claws to prepare for impact, but his landing was not what he had expected. Instead of sliding toward the edge of the cliff, the top layer of snow broke and his paws sunk. “Whew!” he exhaled.

  Mosley’s next 11 steps were relaxing. With the placement of each paw, the snow continued to break apart and provide a welcomed traction. But his enjoyment of the moment would be short-lived. His twelfth step was not relaxing. As his paw broke through the snow, a defensive growl penetrated the evening air, and a number of barks and snarls followed.

  Mosley redirected his gaze down the face of the cliff. What he saw caused him great concern. Five large hounds with white coats were stalking a much smaller wolf whose fur was as dark as his own.

  The black-coated wolf yelped as she collapsed to the ice. She was weak and bleeding, and her right front leg was bent in an awkward position. Helpless, she growled to ward off her attackers, but her threat was ignored.

  Mosley recognized the growl. “It can’t be!” he proclaimed. He focused harder on the injured wolf’s form. “My Luvera passed. This is impossible.”

  The snowhounds were closing in on Luvera.

  Mosley had only a moment to act. He lifted his head and howled.

  The snowhounds halted their approach. Their heads snapped back over their shoulders as they looked up the face of the cliff.

  Mosley lowered his head, exposed his fangs and shouted, “If it’s prey you seek, then choose me!”

  The pack leader responded, “Get him, boys! She’s not going anywhere! We’ll finish her off later!”

  As the snowhounds ran toward the path, Luvera looked up the icy face of the cliff. “Run, Mosley! You must run!”

  Mosley kept his gaze fixed on his wife. “I won’t abandon you! I can’t lose you again!”

  Luvera fought to stand. As she hobbled across the snow toward the daunting pass, her haunches trembled beneath her dark fur while she kept her injured limb
tucked to her body. “I’m coming, my love! You can’t defeat them alone!”

  Mosley’s green eyes narrowed. “Stay where you are!”

  As Luvera continued to limp across the snow, Mosley shook his head and whispered, “She never listens.” A moment later, he redirected his gaze toward his attackers. The snowhounds ascent had been quick. They were accustomed to prowling the territories of the north, and as the placement of each paw broke through the snow covering the path, their dark eyes gleamed with anticipation of their next meal.

  Mosley backed up, his eyes searching for the best moment to attack. The chunks of packed snow that were being dislodged by his paws were rolling off the ledge and plummeting to a hazardous end. It was now or never. The cliff he had jumped from was directly behind him, and he was running out of path.

  Crouching, Mosley sized up his foes for one final moment. The hounds were nearly twice his size, and the white fur covering their rippling muscles had been stained with Luvera’s blood.

  Mosley’s lips curled, exposing his fangs. The steam from his snarl rose past his determined eyes as he watched the pack leader’s drool fall to the snow. Mosley’s legs extended, launching him head-on into the first of his five attackers.

  Yelping, Mosley’s eyes snapped open—allowing him to escape his nightmare. It took a moment, but he eventually realized that he had been dreaming. The snowhounds that were attacking his Luvera were not real, and the spirit of his lost love was still waiting inside the Book of Immortality for her chance to live again.

  The night terror wolf’s eyes searched the darkness. The truth of his surroundings was equally as depressing as the fiction of his dream. He was still lying on a prison floor made of ice. Every muscle ached, and no matter how he struggled, it was hard to hold his eyes open. They were swollen, and the pain—oh the pain—was agonizing. He sighed. “Revenge is not worth my suffering. What was I thinking?”

  Fellow Soul … allow me to bring you up to speed. The last 5 Peaks for Mosley had been filled with suffering during his waking moments. The night terror wolf had been beaten, tortured, and questioned for answers the wolf was unable to disclose. Yet, somehow, Mosley found the strength to rise again and again as another enemy—a real enemy—threatened to end his existence.

  The Frigid Commander of Hydroth grabbed the bars of the wolf’s cell, pulled the door open and then stepped inside. After ensuring the lock was secure, his blue hands that were covered with gloves made from the hide of a slagone, released the ice.

  Mosley squinted to protect his eyes as the commander passed his club above an orb that was attached to the wall of the cell. The orb illuminated, and the light reflected off the commander’s milky-gray eyes while thousands of crystallizations embedded in the Isorian’s skin glimmered.

  The light from the orb was strong, yet no heat was cast from it—the magic it was filled with allowed the ice to remain solid. Hundreds of thousands of these orbs had been scattered throughout Hydroth over the seasons. And just like this orb, they remained hidden far beneath the frozen tundra of Northern Grayham with the rest of the city.

  The commander’s body was mostly uncovered, except for a hooded cloak, a dangling hide covering his groin, two tribal bands that encircled the width of his biceps, a chest piece made of bone and beads, and guards to cover his shins and the top of his feet.

  As the powerful warrior turned to face Mosley, he moved to stand over the wolf and then motioned for his guards to turn away. A cruel smile stretched across his face as he looked down to watch Mosley hobble into the corner furthest from him.

  The wrinkles around the commander’s eyes tightened as he crossed his arms. “It pleases me that you’re up, wolf. You’re resilient. I’m going to relish this Peak’s trobleting.”

  Mosley snarled as best he could. He was barely able to expose his fangs. “As I have said during many other moments, Darosen, I will not speak with you.”

  The Frigid Commander grinned, exposing a perfect set of teeth. “You have discovered my name. A friend within these walls you must know … or a fool. Perhaps you would satisfy my curiosity, and share this friend’s name.”

  Mosley growled again. “I’m not in the mood for sharing. I wish to speak with Clandestiny.”

  The Frigid Commander knelt next to the fallen God of War and punched the night terror wolf on his right shoulder. As the pain filled Mosley’s front legs, he collapsed, but the wolf refused to allow a whimper to escape.

  The commander chuckled. The sound of his laughter echoed throughout the dungeon. “If you refuse to speak, then you shall continue to suffer. But the heaven your soul longs to see shall have to wait. The moments for your eyes to remain closed shall only come once I have the answers I seek.”

  The commander’s eyes softened. “Wolf … do you truly wish to suffer the pain of a continual torment?”

  Mosley fought to lift himself off the ice. As he stood, his stare turned dark and his brows deepened. “I shall only speak with Clandestiny.”

  The softness in the commander’s eyes disappeared. Darosen slugged Mosley again and then watched the wolf fall back to the ice. The commander sneered, “So be it!” Darosen stood and backed off. “I shall troblet you until you call for your passing. You have my word on this, wolf.” The warrior lifted his hand and clenched his fist. “You shall only receive an immediate end once I know the reasons you seek Clandestiny.”

  The commander’s face softened again. He sighed, “Why not spare yourself the torture?”

  Mosley struggled to lift his head. Icicles of drool hung from the end of the matted fur covering his snout as his frosty breath drifted toward the ceiling. Once his vision cleared, the wolf found the commander’s form. The warrior’s muscles were rippling beneath his bright-blue skin as he waited for Mosley’s response.

  Mosley’s strength failed. The weight of his head was too much to bear as it thumped against the floor. With a sickly voice, the wolf fought to control the chattering of his teeth. “I … I…” Mosley clinched his jaws and sighed. “I refuse to speak with you. My reasons are my own.”

  The commander pounded his right fist into his left palm as his expression hardened. “Your attempted subterfuge shall not go unpunished!”

  With his last ounce of strength, Mosley once again managed to lift his head off the ice. “If … If … If you’d just allow me to speak with Clandestiny. I am sh … sure this can be resolved.”

  The Frigid Commander planted his bare feet on the floor beside Mosley’s head. The muscles in his right forearm bulged as he reached down and grabbed a handful of frosty fur on the back of the wolf’s neck. He yanked upward and held all of Mosley’s weight with his arm outstretched, parallel to the floor. “I won’t allow Clandestiny to speak with an overgrown sudwal. I know you query to understand the power of the Tear’s secret, yet you do not possess the nobility to do so. You know more than your words suggest.”

  Mosley searched his soul for strength. A glint of defiance lit his eyes as his chest expanded. “What I know … only Clandestiny will hear.” He growled again.

  The left hand of the commander balled up. “We shall see, mutt! We shall see!”

  Howls filled the depths of the icy dungeon as a new day’s pummeling began.

  My soulful friends … allow me to take you

  back to an extended series of moments that happened

  290 seasons before Shalee’s entrapment in the

  Eye of Magic on Western Luvelles.

  The Northeastern Territories—The Continent of Northern Grayham

  The Under Ice City of Hydroth

  Fellow soul … before I begin this tale, I should tell you a few things about Northern Grayham and the beings who occupy its territories. First, I shall focus on a race that was known as Isorians. These miraculous beings had the ability to live in the extreme cold. Their unique blood flowed through their veins and acted like antifreeze, though it functioned on a more efficient level than the chemical that those of us from old Earth would have put into our cars
.

  Now ... for those souls who lived on some other world prior to the Great Destruction, I apologize for the comparison. I ask that you bear with me.

  Isorian skin was impervious to the cold until the temperature dropped somewhere around 45 below zero, and even then, it adapted. It allowed their bodies to crystallize into an advanced, icy form that still allowed them to move.

  One special Isorian was named Shamand. Shamand was the leader of one of seven clans to survive the Great Heat. He was also one of the few men with the bloodline necessary to become king. Yet, despite his lineage, the Isorian populace had not chosen a new monarch since the end of the Great Heat.

  The Great Heat—also known as The Great Thaw—was devastating. Each clan occupying the territories in the eastern half of Northern Grayham suffered many losses when the warming began just more than 400 seasons before the birth of Shamand’s daughter. With temperatures that reached unbearable levels of almost 39 degrees above zero, every Isorian was forced to seek refuge inside their homes that existed beneath the ice to stay cool. The people only surfaced to hunt for food, and they covered up as best they could to keep the scorching heat from stinging their skin.

  Five seasons after the Great Heat began, the Isorian’s homes became their undoing. Their structures failed to offer the safe haven they had come to rely on, and the remaining elders who sat on the council were at a loss as to how to compensate for the melting ice.

  The ice that formed the walls of the Isorians’ chiseled homes gave way. Cracks appeared, and the saltwater from the ocean rushed through them. Those inside were trapped beneath the ice with no way to escape before they drowned. Their gargled screams had been heard only by those who suffered the same fate.