Temple of Violence (eBook)

Sand, Blood and Survival - A French Foreign Legion Series in the Sahara, Book 11

Sandbergh Beyers, Pieter Haasbroek (Autoren)

Pieter Haasbroek (Herausgeber)

eBook Download: EPUB

2025 | 1. Auflage
115 Seiten
Pieter Haasbroek (Verlag)
978-0-00-082159-1 (ISBN)

Infos

SAHARA

Ten years ago, he commanded the firing squad.

Now, a killer storm has trapped him in a desert ruin with the dead man's son.

Vengeance will be paid in blood before the night is over.

In the brutal Sahara desert, a cataclysmic sandstorm forces Captain Pleuteur and his French Foreign Legion patrol into a desolate, ancient temple. They are not alone. Inside waits Es Jissali, a Tuareg leader who has spent a decade dreaming of revenge against the man who executed his father.

As the storm seals them in, the temple becomes a pitch-black tomb where every shadow hides a blade. With the darkness as their ally, Jissali's warriors begin their silent hunt. Pleuteur must protect not only his men but also the estranged wife who just crash-landed at his feet, fighting an enemy who moves like a phantom and kills without a sound.

This explosive, action-packed historical thriller is a must-read for fans of Wilbur Smith and Alistair MacLean. A classic adventure filled with raw suspense, this is a tale of survival, betrayal, and a desperate battle against a foe who knows only one law, and that is vengeance.

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

Textauszug

11. TEMPLE OF VIOLENCE

Chapter 1

THE SANCTUARY

It began somewhere south of the Azores islands. It roared across the Atlantic Ocean. It struck the coast of West Africa over a distance of two thousand miles, from Casablanca in the north.

It screamed over the massive, mighty Atlas Mountains.

And when the Great Storm hit the desert plains of Central Algeria, it reached a fearsome power, a raging climax.

Nothing of this nature had occurred in the past fifty years, nothing that even came close. Entire camel caravans perished in it. The great animals were buried under the sand. Men died in the storm. But they were not buried before they were blinded, before their clothes were torn to shreds from their bodies.

No living creature that did not succeed in finding shelter survived this great storm of the desert, not one single living thing, man or beast.

This was a murderous destroyer.

It persisted for nearly twenty hours, and it struck with less than two hours’ warning.

Captain Pleuteur first became aware of the danger when he was some eighteen miles south of the forward Foreign Legion base of Azzuta. He was accompanied by five men whom he had led into the desert on special manoeuvres. Initially, it was no more than a kind of premonition, an indescribable, uneasy feeling in the pit of his stomach. This uncertain stage, however, did not last long.

Soon, Pleuteur noticed that the colour of the sun was changing, from pale yellow to bronze-red. The sun looked as if it were already setting, though it was not even noon yet.

Then came the light breeze.

That little zephyr was so gentle, so pleasant, so cool in this damnable heat. It whispered softly as it stirred up the fine sand between the dunes.

By this time, Pleuteur knew. He knew that the babe blowing over the sand would presently grow into the roaring, raging giant, the monster known simply as the sandstorm.

Captain Pleuteur made a formal calculation. According to it, he discovered that they could not even cover half the distance to the safety of Azzuta before the sandstorm hit. At that stage, he already knew that this would be a storm of exceptional violence, and he had to, at all costs, find shelter no further than seven or eight miles from where they then found themselves.

And that is a difficult problem in this part of the Sahara desert.

Captain Pleuteur now turned and raised his hand to the five men. The five fellows, walking one behind the other, shuffled to a halt. He looked at them for a moment, and at this moment, they hardly looked like an impressive force.

On each gleaming face, the beard stubble was three days old. Each wore a uniform that looked anything but neat beneath the whitish desert dust that had gathered upon it. Each was slightly stooped, partly due to the weight of their rucksacks and partly because they were all weary of the strenuous exercises here in the desert.

Pleuteur also felt quite disheartened.

He had been rather put out when ordered to lead these few men on a three-day reconnaissance mission through the desert. They were all potential candidates for the officer school at Saida. Before they could be sent there to be trained as corporals, however, they had to satisfy an officer with a rank no lower than captain that they were capable of finding their way unaided in the immeasurable desert, without even a compass or map.

As far as the candidates were concerned, this exercise had not been entirely successful. Three had shown themselves to be sufficiently intelligent and proficient. They were the South African, the Dutchman, and the Pole. Pleuteur had not yet finally decided, but he opined that the German would also pass muster. But the Italian! Good heavens, he was pathetic.

And while they had expected to be back in Azzuta tonight before dark, they now faced this wretched delay. Not only did it make one exasperated, but if they did not find shelter in time, they would all perish. This they knew very well.

Pleuteur pulled out his cylindrical map case, removed the lid, and drew out Map B, which pertained to this particular area. This was a good map, just like the rest of the set he had bought three years ago in Algiers when his son was born there. They had cost a great deal of money.

Yes, his son Andre and his wife Suzette...

How long ago was it that they had left? He would rather not think about it, not now.

And by a strange coincidence, his wife was due to arrive in Azzuta precisely today to see him after all these years. She was supposed to fly there. Suzette always flew wherever she wanted to be. He had received her letter just before they departed on the five-day exercise into the desert. He wondered why she wanted to see him now, after all these years of separation. And now his curiosity could not be satisfied before tomorrow, for tonight they would most certainly not arrive in Azzuta.

He concentrated on banishing these personal matters from his mind and focused on the map before him.

This wind was no longer a cheerful breeze. It had grown stronger. It felt as if the wind clung to his face, and it tugged wildly at his cap. It also tugged mischievously at the map he was in the process of rolling up.

He did not need to check their position. Being so close to Azzuta, he could determine it to within a mile, with pinpoint accuracy. With his pencil, he drew a light cross to mark the position where they currently found themselves. He looked at the names of places situated near them.

Fourteen miles due north was the village of Tako. That was far too distant. West-northwest lay the small trading village of Guafi. It was nearer, and there would be good shelter. They might reach this place, but it was doubtful, and Pleuteur realised that nothing could be left to chance if at all avoidable. This brewing sandstorm would not permit such a thing. Anyone caught in the open would die. However, there was no other place nearby. They would simply have to take the risk of trying to reach Guafi. But, good heavens, what a risk! It would be better to attempt it than to remain here in the desert.

Pleuteur was on the verge of putting the map away again when his eye caught a small mark on it. It was a very small mark, and the words beside it were so tiny he could barely read them.

It read “Sata Temple”.

Sata Temple!

My goodness! Now he remembered. Years ago, he had visited it with a patrol. It was a deserted old Arab temple. Once, years ago, there had been an oasis and a fair-sized village, but the oasis had dried up, and the village had disappeared. Only the ruins of the small temple remained. As far as Pleuteur could recall, the sandstone walls still stood, but the roof had long since perished. The roof, however, did not matter. It was the walls that were important. Once they were behind those walls, they would no longer have to fear the sandstorms.

And the Sata Temple was merely three miles to the east!

Pleuteur cursed himself as he realised he had almost attempted the impossible by trying to reach Guafi, while the sanctuary where they could shelter during the storm was practically upon them.

Pleuteur hastily explained his plans to the men. It was a military rule that the men must be informed in case something should happen to the commanding officer. He spoke briefly, for there was no time for lengthy explanations. As he spoke, he felt that the breeze of moments ago had now become a wind. Grains of sand began to shift in small flurries across the surface of the desert.

And clouds had made their appearance.

They were small, furious little clouds, rolling in from the west. Some of them joined together and grew. Sometimes they passed in front of the reddish sun, and then the desert turned grey, cold, strange...

Pleuteur shuddered.

He was thankful when he gave the command. “Avant!”

And with their shoulders bent far forward, they stumbled eastward.

When he saw the colour of the sun change, Es Jissali, leader of the Tuareg caravan, knew that shelter must be sought. As luck, good or bad, would have it, the Sata Temple was only five miles to the north.

This Arab had never seen a compass in his life, but merely by occasionally glancing at the sky, he could determine his direction in this immeasurable desert with pinpoint accuracy. This is what he did now.

Two months ago, he had loaded his camel caravan in Rabat, the coastal port of Morocco, full of merchandise. Since then, he had journeyed over the Atlas Mountains and entered the desert of Algeria. He had already done good business selling his colourful silks to the Arab communities. Then he had taken the unknown trade routes, peddling and bargaining in every village. Now he was on his way to Azzuta, where he and his cameleers would enjoy a well-deserved rest with ample money in their pockets. The arrival of the storm did not perturb him. It was but a minor affliction compared to his recent blessings, for this trading expedition had been an outstanding success. He had sold every last item and encountered no robbers.

Jissali, however, did not feel entirely happy about having to rest precisely in the Legion base of Azzuta. He had a memory like an elephant’s. He did not forget easily. His capacity for hatred was indelible.

And this Jissali hated the Foreign Legion with a hot, searing hatred.

He cursed all who served in this army.

Ten years ago, when he was still a boy, the Legion had killed his father. They had locked him in a cellar for months, where he could not enjoy the splendour of the sun or the freedom of the sand. Thus they had imprisoned his father, Es Szag, until his body had almost wasted...

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: 0-00-082159-4 / 0000821594
• ISBN-13: 978-0-00-082159-1 / 9780000821591