Companions of Death (eBook)

Sand, Blood and Survival - A French Foreign Legion Series in the Sahara, Book 5

Sandbergh Beyers, Pieter Haasbroek (Autoren)

Pieter Haasbroek (Herausgeber)

eBook Download: EPUB

2025 | 1. Auflage
119 Seiten
Pieter Haasbroek (Verlag)
978-0-00-082109-6 (ISBN)

Infos

A caravan butchered in the dunes.

Legionnaires murdered in the night.

In the French outpost of Dini Sadazi, the Sahara's silence has been replaced by the whisper of death.

In the unforgiving Sahara desert, French Foreign Legionnaire Joos Janse and his band of brothers face a new, unseen enemy. When their friend is mysteriously abducted from their fortified camp, they realize the threat is far greater than they imagined. A ruthless chieftain, El Dowla, is orchestrating a campaign of terror to wipe them from the map.

Thrown into a brutal desert prison, their captured friend is given a terrible choice. Teach El Dowla's warriors to use a devastating new rapid-fire rifle, or suffer a fate worse than death. Branded as deserters by their own commanders, Joos and his comrades must defy the Legion and race against time to infiltrate an impenetrable fortress, rescue their friend, and destroy the weapons that threaten to annihilate them all.

This gripping military adventure is a classic tale of action, mystery, and brotherhood under fire. Fusing the high-stakes suspense of a modern thriller with the raw courage of historical fiction, it's perfect for fans of Wilbur Smith and Bernard Cornwell.

Start your unforgettable Sahara adventure now with the fifth ebook in the series!

Textauszug

Chapter 2

BLADES IN THE DARK

One can feel it in the bustling marketplace, in the dark alleyways, in the cafes. One cannot escape it. In Dini Sadazi, there is tension. There is more than tension. There is the feeling of something imminent, yet no one can explain what is imminent. There is fear, yet no one knows what they fear. The atmosphere is heavy with emotional charge. It began this afternoon with the return of Company One from Fort Ney and the spread of the news that the pedlar caravan had been massacred.

Arab merchants with gaunt arms and sunken faces lament their plight to Allah over this misfortune that has befallen them, and they speak excitedly and whisperingly to their neighbours who now also must forgo goods they so desperately need. It is whispered that this is the work of El Dowla. It is whispered that El Dowla will not let another caravan pass until the French soldiers have departed from Dini Sadazi. In the town, there are many men who spread this unsettling news, men who present themselves as merchants but look far more like fighters. These same men spread the story that a terrible fate awaits the garrison. More than this, they do not say. That is all they have to tell. Then they simply walk on, spreading their stories.

A few do not believe these stories. Sadazi has been under French rule for years without any trouble. And yet, the Bormoen must have ventured perilously close to Sadazi to massacre that caravan, and the Legion did nothing to try and prevent it.

El Dowla is very strong. If he can blockade this garrison town, it will mean great suffering and hardship for the inhabitants. So, the Arabs talk, incessantly and babblingly, and they fall silent only when Legionnaires walk past.

Everyone knows that something is going to happen, that something must happen, just as it indeed came to pass shortly before midnight.

Just like the rest of Company One’s men, Private Petula spends the evening in the cafe, drinking wine from Algiers. He, however, tires of this before the others, for this is not the kind of wine they drink in Spain. Wine should be smooth on the tongue and warm in the throat. But this rubbish! It tastes like vinegar. This wine does not give a man that pleasant numbing. It merely addles his head, confuses him. And Petula feels that his head is now sufficiently muddled. He has had enough of it.

Apparently, the others are still enjoying it. Those three South Africans and the Englishman, that blond man in the corner, are laughing heartily, their glasses still half full.

But Petula has had enough. He is now going to walk to the barracks to sleep.

Petula is a little unsteady on his feet as he stumbles out of the Cafe Fazel and disappears into the darkness, into the many alleyways and narrow alleys so characteristic of these Arab towns. When he emerges into the night air, his head spins even more. The wine stirs even deeper within him. It makes him feel pleasant, light-hearted, almost reckless.

To tell the truth, Private Petula is thoroughly inebriated.

He begins to sing. It is an old Spanish song he learned as a boy, and it tells of a senor who is heartbroken because the senorita will not accept him. In that song lies the entire life of Seville.

Petula sings with gusto, his eyes growing moist from the emotion in this simple ballad.

If Petula had not been walking and singing, he might have heard the light crunch of sandals behind him, the faint rustle of silk.

But he did not hear it, and therefore he dies without even knowing it and without ever knowing why.

The curved knife slips upwards between the Spaniard’s shoulders. For a moment, his trembling tenor voice falls silent. Then it is there again, but this time it is a short, vibrating shriek.

Petula is dead before his face strikes the filthy sand.

In the Cafe Fazel, they can hear the Spanish song fade as Petula walks further away.

There are not many who listen to this song. Most tables are still full of soldiers who are either conversing or listening to others speak.

Joos, however, leans back in his chair and listens to Petula’s fading song.

“That Spaniard can sing beautifully, and it feels as if he’s in the mood for singing tonight,” says Marleigh, yawning slightly.

Joos nods. “Petula is thinking of Spain tonight, and when he thinks of Spain, he wants to sing,” says the South African.

Neels and Org are arguing about something not exactly of world-shattering importance, but they break off and listen too.

“That fellow sounds almost happy,” says Org. “It’s quite strange what a bit of Arab wine can do. He has apparently forgotten that tomorrow he will have to toil with the rest of us on the parade ground again.”

Joos patiently draws on the brown cigarette he had just rolled. It feels as if he is smoking coarse tobacco, but he enjoys it.

“It’s good if a man can become like Petula now and then.”

The singing breaks off in the middle of a note. A scream takes its place.

Joos looks up quickly.

That scream was not loud, but Joos heard it clearly because Petula was not yet far.

Joos says quickly. “Wasn’t that Petula who screamed there?”

The others fall silent and instinctively look around to see if anyone will confirm it. The babble continues, however, and if the other soldiers heard the scream, they pay it no heed.

Joos stubs out his cigarette and immediately stands up. He says nothing further. It is not necessary. The other three also stand up, and they quickly go outside.

Around Petula’s body, a crowd of Arabs is already gathering. Neels clears a path through the crowd. Neels reminds one of a bulldozer, pushing everything before him. Neels, however, has to struggle and wrestle before they can reach the body and Joos can examine it. Someone whistles as Joos turns the body over, and the long, red gash on the Spaniard’s back becomes visible.

“We must take him to the barracks at once,” says Org. “We’ll have to tear this place apart like a feather pillow to find out who did this thing.”

The Arabs speak urgently and whisperingly among themselves, and two words are repeated like a refrain. “El Dowla… El Dowla… El Dowla.”

Joos hears these words, and the others hear them too. Marleigh is just on the point of saying something when he suddenly freezes where he stands. A tall, impressive Arab, who possesses the slow, deliberate movements of a cat, has moved forward through the Arabs. He comes to stand half over Petula. His skin is lighter than that of the Arabs in this region. He glances around arrogantly. Then he spits on Petula’s body.

A moment of absolute calm descends upon the crowd. Not one stirs a finger, and not one even whispers.

The silence is broken by this tall Arab. He straightens his body, stares contemptuously at the few soldiers, and then laughs curtly and derisively. He begins to walk away from the body.

He does not get far, however, no more than a pace or so. It is Neels who stops him.

Neels is not a fellow who can think quickly. His brain is almost perpetually at rest. Even the chatter of the other soldiers is often beyond his comprehension. But what he lacks in intellect, Neels possesses in double measure in physical strength. This is now something he can understand. This is not a matter of words, which usually confuse him. This tall scoundrel has spat on a fallen comrade, and for Neels, that is enough.

Because he was previously a boxer, and a good boxer at that, Neels can move surprisingly quickly despite his size. At this moment, he moves precisely quickly.

His left hand shoots out, and he grabs the Arab by the shoulder. He yanks, and the Arab spins around so that less than twelve inches separate the two of them. The Arab’s nostrils flare. He slowly begins to search beneath the folds of his robe. Joos sees it, but he does not worry about it. This is not the first Arab Neels has tangled with. Knife or no knife, Neels is man enough for this kind of situation.

It is entirely right that Joos does not concern himself with the movement of the Arab’s hand. Neels has, in fact, also seen it. He suddenly steps forward so that he is almost against the tall Arab. His fist moves no further than the length of a tobacco plug. It is, however, enough. The Arab jerks forward as Neels’s fist strikes him in the solar plexus. He begins to slowly topple forward, but Neels is not yet finished with him. That same right hand recoils slightly and then arcs upwards. It is a perfect uppercut, and it is hard. Many in the crowd involuntarily groan their sympathy as the Arab’s head jerks and he pitches backward from his stooping posture onto the sand.

Without uttering a word, Neels turns and lifts Petula’s body as if it were the body of a child. The crowd parts to let him through.

The barracks are less than a quarter of a mile from the place where Petula was murdered. They walk it in five minutes. Over the entire distance, they are followed by the curious, whispering mob.

Tonight, Duparne is the sergeant of the guard. He is dozing alone in the guard post when they enter. His uniform is unbuttoned, and his legs hang over the back of a wooden chair. His thin, malevolent face tightens as he sees the four soldiers standing before him. His ill-humour worsens when he realises that one soldier has to be carried like a baby.

Duparne slowly rises from the chair, the increasing anger dispelling his drowsiness. The reason is that Sergeant Duparne had been dreaming pleasantly while he sat there dozing. He had been dreaming of the vineyards of Picardy, of the days when he was still a sergeant in the French regular army,...

Produkt-Details

• Erscheint lt. Verlag: 9.9.2025
• Übersetzer: Pieter Haasbroek, Ai
• Sprache: englisch
• Themenwelt: Literatur ► Fantasy / Science Fiction ► Fantasy
• Themenwelt: Literatur ► Romane / Erzählungen
• ISBN-10: 0-00-082109-8 / 0000821098
• ISBN-13: 978-0-00-082109-6 / 9780000821096