Sweet Revenge (eBook)

Sand, Blood and Survival - A French Foreign Legion Series in the Sahara, Book 10

Sandbergh Beyers, Pieter Haasbroek (Autoren)

Pieter Haasbroek (Herausgeber)

eBook Download: EPUB

2025 | 1. Auflage
136 Seiten
Pieter Haasbroek (Verlag)
978-0-00-082155-3 (ISBN)

Infos

In the unforgiving Sahara, a thirst for vengeance is as deadly as the sun.

For one soldier, it's the only thing keeping him alive.

In the heart of the untamed Sahara, the drums of war are beating. For French Foreign Legionnaire Joos Janse, this is no ordinary mission. He is hunting the ruthless warlord who brutally murdered his brother.

Betrayed by a corrupt commander and besieged by overwhelming forces, all hope is lost. When his captain is captured, Joos must defy his orders and venture alone into enemy territory. Failure means not just an agonizing death, but the slaughter of everyone he's sworn to protect.

But the enemy's treachery runs deeper than open war. A mysterious plague sweeps through the camp, threatening to shatter a fragile alliance from within. Joos must unmask a hidden killer before the desert erupts in chaos and his chance for sweet revenge is lost forever.

A gripping blend of classic action-adventure and high-stakes military thriller, this novel is perfect for fans of Alistair MacLean and Lee Child. It's a riveting story of brotherhood, betrayal, and the savage price of vengeance.

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

Textauszug

10. SWEET REVENGE

Chapter 1

TO ARMS

For days, Arabs with strained countenances converged on Haratzo. They came from the south, where the rich trading city of Aletto is situated. They came from the desert villages of the north and the east. From all parts of the Bormoen territory, they converged on Haratzo to be addressed by the Bormoen leader, El Dowla.

Now, the forty-three chieftains sat on cushions in El Dowla’s conference hall, listening to the great leader, the Chosen One of Allah. He was in the process of delivering his final plea.

No one could gauge the impact of his words, for those present sat with impassive faces, staring at his opulent robe and his portly figure. Occasionally, El Dowla’s corpulent hands would dart from beneath the folds of his rich attire, and then he would gesticulate, sometimes with furious gestures, and often again with gestures to try and persuade his audience that what he was saying was in the best interest of those assembled there.

“My brothers,” said the portly one, “in the past, we have indeed had our setbacks. No one suffered more from these reverses than I myself. From time to time, plans prepared in the minutest detail and with the utmost care, and which, moreover, were executed without the slightest hitch, have been thwarted by the intervention of that accursed Foreign Legion. However, they were fortunate each time, and good fortune does not last forever. This time we shall not, cannot fail. Now that they are building the new French fort in our territory, failure will mean the end of all our efforts and all our noble aspirations. It will extinguish the hope of independence for us, once and for all.”

El Dowla paused, and in the fleshy creases of his face, there was a sign of disquiet as he stared at his audience. For that disquiet, there were indeed good reasons. Three times in the recent past, he had promised them victory against the French occupying forces, and three times he had brought disastrous defeats upon the Bormoen. He knew that amongst the common folk, whispers were circulating, in the cafes, in the hovels of the poor, in the resting chambers of the rich. It was whispered that the struggle against France was hopeless and senseless.

Therefore, he now employed all the means of persuasion his Western education had taught him. He made use of every possible incentive to rekindle the waning enthusiasm among his people.

An elderly chieftain cleared his throat and slowly rose. The hot sunbeams, falling through the latticed window, shone directly on his gaunt, bearded face. The bright light was also reflected by the massive marble pillars, lending an almost ethereal sheen to the marble floor and the large tapestries on the walls.

“The Esteemed El Dowla speaks important words about the new fortress,” declared the old grey leader. In his voice, there was the nascent brittleness of age. “We all know that the French began building the fort a few weeks ago and that they are using paid Arab labour to do the work. We also know that this fort will stand the furthest into Bormoen territory, further even than Fort Ney, the furthest point to which the French have hitherto dared to venture. But is this sufficient reason for a new war against the might of the French Republic? Have we not already, to our sorrow, become acquainted with the fighting qualities of the French Foreign Legion? I bear no grievance against the French. As far as patriotism is concerned, I yield to no one here, but I appeal to everyone here today…”

El Dowla interrupted these words intended to caution the chieftains.

“You ask if the fortress is reason enough for a campaign against the French! How can you doubt such a thing? It is inconceivable that anyone could doubt such a thing. Once this Fort Vateau is completed, it will be like a blade held to the throat of the Bormoen people. Once it is finished, it will be out of the question to attempt resistance against the French, for such resistance will simply be out of the question. The time to strike is now, my brothers, before they have advanced so far that we no longer have any hope of success.”

The elderly Arab remained standing while El Dowla interrupted him. He continued as if his words had never been broken off.

“If we wish our people to be happy and prosperous, we must have a long period of peace. Our justified claims and our great ambition for independence must be forgotten, for the present at least. Surely it is better, after our bloody defeats, to live in peace with the French until we have learned enough from the advantages they have to offer us.”

El Dowla’s lips, usually thick and swollen, were now compressed, his mouth resembling a pale band. The elderly leader sat down again on the cushions.

“Live in peace with the French! You know not what you speak! This is the most outrageous thing I have ever heard a leader say! Is this not our dearly bought land, and are they not our occupiers and our oppressors? Has our nation not known a thousand years of militaristic greatness? Must we now tarnish that formidable reputation because we have suddenly become petty and afraid! Never, ever! I hear words about what the French can offer us. All they can offer us is a sham culture and a weakness they like to call ‘freedom,’ all of which will culminate in the downfall of the Bormoen people. What has become of our nation’s pride if we are to swallow all these things just like that?” There was the rustle of silk robes as a number of the chieftains shifted on their cushions, murmuring their assent to these brave words. In El Dowla’s small eyes, there was a bright, strange glitter as he looked them over.

“But I have spoken enough. This time I swear an oath that there will be no more failure. For if we fail, we die. If each of you places your forces under my command, I shall have thrice three thousand men. Never in the past have I had so many warriors. If we are to be saved, however, they will all be needed. It is for this reason that I have summoned you here. Now I shall ascertain how many stand behind me.”

El Dowla pulled the ornate bell-cord. Two servants entered. Each carried a shallow enamel bowl. One was blue, and the other red. The two bowls were placed side by side on a pile of cushions. El Dowla turned and looked through the latticed window at the yellow Saharan sunlight outside. Deliberately, he did not watch as each of the assembled leaders tore a strip from his robe and then placed it in one or the other of the two bowls.

When it was done, El Dowla turned again. He glanced only once into the two bowls, and it was sufficient. His face contorted into a triumphant grin. It lay somewhere between a smirk and a weary smile. He counted the strips in the two bowls. Thirty-eight he took from the red bowl, and only five from the blue bowl.

“My people are on the warpath,” El Dowla announced.

Private Joos Janse, the South African, savoured the sweetness of the cheap red wine in the cafe. Then he swallowed the wine and said. “So, Boers, tomorrow we trudge over again to where they’re building Fort Vateau, eh? How much longer will it take before that hornet’s nest is finished?”

Org Ochse, the other South African, removed his glass eye, polished it quickly on his trouser leg, and then inserted it back into the empty socket.

“They’ll be working there until kingdom come, old chap. You mustn’t think it’s just an erosion barrier they’re building. This is especially true for forts built so deep in the desert. They work with greenhorn labour, and they’re not the fastest in the world. They’re much slower even than our own black folk, and you know they’re worse than castor oil on a cold morning. I understand it will still be more than a month before they’ve reached the height of the lowest embrasures. In an ordinary building, that’s barely window height. No, that thing is a veritable behemoth, and you can be sure many seasons will pass before they’re done.”

Joos looked disconsolately around the small, dimly lit, grimy old cafe. Then he groaned and swore once out of sheer despondency. “Hell!” he groaned. “That means we’ll have to pitch tents in that godforsaken place for at least six weeks. Why the devil do they always pick Company One for this filthy work? Can’t they send some of these other blighters out on this sort of job for a change? Do these other chaps have rheumatism or haemorrhoids?”

Joos was not inebriated. It takes more wine than any Legionnaire can afford to make him see double. However, he had had enough of this affair, and his reaction was the normal response of an intelligent and resolute man to a little too much alcohol. He looked restlessly at the massive figure of Neels Bredenkamp, the third South African in the group.

“You don’t seem particularly worried about this outing, big fella,” Joos said, merely to provoke. “You’re probably looking forward to driving us all mad in the desert with stories about the time you supposedly made Robey Leibbrandt bite the dust in the boxing ring… the time he knocked the stuffing out of you, wasn’t it?”

Neels removed his cap and ran his massive hand over his enormous bald pate, on which not even a hint of a hair remained. Then he settled more comfortably in his chair. His movement was that of a large Afrikaner bull. He did not seem particularly pleased with Joos’s remarks. Once, long ago, he had been a professional boxer on the Witwatersrand. During that period, he had apparently fought Robey Leibbrandt once, or so he claimed. He could not refrain from babbling about his experiences in the ring, and he was rather sensitive about it.

“No man has yet had the honour of knocking the...

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: 0-00-082155-1 / 0000821551
• ISBN-13: 978-0-00-082155-3 / 9780000821553