Beyond Hope and Despair: The Galanor Saga - Volume Ii

By Frank M. Viollis

“Beyond Hope and Despair” is the second in the Galanor Saga Series. It picks up exactly where
Volume I (“Beyond Good and Evil”) leaves off. It is a novel written in three parts (Books One.
Two and Three). Each can be read as a separate work or, as designed, as part of the complete
novel.
Book One finds Galanor (who is now the commander of an elite mercenary corps known as the
Panther Legion) on the field of a recently fought battle. He has lost his will to live and, since the
death of beloved Kara, and her entire universe, by his actions, insane with guilt and despair.
Azool visits Galanor while he wanders among the dead, and renews his demand (only now with
more vigor) for Galanor to join him in his struggle to “free” reality from “order.” Following
Galano’s rebuke Azool visits the Legionnaires with sudden madness. This causes them to turn
on one another. The most affected by this is Pharon, who, under Azool’s influence (which
continues throughout the novel) turns on his lifelong friend. Galanor finds himself swept up in
court intrigue and falling in love with the empress, whose husband had commissioned
Galanor’s Legion to defend his borders. This put Galanor at direct odds with the empire’s High
Lord General, Sargon. Sargon aligns himself with a wizard, who has a personal grudge with
Galanor dating back to Atlantis. Together they plot to kidnap the empress and destroy Galanor
in the process. After a long series of devastating encounters Galanor, on the verge of death, is
sent into the desert to die. He is rescued by a shadowy, mythical figure who begins his road to
mental and spiritual recovery, outside the bounds of reality.
Book Two finds Pharon and the entire remaining members of the Panther Legion, in prison
awaiting death at the hands of Sargon (who has taken control of the empire from the feckless
emperor, who grieves over his wife’s absence). Azool has been visiting Pharon, who has now
become his agent. Galanor, having left the care of his benefactor, has taken on a new
companion (who had been given to him while he was being healed). He is a powerful, sleek dog
named Anubis, whose spiritual and physical presence helps Galanor cement some of the soul
saving lessons he had learned (though he cannot recall how). Together, they meet a young
warrior and priestess who are on a desperate mission to save their city from sure and certain
destruction at the hands of a vast, marauding army. Galanor must choose between returning
back for his comrades or going forward, in search of the kidnapped empress and helping the
young couple and their city. He chooses the latter while conceiving a plan to do the former.
After a devastating battle to free the now enslaved city, Galanor is swept into the arms of a
goddess who wants him for her own. He also discovers an old and trusted friend along the way.
His friend, Enkidu, tells him of a “world beneath the world” that might help his kidnapped
love. It is a place where only the dead may enter. He and Anubis do so.
Book Three finds the young warrior in search of an old friend and warrior chief whom
Galanor and Pharon had rescued during a sea battle. This man and his band of elite stealth
warriors, agree to help the young warrior free the Legionnaires before their execution. Galanor
and Anubis cross into the land of shadows and emerge in a land not far from where the
empress has been imprisoned by the insane wizard. Pharon and the Legionaries are freed and
with the aid of the stealth warriors, become the agents of fate. Galanor encounters Azool one
last time in a battle of wills. He defeats an old enemy and does battle with the wizard to rescue
the woman he loves.
As “Beyond Good and Evil” was a novel about the power of love and commitment, “Beyond
Hope and Despair,” is a novel about the power of redemption.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Apr 14, 2022
• ISBN: 9781669820703

Frank M. Viollis

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Copyright © 2022 by Frank M. Viollis.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

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Rev. date: 04/12/2022

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CONTENTS

Dedication

Prologue

BOOK ONE: OUT OF THE CRUCIBLE

Chapter 1      Till Death Us Do Part

Chapter 2      To Face The Demon’s Lure

Chapter 3      Corruption Wears A Man’s Face

Chapter 4      An Empire Ensnared

Chapter 5      Into The Heart Of The Beast

BOOK TWO: ON THE RIVER OF TIME

Chapter 1      Of Troubled Passages

Chapter 2      Shadows Of Mercy- Whispers Of Fate

Chapter 3      Destiny Is A Ruthless Master

Chapter 4      Enter The Goddess

Chapter 5      The Relentless Road

BOOK THREE: BEYOND HOPE AND DESPAIR

Chapter 1      Salvation And Regret

Chapter 2      The Valley Of Shadows

Chapter 3      Tomorrow Begins Today

Chapter 4      Never More And Ever Again

Chapter 5      The Meaning Of Life

Epilogue

DEDICATION

T o my very good friend, Gisela, without whose encouragement, kindhearted support and patient counsel this novel would never have been written. Thank you, my friend…

W elcome.

My name, though it is not crucial to the telling of these tales is, Aficiados. I am, by virtue of heritage and personal choice, a master chronicler. As such, I have been called upon to relate these tales of honor and courage. They are tales that have yet to be concluded, though they began when the world was very young.

It was a time when all things seemed possible.

It was a time when sinister powers stirred the pool of humanity’s sloth, so as to shape and command its destiny.

It was a time of legend and myth when good and evil were not just random and ever-changing points on a societal compass gone mad.

It is at this point that my tale shall begin.

Mark them well, for I shall relate them to you, as they were given to me, and my father before him, and to his father before him, and beyond that unto the dawn of my line (which has its roots in the dust-shrouded halls of antiquity).

These are the histories of he who was known as, Galanor.

Let us begin …

PROLOGUE

DESPAIR IS TORMENT’S TRUTH

I have heard it said, that at the gates of Hell there

Is a plaque that reads:

ENTER HERE YE WHO HAVE ABANDONED ALL HOPE

Is it not then likely that at the gates of Heaven a

Similar plaque reads:

ENTER HERE YE WHO HAVE RECLAIMED ALL HOPE

The Soft Whispers of Eternal Truth

Collective Works of Casparion the Elder

Volume XXXII -- Section IV

I t had been two years since the mighty Salafar ran afoul of killer winds off the southern coast of Zarishtan, two long and violent years. Longer still, since it left the ice of the distant north and sailed, with demon speed, to warmer seas; there, to yield into the clutches of a wanton jungle, a crazed old man and his crazed young seed.

Until that fateful day when its proud spine snapped, the great ship sailed the virgin seas like a harpy, following the meaningless lust that ruled the one who called its course. Much did it see, and far did it roam, until its journeys became the stuff of legend.

Life is short, even for the likes of the Salafar. Though it died a hero’s death, it died nonetheless. Its journey, complete; its life’s mission, fulfilled; it went the way of all things. For, mighty and righteous though they may be, none shall sail the seas forever. None that is, save the one called upon by the gods to champion their cause, till the river of time runs dry.

*        *        *

Are the archers in position Pharon?

Aye, commander, they are.

"And the mounted Legionnaires?"

As you’ve ordered Galanor.

"Remember, do nothing until Aurelius’ head falls."

Pharon turned and walked away. He knew better than to question his old friend about matters that were obviously suicidal. Though he had never asked him, he knew that something had stripped away all vestiges of his hope and humanity. This was his friend. He had saved his life. He owed him that, and more. Pharon walked away, keeping his fears to himself.

Well?

Nothing has changed Tandolo. His plan stands. Ready the cavalry.

Very well.

At the rim of the world, where the sky and earth were one, fragile campfires flickered. At that place where darkness and dawn were still bound by hands greater than themselves, weary men stirred; foolish men bragged, and fierce men prayed.

Along the gray face of the distant hills, mighty steeds were bound and harnessed; steel edges were honed, and silver armor was polished.

The caustic wind howled its message of doom, as upon the barren desert plain, below the gray faceless hills of rolling sand, a solitary figure stood. In his hand, a blazing sword of hungry, black steel declared his intent. At his back, the sun crept past the lip of the horizon.

The dawn was quiet.

The air was warm.

The word was given.

Like a sea of molten silver, they came. Their bright armor reflected the morning light back at him. He could see nothing but the blinding glare of a living sun, incarnate upon the desert sand. The pounding hooves of a thousand battle chargers crushed the morning calm. The thunder of rolling chariot wheels ripped through the flat earth like the crashing hammers of the gods. The impassioned cries of ten thousand men and the blaring voices of hundreds of harsh-toned trumpets filled the bright dawn with bloodlust.

He stood and waited.

He was alone.

He prayed for a death that would not come.

What did it matter?

What did anything matter?

BOOK ONE

Out Of The Crucible

… He whose life is death to all shall know life anew

At the hand of he whose life is life to none, and that

Life, once renewed, will seek its end, and find it not,

‘Til all that is, becomes all that was…

… It is the dogma of continuance, fueled by the fires

Of creation and stoked the passions of chaos, that

Shall drive that life to be forever with and yet apart

From all that it desires...

… So it is, so it has been and so it shall always be …

… This is the will of eternity…

Scrolls of Pontiphus - Vol. XXVII

CHAPTER ONE

Till Death Us Do Part

…And, to fear death, with its

Mighty hand outstretched and

Its bony fingers curled, is to

Fear the life that gave it birth

And the soul that gives it worth …

Chronicles of Cali-zan

Book VII: The Reckoning

A t the outer edges of the Sandrack , life is bitter and cheap.

Its torrid winds blow from the north. They never stop. They descend without thought, without mercy, without remorse. They howl like ravenous demon dogs into the open arms of the void. They live to consume. At the outer edges of the Sandrack no one dares to hope. The winds would just blow it away.

At the outer edges of the Sandrack, time has no meaning. It simply squats, like a feeble eunuch, upon its bulbous haunches, atop the crystal dunes, and waits. For what? Who can tell? But, it waits none-the-less and, while it waits, the world unfolds into grotesque patterns of perpetual sameness. Everything is hot. Everything is dry. Everything is impotent. At the outer edges of the Sandrack, time is a eunuch in heat.

At the outer edges of the Sandrack, forgiveness is the only sin, survival the only truth and despair, the only reality.

Commander.

Desolate and forlorn, the orphaned word collapsed to the desert floor, only to be swept away by the mounting drone of feasting flies and the ravenous laughter of the wind.

Commander.

Once again only his comrade’s towering silence, deafening and demanding, responded.

Galanor.

He persisted, though he expected nothing in return.

Galanor.

He had long ago come to realize that something vile had damaged this friend of his youth. Something had drained the vitality from his spirit and replaced it with vitriol and ash. Something had corrupted him.

He inched his way closer to the brooding monolith.

Even the air that surrounded him was somehow tainted and cold.

Galanor, the men are waiting. What...?

...Do you hear that Pharon? His words were like desperate phantoms groping their way through the thick mists of lingering battle fatigue and madness.

Hear what?

Death.

With that, Galanor snatched a canvas sack from the ruby sand, sheathed his great, black sword and stepped out amongst the fallen.

Pharon did not. He simply stood, wrapped in a silence born out of deep frustration, and watched as his friend waded through the hideous sandscape. There was nothing he could do except watch and pray. He turned, allowed his head to bob slowly between the earth and sky, rubbed the renegade tears from his blood-laced eyes and returned to the gathering that awaited Galanor’s command. He, like they, would have to wait until his friend’s madness abated.

Like a reaper moving among the fallen remains of an autumn harvest, the Atlantean giant stepped over and through bundles and fragments of that which had, not long before, pulsed with life. Now, that pulse was gone. All that remained was a putrid sea of what would soon become a banquet hall for maggots and flies.

He continued his advance.

He felt nothing as he stepped carelessly among those whose lives had been forfeit on the edge of his steel. He felt nothing for the hundreds of souls he had sent back to the eternal, on the ebony wings of death. He felt nothing for the wasted valor of those who had swept across the open sands, charging behind streaming banners and blaring trumpets, only to meet their bloody end at his hand. He felt nothing at all. In a heart that once would have mourned, only empty echoes resounded.

He continued his advance.

The Sandrack’s floor, awash in crimson, yielded to his mindless stride, sending splattered reminders of this day’s vile work against the fine-tooled leather of his boots. He didn’t notice. He didn’t care. He didn’t stop. He simply trudged onward, ever deeper into the arms of death, as if drawing sustenance from the rapture of its perfection. He felt at home here, among the dead.

"You are at home, my beloved."

Lightning steel sliced the rancid air as Barlusch cleared its worn, leather sheath, its tainted soul gnawing with a ravenous hunger long forgotten. Galanor ignored its feverish demand and dropped lightly into a deep, low, crouching posture. The world lay still and silent all about him. He spun lightly around, searching with battle-trained eyes, to find the author of this intrusion. Only the haunting remnant of his unbridled savagery stared back.

"You have become quite an excellent butcher."

Once again, his great, black blade flared with hell-spawned hunger.

Once again, he ignored it.

Across the face of the Sandrack, the leprous winds faltered, stalled, and then finally died; their malice being consumed by an evil greater than their own.

He rose, his heart thumping against a desperate, and silent plea that this corruption was not what both he, and his vampiric sword, knew it to be.

He stepped lightly forward.

"What, no greeting my beloved?"

Again, the air was being sodomized by corruption.

Again, Galanor stopped.

"Have I been so long from your world that you have forgotten me, my brother? What a shame…, a cackling laugh, like the lapping flames of a scalding hell, erupted onto the carnage-rich sandscape, … for I have not forgotten you." Again, the insane laugh rolled out from the core of the earth itself.

The desert sands began to shift and twist. Inert bodies toppled one onto another in a senseless dance of primal confusion. The Sandrack seemed suddenly intent on hurling itself into the oblivion of madness. Crystal rain swirled in a desperate and towering effort to consume the sky.

The winds, though silent and lifeless, howled. Thunder rode out of the placid sky on the back of ravenous sheets of blue-white lightning.

Galanor shielded his eyes.

The insane laughter continued.

Fury begot greater fury as the desert floor rose up in a violent crescendo of hysteria. Out of its heart, a face formed, a laughing, drooling, sinister face that was neither man nor beast. Its eyes glared red with the fury of blood lust. Its demonic fangs dripped with lethal venom. Its pulsing jowls undulated with an irreverent glee as it moved to within inches of Galanor’s own.

"Azool."

Yes, my beloved, Its breath, corrupt and malevolent, flowed like putrid slime into the space between them; replacing air, time and hope with the flagrant, rotting stench of hell, "Azool…"

Galanor tried to raise Barlusch; but, the great, black blade, despite its mounting hunger, would not respond. He glared back into the demon’s eyes.

This was Azool, Lord of Darkness and Master of all the Domains of Hell, indisputable regent and guiding force of all that was, or could ever be, corrupt and pernicious. His was a visage not soon forgotten and a soul never denied. He had stripped Galanor’s world, layer by layer. He had taken from him everything he had ever, or would ever love and had left him with nothing but hopelessness, despair, and madness. This was Azool, fiend, enemy, and tormentor.

Galanor’s heart raced with a sudden, lustful fury that brought a pulsing vigor to the steel of his arms. He longed to hurl himself into the demon’s heart and rip it asunder, but could not. His great might and pounding fury were held in check by the whim of Azool’s glare. He had vanquished this beast of darkness once. He would do so again, and again, and again.

He had sworn to do so upon his very soul; and, would see it through until there was nothing left of time, but dust.

… How nice of you to remember.

Why have you returned? Galanor’s words were launched like daggers of acid into the face of the beast.

For you my brother, my son, my beloved. Its fanged mouth opened into a cavernous, foul pit. "I have returned for you."

Galanor struggled to free himself from the demon’s glare.

Barlusch struggled to free itself from Galanor’s control.

Each hungered for the kill.

Each was denied.

Not in this, or any lifetime, you filthy bastard.

Pathetic cretin..., Azool’s voice was laced with distant thunder and ubiquitous malice, "… I would have thought that by now you would have come to realize your true nature; and, would welcome my advances." Its head reeled backward. Its gaze plumbed the darkening sky as if searching for something beyond its ken. Then, in a gesture both defiant and lethal, Azool once again flung its gaze into Galanor’s and spat. You disgust me.

The Sandrack floor began to rumble. Huge, heaving gestures of planetary size sent mountains of sand skyward. The approaching dusk was obscured. All light vanished. Swirling sand and a sudden numbing cold took control of the world.

Galanor struggled to retain his footing. His body teetered. He locked his thoughts upon revenge and held fast. All about him, in a delirious cacophony of corruption, thousands of bloated corpses rose from the desert floor.

As if with a single mind, they moved mindlessly, grudgingly out of the arms of death’s repose, into one another’s embrace. Arm-in-arm they laced the empty husks of their former selves into a flesh tower, a tower that slowly accreted into a shape he knew all too well: the slithering body of the beast himself. The serpent demon had claimed them. Now they were his to command. One-by-one they added their mass to his growing girth. Inch-by-inch they added their bulk to its growing height.

Soon, the master of hell rose more than a thousand feet into the air, its body a writhing mass of rotting corruption and human flesh.

"Have I not opened my heart to you?" His words spewed from each of ten thousand mouths in a deafening chorus of malevolence.

"Have I not defended you in the face of your enemies?" His malice rained down from the heavens like droplets of brimstone.

"Have I not brought meaning to your pathetic, little life?" His intent was clear, his attack powerful, and his effect profound.

Galanor’s senses reeled. His resolve faltered. His identity shook. His lies began to unravel. He felt naked and exposed.

"You are mine Galanor, now and forever. Don’t ever forget that. It’s not a matter of ‘if’ you will yield to me, it’s a matter of ‘when’. Do you understand that, slug? You are mine. Your soul can never be redeemed. Never! You are beyond reclamation. You are mine."

No … No … No … His words bore little strength, and even less resolve. I’ll … never … He struggled against the demon’s conviction. He had none left of his own. Around him, the world was awash with the perfume of corruption; within him, corruption had long ago consumed the man he had been, leaving him little more than a bankrupt shell, mouthing words without substance into a universe without ears.

"Never! You stupid little man. You are nothing compared to me. Nothing! I am the universe incarnate. You are pathetic and weak. Your vow is nothing. Your mission is nothing. You are nothing, nothing more than a butcher. Nothing! Do you understand me?"

The distant sound of braying horses, and the purposeful rustling leather and steel, breached the maddening din. Galanor heard it, but it was far too distant, and far too insignificant to offer any comfort or hope.

You are useless sperm Galanor. Azool’s ranting continued unabated, and with increasing vigor. "I am sick of your constant whining about despair. Here me now, murderous scum, you have yet to know the true meaning of despair. You have yet to gaze into its ravenous eyes. You have yet to feel its hunger. But I promise you…, his voice grew deeper and echoed with a terrifying intimacy, ...you shall!"

With that, Azool exhaled a mighty river of cancerous vomit. Dark and dank it consumed what was left of the day’s light, and all that remained of the breathable air. The world turned to ash and smoke.

Galanor sank to his knees, his lungs imploding. There was nothing left to which he could anchor his senses. His universe spun wildly out of control.

He was alone.

He had always been alone.

He would always be alone.

In his desperation and pain, his mind reached out from the abyss and grasped hold of the one source of pure light in his life. She, who was to have been his mate for all time; she, whose love lived in his heart, encased in the spiritual amber of tender memories...‘Kara…!’

But even here, Azool’s evil insinuated itself. For as his heart filled with joy his mind imploded with grief. For it was she, his most beloved, whose life was made forfeit by his deadly hand.

His heart sank.

His soul bled.

Kara! He shouted her name into the echoless void of his madness. He could see her, there, in the gray, swirling mists of his dementia. He reached out to embrace her. Her eyes were clear and sparkling with life. Her skin was golden, soft, and firm. Her lips were warm and moist, as they formed his name.

Kara! Forgive me. Forgive …

Her smile vanished. The crimson glare of twin, red suns reflected off the polished silver of her armor, and the auburn majesty of her flowing hair. She lowered her head, turned, and walked slowly away. The gray mists once again claimed her. She was gone …

… Me.

Galanor.

Gone …

Galanor.

Gone …

Galanor…, a powerful, yet gentle hand came to rest lightly upon his right shoulder, … are you alright, my friend?

Yes…, timbreless and shallow, Galanor’s words struggled to reach Pharon’s ears, … I’m fine.

Slowly, the towering Atlantean opened his swollen eyes and raised his leaden head. The last rays of this brutish sun clung to the horizon, like a desperate child, fearing the coming of the night, casting an eerie, crimson glow across the bloodstained desert floor, as they did.

Do you need …? Pharon asked in a voice barely above a whisper.

...No! Galanor replied quickly and with a finality that left no room for error.

With that, the one-time priest of the Atlantean House of Shamun stepped lightly away from the crouched form of this, his oldest and most troubled friend, setting his body as a bulwark between him and an unforgiving world. Though their friendship had become strained and frayed in places, he would never let Galanor be seen as weak. He would never abandon or betray him. He would never reject or compromise him. He would never turn his back on him; or, so he thought.

A deathly silence ruled the desert as the first faint stars, distant and uncompromising, took possession of the ebony sky. Even the battle-weary warriors, sitting astride their well-schooled and highly disciplined mounts close by, did not stir, did not speak, and did not question. They merely sat in the oneness of battle-tested comradery, grimly mute and curiously transfixed on the kneeling giant who ruled their lives and controlled their fates.

He opened his bloodshot eyes.

The Sandrack was as it had been. Nothing had changed. Mangled bodies, stacked like cordwood, lay all about him, in ever-deepening pools of crimson. The rotting stench of fear, loss, and decay clung to the arid night air as if hoping to find there, amid its careless disregard, some validation for the lives so easily squandered on the altar of hubris. The demon was gone. The consummate darkness and towering evil were gone. The haunting choir was gone. All that remained was silence.

He struggled to his feet.

Inch by ponderous inch, he clawed his way back into the tenuous embrace of a desperate reality. It was not easy. He had stared into the abyss of madness, only to see his reflection. He had heard its proclamation of doom, only to tremble at the echo of its truth.

He stared into the ink-black sky.

The crippling pangs of salacious despair and wanton emptiness had likewise imprinted themselves upon his soul. Their chilling homily echoed in his ears. Their pernicious message clung to his heart.

He breathed deeply of the bracing night air...

The chilled breezes of the evening swept out of the distant hills. They were sharp and clean. The Sandrack heaved a deep, desert sigh. The sky, black and fathomless, had long since allowed the fetters of the day to snap and fall away. The warriors, silent and steadfast, seeing their commander rise, eased silently back in their saddles, their steeds finally able to rest.

...and sighed.

Pharon dropped his protective air, as Galanor sheathed his great, black sword. A slight smile creased his normally placid face as he sensed, if only for a moment, that his friend had come back to the world of the living.

The two men slowly waded through the dead, across a sandscape still slick with the essence of their truncated lives. They neither spoke nor gestured. They neither acknowledged nor disavowed what may or may not have transpired. They simply strode with a firm, even, and purposeful stride away from the killing field. Finally, quiescent and resolute, they stopped and turned to face the Legion.

Galanor rolled his massive shoulders and shook his head slowly from side to side.

As if taking that gesture as a summons, a huge stallion stepped free of his mounted fellows and moved with powerful purpose, and almost imperial dignity, toward the sullen giant.

His ebony coat was sleek, flawless, and covered a body of such dynamic might, that his movement across the littered sands was like a flowing river of molten obsidian. This was Lun-adan-ska: Equine Monarch of the Northern Steppes. Once, the earth shook under his unbridled stride. Once, vast armies of powerful horses followed him, with untainted loyalty, across oceans of trackless wilderness. Once, fearless, nomadic tribesmen trembled at the very thought of his passage. Once, but no longer.

The great steed stepped to within inches of his master’s side. He leaned forward; and, with an oddly demanding gentleness, rubbed his face against Galanor’s. He then stepped back and waited to be acknowledged. His wait was not a long one. Within a heartbeat, an uncharacteristically sensitive smile cracked the stoic warrior’s face.

Galanor reached out and drew his mount, once again, toward him.

"Hello Adan, old friend." His voice was low and soft, yet laced with an oddly desperate need for comfort and closure, a need he sensed could only be found here, in the company of his fearless battle companion.

The proud animal lowered his forehead and rested it lightly, almost lovingly, upon Galanor’s. He rolled his head gently from side to side, while his friend and master massaged the outer boundaries of his face. He snorted a low, even sigh of appreciation, as he stepped closer to this, the only human he deemed worthy of respect.

That’s a good boy. Galanor’s words were calm and soothing, as he whispered them ever so gently into his friend’s ears. It’s good to see you, my friend. His fingers were as hardened steel, yet his touch was as soft and as reassuring as virgin foam on a slow, rolling wave. It was a singular, unrehearsed, and simple moment of tenderness in an insane world of noise, fear, and hatred. It was a gentle moment of love, respect, and compassion. It was a solitary moment, a moment that was theirs and theirs alone.

But, nothing lasts forever and moments, special or not, are born to die.

I ‘taint never gonna’ understand how the likes of that great brute could be so gentle when he wants to be. His words were crass, flagrant, and bore the distinct aura of fatigue, as they scratched their unwarranted and unappreciated way through the momentary calm. I mean…, he continued as if his tongue were powered by a motor all its own, … look at him, he’s like a big ‘ol pup, just beggin’ to be scratched. It’s amazin’, is what it is. You know what I mean Tandolo, ‘ol chum?

Be quiet, back there Mushtir.

Sorry Pharon. But, the big black and me was just …

"We were not." With the tested iron of jungle-bred authority, Tandolo’s voice snapped the powerful, little Shemite’s words, as if they were draught-heavy twigs caught in the grip of a typhoon.

Well, I meant we …

Enough! Pharon turned in his saddle, the silver glow of the newly risen moon reflecting off his black, leather battle jerkin. I didn’t open this to debate Mushtir. Keep your mouth shut. Understood?

Aye, Capin’. Mushtir had come to know Pharon well enough to know when he was serious. He stopped his chatter, and, once again, surrendered to the disciplined silence of comrades.

The Sandrack had likewise surrendered, as it had freely given itself up to the ebony mistress of the night.

For the next few hours its rolling, crystal face would not parrot the harsh message of the sun. Its liquid dunes would not flow and swirl a desperate, torrid dance. Its fierce, desert winds would not howl, but would merely whisper their earthly cadence into the empty ears of a star-lit void.

Galanor reached down, snatched a canvas sack from the ground at his feet, and hoisted himself into the well-worn pocket of his hand-tooled, leather saddle. It was time to turn his back on this place of death. He reined his mount and moved outward, toward the horizon. Silently, and with well-practiced ease, the three hundred men and women of the fearsome mercenary Legion fell in behind him.

They trekked the fathomless sands, under the unblinking dome of the equally fathomless sky, until the first vicious breath of a new day cascaded over the eastern edge of the world. There, as if ordained by the gods themselves, the mounted warriors reached the lush, western boundary of Alakbah: The Divine Paradise. Across the countless leagues that marked the face of the Sandrack, this was the only oasis.

Set the parameter guard Tandolo.

Aye, Pharon.

He walked among them. They honored his passage. He was their captain, though not their commander. That was an honor reserved for Galanor and him alone.

Their horses had been tended, and their wounds had been dressed. Now they lay, in bone-weary clusters, on the soft grass. Hundreds of blood-shot eyes fluttered toward the sanctuary of deep slumber, while countless quiet prayers silently inched their way toward a host of mute deities.

They were the men and women of The Panther Legion, the most feared warriors the world would ever know. They came from every corner of the globe and spoke every tongue known to man. They were ferocious and loyal, vicious and independent, disciplined, and unified. They fought with one mind, one heart, and one driving purpose: to succeed no matter what the odds. They were the product of one man’s steel will and uncompromising vision; and they bore the indelible mark of his genius. They were Galanor’s to command without question or concern.

Many had been with him from the beginning when the mighty Salafar cleaved its way through the oceans of the world in a desperate quest for something it never found.

They could recall a time when their commander was something more than he had become; a time when he was more human; a time when he was more rational and sane. For the rest, they knew only the man who had come to inspire, motivate, and lead them: a powerful, brooding giant with a brilliant mind, and inordinate penchant for inhuman courage.

The guard is set. The towering Niulan’s words were kurt, brittle, and deposited with his customary dispassion. Will there be anything else, or may I rest?

No. Once, Pharon had found the seeds of his worth; and, recreated himself in a new image, thanks to the iron loyalty, and flawless integrity, of this man. Once, he had been saved from the pits of self-recrimination and despair, by the power of his trust. Once, they were strangers. Now, after so many years, and so many campaigns, they were still strangers.

Then, I’ll go.

As the one-time hunter-chieftain turned to leave, Pharon blurted …

Wait. There is something else.

Tandolo turned back toward his captain, his powerful physique silhouetted against the rising sun. Though he spoke not a word, his eyes demanded an explanation.

I want to ask you something, Pharon added slowly. You’ve known the commander a long time.

Tandolo responded with a curt nod.

Did you find anything unsettling about his behavior after the battle?

No.

Nothing?

Nothing.

I mean …

I know what you mean.

I saw…

I don’t care what you saw, or what you think you saw..., he paused for a heartbeat, then added with borderline disgust, "...Captain. We are done here." With that, Tandolo turned and began to walk away. Before he could manage two paces, Pharon reached out, grabbed his powerful shoulder, and spun him around.

Listen to me you lumbering ox, this is important.

No. It’s not.

Yes, it is. If he’s no longer capable of leading us, we must…

...do nothing! Tandolo barked with crisp and sudden finality. He is my commander, my friend, and my salvation. I live in the shadow of my debt to him. Then, with the speed of a jungle cat, he reached out, snatched Pharon’s wrists and turned them over, exposing deep, ragged scars upon each. As…, he added in a voice so laced with uncompromising judgment that froze the desert air, … do you. Neither man moved as, with icy clarity, he added, You would do well to remember that.

The next few moments floated suspended in that place where past and future are one; where memories, both precious and banal, are stored and cataloged; where anger is the uneasy consort of reason. Neither man diverted his attention from the other, as they stared into the other’s eyes with frigid hostility. Both were proud men. Neither would have willingly placed his life in debt to another, even one such as Galanor; yet, the currents and eddies of fate had swept each of them thus. It was a burden they both bore.

Tandolo acknowledged and accepted his debt with the same fire and passion that fueled his independence. It was rigid and unswerving, relentlessly honest and uncompromising.

Pharon, on the other hand, was forced to endure his within the lusterless gray shadow of an ancient friendship. For him, it was a ponderous weight, onerous and doggedly tenacious. He bore it as he might a coat of heavy chain mail, forever digging into his flesh.

Don’t lecture me, you…, Pharon ripped his hands free of the other’s grasp, and was about to reach for his battle dagger, when...

Is this a private little war, or can anyone play? Her voice, like perfumed moonlight mist, flowed across the chilled desert grass.

Draw that, and I’ll gut you with it.

You’ll try.

I’ll do more than try.

Boys. As she drew closer toward them, a vague hint of concern wove itself through the pattern of her words. It’s time to leave the sandbox.

I’ll not die today, you black bastard. But, when I do, I can promise you this, it won’t be by your worthless hand, you meaningless piece of shit. Pharon’s voice, icy and calm, carried the ring of battle-honed confidence and the iron resolve of command. Back off.

The space between them became a frozen wasteland of echoless vows and featureless anger. A slight smile creased Tandolo’s face.

Perhaps…, his words were delivered slowly, deliberately, and with carefully measured intent, …I was wrong… The smile broadened as he once again accepted that Pharon was indeed worthy of his respect. Long ago, in the rich, dense jungles of his homeland, he had learned with deep regret that senseless anger was a bitter, seedless, and jaundiced fruit. He had eaten his fill and refused to partake of it any longer. He bowed his head and added calmly and majestically, "… my Captain."

Perhaps... Pharon echoed, his hand resting lightly on the leather-bound hilt of his blade. His eyes were locked on Tandolo’s. His thoughts were clear and singular. He would not move until the other stepped away.

I’m glad you boys have settled that little problem, whatever it was. I was beginning to think that I was going to have to do it for you…, she stepped between them, pressed her lithe body firmly against Pharon’s, and added softly, … and, you know how I hate to sweat before breakfast.

Slowly and with passion-guided ease, her left hand slipped adroitly down into that private space between his flesh and the silk britches of his uniform. As her fingers danced along the tight contour of his body, she turned to the warrior-chieftain, and in a voice that could melt the sun added, Would you excuse the Captain and me Tandolo? We have some…, her hand began to move, with nearly surgical skill, toward the front of his leg, … unfinished business.

With a solitary glance, the one-time jungle monarch drank in the firm perfection of her sculpted form. Truly, this was a woman worthy of more than one night’s passion. Her skin was like liquid, almond-alabaster, that had been poured over a living statue of finely crafted fighting steel. He was not one prone to envy, but if he were, he would envy Pharon this woman.

Of course Yasmiean. Tandolo could not help but smile a broad, and nearly explosive smile, as he watched Pharon struggle to maintain his composure. Without further comment, the Nulian giant turned and strode into the open maw of the rising sun.

Now…, she released her right hand from the hilt of her sword; turned to face the tall Atlantean; slipped both hands down, into the front of his pantaloons; and began to coo, … about that promise.

Promise? Pharon exhaled a deep and almost explosive sigh. What promise? Words that only moments ago had flared with lethal fire, now danced with nearly adolescent joy. I’m sorry, Yasmiean, but, I can’t seem to recall any…, a hungry gasp swallowed what remained of his words. Her fingers had found their mark. Oh…, he stammered, "… that … promise."

"Yes, that promise. She withdrew her hands, rested them firmly upon his shoulders and whispered into his ear. You were going to show me how to …"

... Yes, I remember...

He cleared his throat with great pomp.

... but, to be honest Yasmiean, I’m not sure it’s the right thing to do. His voice bore that distinctly carefree lilt that only lovers can master. His mood was light and as delicate as the breeze that swirled between them. Don’t forget…, he added, as he began to stroke the fine contour of her finely chiseled face, …they’re called ‘secrets’ for a reason. They were written into the sacred tomes of my priestly order, hundreds of years ago. He sighed a long and very theatrical sigh then added, as he began to lose himself in the deep, azure wells of her eyes, I don’t know if I have the right to share them. I mean, the world may not be ready for….

Her lips were full, moist, and alive with passion’s fire. They touched his, as clouds touched the sky, bringing life and beauty. They devoured his fears, toppled his defenses, and left him vulnerable. They promised much and delivered more. They were the beating heart of the infinite universe come to rest upon his soul. They were all he could ever ask for, all he could ever want. He was lost, and happily so.

You were saying? Her lilting voice rode upon the desert’s torrid breath like sensuous honey.

I…I was saying. His words were adrift in a swirling sea of passion. What was I saying?

The world may not be ready for… she gently parroted, as a deep, sensuous smile lit her face.

Oh, right, the world. Yes…, he cleared his throat, and continued, …the world may not be ready for …

Once again, her kiss left him enthralled.

As their lips parted, and the fire of their love scorched the morning air, he placed his hands on either side of her delicate face and sighed with gentle laughter.

The hell with the world, he breathed huskily, I don’t care about the world. I don’t care about yesterday or tomorrow. I don’t care about the sun or the moon. I don’t care about life. I don’t care about death. I don’t care about anything…, he paused for a heartbeat, then added with Eros’ own ardor, ... except you. He looked into her eyes and found himself adrift in an ocean of joy. You, are my world Yas.

Really? She said, as her lips brushed tauntingly against his.

Yes. Of course. How could you doubt me? He asked as he guided her to a soft, grassy cushion beneath a swaying palm.

I don’t doubt your words, Pharon. She responded with a voice so tender and delicate that they seemed to flutter on the fragrant breeze. It’s you, I doubt.

Me? His heart sank as he felt a tremor of fear and regret tug at his dreams. "Why would you doubt me? Have I ever lied to you? Have I ever cheated or misled you? Have I ever made a promise I did