Revenge of the Sabre E-Book

Meiring Fouche

• Herausgeber: Pieter Haasbroek
• Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
• Serie: Sahara Adventure Series
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 181

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2025

Beschreibung

11. SAHARA ADVENTURE SERIES - REVENGE OF THE SABRE

The narrative commences in a bustling restaurant in Algiers, where Teuns Stegmann, a South African serving in the French Foreign Legion, is quizzed by his comrades, Fritz Mundt, Podolski, Jack Ritchie, and Petacci, about his rendezvous with Julie Lefevre. Teuns, bashful and reticent, refuses to divulge details, yet it becomes evident that he has been profoundly moved by the encounter. The atmosphere shifts abruptly when Petacci observes that they are under observation by a group of Arabs, particularly a diminutive man clad in a conspicuous blue garment and bearing a pockmarked face. Tension mounts, and Teuns, who discloses that he joined the Legion to search for his missing brother or avenge his death, perceives a link to the disappearance of the Sabre of Doetra.

Teuns’s past and his mission propel the story. He is confronted by the man in the blue garment, a so-called Raff Arab, who claims to possess news regarding Teuns’s brother. The discovery of his brother’s identification tag compels Teuns to believe this dubious individual, against the grave warnings of his friends. His determination to find his brother leads him to reckless decisions, including his intention to desert if leave is denied. Fritz attempts to stop him, knocking him unconscious, but in the ensuing chaos, Teuns vanishes. His comrades search for him, only to find that both Teuns and the Arab have disappeared without a trace.

Teuns finds himself in a dire predicament. He is held captive by Carlos, a deserter, and the diminutive man, now unmasked as Simka. Imprisoned and powerless in shackles, Teuns finds himself in a desperate struggle for survival against cunning adversaries and unknown perils. Will Teuns succeed in unravelling the secrets of the desert, or will he fall victim to his own quest and the vengeance of the Sabre? The answer lies concealed somewhere within an oasis, a secret that only the complete narrative can reveal.

#SaharaAdventureSeries

Leseprobe

REVENGE OF THE SABRE

by

MEIRING FOUCHE

and

translated, proof-read and edited by

PIETER HAASBROEK

Published by:

TREASURE CHEST BOOKS - PUBLISHERS

Strand Mews Strand

2025

REVENGE OF THE SABRE

The cover illustration for the Sahara Adventure Series was generated by AI software, which enriches the narrative. This book is being released for the first time in English in e-book format.

The copyright for this story is reserved and may not be reprinted or distributed in whole or in part without the publisher’s written permission. Reprinting includes any electronic or mechanical form, such as e-books, photocopying, writing, tape recording, or any other way of storing or accessing information. All characters and events in this story are purely fictional and have no connection to any living or deceased individuals.

REVENGE OF THE SABRE

by Meiring Fouche

Published by:

Treasure Chest Books - Publishers, Strand Mews, Strand 7140

South Africa

Copyright @ Pieter Haasbroek (2025)

Online Store: https://panther-ebooks.com

Website: https://www.softcoverbooks.co.za

SUMMARY

The narrative commences in a bustling restaurant in Algiers, where Teuns Stegmann, a South African serving in the French Foreign Legion, is quizzed by his comrades, Fritz Mundt, Podolski, Jack Ritchie, and Petacci, about his rendezvous with Julie Lefevre. Teuns, bashful and reticent, refuses to divulge details, yet it becomes evident that he has been profoundly moved by the encounter. The atmosphere shifts abruptly when Petacci observes that they are under observation by a group of Arabs, particularly a diminutive man clad in a conspicuous blue garment and bearing a pockmarked face. Tension mounts, and Teuns, who discloses that he joined the Legion to search for his missing brother or avenge his death, perceives a link to the disappearance of the Sabre of Doetra.

Teuns’s past and his mission propel the story. He is confronted by the man in the blue garment, a so-called Raff Arab, who claims to possess news regarding Teuns’s brother. The discovery of his brother’s identification tag compels Teuns to believe this dubious individual, against the grave warnings of his friends. His determination to find his brother leads him to reckless decisions, including his intention to desert if leave is denied. Fritz attempts to stop him, knocking him unconscious, but in the ensuing chaos, Teuns vanishes. His comrades search for him, only to find that both Teuns and the Arab have disappeared without a trace.

Teuns finds himself in a dire predicament. He is held captive by Carlos, a deserter, and the diminutive man, now unmasked as Simka. Imprisoned and powerless in shackles, Teuns finds himself in a desperate struggle for survival against cunning adversaries and unknown perils. Will Teuns succeed in unravelling the secrets of the desert, or will he fall victim to his own quest and the vengeance of the Sabre? The answer lies concealed somewhere within an oasis, a secret that only the complete narrative can reveal.

EXTRACT

He lay staring up at the sky again, and it was then that he saw it, the large black shadow that had just flashed over him, for the sun had risen some time ago.

Teuns Stegmann jolted in alarm.

It was the shadow of a vulture. He had never considered that. He had completely forgotten that these pernicious things see better than any human. And this vulture had seen him.

He searched the sky. Yes, there the vile thing was again. It circled high, but it circled surely. Another one joined it... and another.

He clenched his fists, gritted his teeth, and felt as though he could scream a curse at these pernicious birds that now seemed intent on betraying his position.

They circled and circled, and thick black shadows slipped over Teuns each time.

He began to tug and pull at the shackles again, trying to wrench the cuff from his arms, but it was futile. He tried the same with his legs, but in that too, he did not succeed. He felt like someone relentlessly cornered.

What could he possibly do when a Doelak descended upon him here?

He tried, however, to remain calm, his thoughts constantly working towards a possible escape attempt.

11. REVENGE OF THE SABRE

Chapter 1

THE LITTLE STRANGER

The lights are dim, the noise is loud, and the fume of wine hangs throughout the large room where a great throng of humanity sits, talking and drinking animatedly. Men of the French Foreign Legion rub shoulders with Arabs in long white robes, traders, caravan drivers, hawkers, and idlers. Somewhere an orchestra plays Eastern music, then interrupts it again with modern jazz, but no one pays much attention to the music.

The Legionnaires speak extra loudly because most of those sitting and drinking here tonight are on leave, and they try to savour every moment, knowing that sooner or later they will have to return to the scorching misery of the Sahara desert.

Here at the small table in the farthest corner, there is loud chatter. Teuns Stegmann, the tall, blond South African, has just sat down here after carving a path through the milling crowd. There is a noticeable blush beneath the tan of his glistening cheeks, and a particular light shines in his deep blue eyes. His large, well-formed hands seem tremulous, and he is as diffident as a schoolboy who has taken out his first sweetheart.

“Tell us, tell us!” bellows Fritz Mundt, the large German, the strongest man in the French Foreign Legion.

“Yes, speak up!” urges Podolski, the big Pole.

“How does she kiss?” wants Jack Ritchie, the blond Englishman, to know, and they all lean forward, their torsos on the tabletop as if Teuns must impart some tremendous secret to them. Petacci, the small Italian, doesn’t ask questions, but he stares intently at Teuns as if he already knows the entire secret, as if he is privy to every little detail the tall South African could tell them. But eventually, he too asks.

“Are her lips warm and trembling, mon ami?”

Teuns shifts uncomfortably on the hard chair, looks at his hands, then at the bottles of wine standing before them on the table, and then simply over the crowd towards where the warm night lies outside.

“Come on, come on,” Fritz Mundt prods again. “Don’t keep us hanging like this, man.”

“What is there to tell?” asks Teuns, spreading his large hands despairingly and blushing deeper.

“How Mademoiselle Julie Lefevre kisses, that is what we want to know,” says Podolski loudly. “Or haven’t you found that out yet?”

Teuns looks somewhat helplessly at the large Pole.

Jack Ritchie lays his hand on the South African’s. It seems as though there is compassion in his eyes.

“Don’t tell us you just sat with her on a bench under some palm tree, mon ami,” he says.

“Or just went for a walk along the waterfront of Algiers,” Petacci breaks in.

“Or just stood looking at the moon,” bellows Fritz Mundt. He throws his hands in the air. “After all, you saved her life, didn’t you, South African,” mocks the big German.

Teuns Stegmann’s thoughts slip back for a moment to that bitter time when the Arabs kidnapped Julie Lefevre, the beautiful daughter of Captain Gaston Lefevre, when she went to visit her father in Dini Salam. That was the time when he and Gaston Lefevre alone had to outwit a horde of Arabs in Fort Laval to save their lives and Julie’s. That time, she had cordially invited him to come and visit her when he was next on leave in Algiers, and now he had done so.

He thinks of their evening together at her apartment, of the meal she prepared for him, of the delicate wine she poured for him, of the soft, stimulating fumes of exquisite French perfume, the fragrance of her hair, and the supple, heated allure of her lips. He thinks of her lips, how they trembled lightly beneath his searching mouth, and how her arms closed around his shoulders in delightful surrender. He hears her whisper of ecstasy again and feels again the slow movement of her slender fingers through his hair.

He looks at the men around him, at each of them in turn. He sees the mischief in their eyes, and also the longing.

“One doesn’t talk about such things,” he says helplessly. He leans forward, and there is emphasis in the set of his shoulders. “Not one of you scallywags would divulge what you got up to with a young lady in an evening, of that I am quite certain. You have become utterly corrupted in the Foreign Legion.” He looks particularly at Jack Ritchie, whom he had always regarded as a finely educated man.

“Don’t try to teach us etiquette,” Fritz bursts out. “We want to hear what you got up to.”

Teuns laughs, embarrassed, and fidgets with his hands. “You’re just being ridiculous,” he defends himself. “I won’t tell... except that she is a wonderful person. I am going to see her every evening while we are here... another full, wonderful week.”

Podolski covers his mouth with his hand. “You lucky devil,” he whispers.

“What’s wrong with you lot?” asks Teuns, frowning and embarrassed. “Why don’t you each take a young lady out too? Are you telling me there are no girls you can take out here in Algiers? The place is teeming with beauty.”

“But none of them are Mademoiselle Julie,” complains Jack Ritchie. “This other lot just wants to drink wine with you and spend your money. And then they lose interest.”

“Can’t we take turns with Mademoiselle Julie?” asks Petacci timidly, his small eyes twinkling. Teuns immediately annihilates the little Italian with his sharp gaze.

They stare at him so intently that he simply beckons the waiter over and orders more wine.

“Are we going to hear something about your romance tonight or not?” Fritz Mundt asks again. Teuns quickly wipes his face, with a gesture of pure exasperation.

“Just leave me alone now,” Teuns requests. “Let’s drink wine and be merry and drop this nonsense of yours now. If you carry on like this, I won’t come back to you after being with Julie again.”

“It must be wonderful to keep such a secret in your heart,” whispers Podolski, wringing his hands together.

The words between them fray, and one after another, they start looking at Petacci. The little Italian’s attention is no longer with the group around the table. He stares away over the crowd, his eyes narrowed against the irritation of the smoke haze filling the large restaurant.

“What are you sitting staring at, Italian?” asks Podolski. “You almost look as if you see a Doelak lying in wait for you.”

“We are being watched,” says Petacci. “There’s a yellow-belly here who’s interested in us.”

“We must be five handsome fellows to him,” mocks Jack Ritchie.

“He’s not looking at us as if we’re handsome,” says Petacci. “Don’t all look at once,” says Petacci. “I’ll indicate where he is sitting, then you can also glance over occasionally. He is definitely keeping a close eye on this table.”

“You make me shudder, Italian,” Fritz Mundt teases. “An Arab shouldn’t sit staring at me. I’ll just get up and go break his rotten neck. I’m in the mood for a fight tonight anyway.”

Petacci indicates as unobtrusively as possible where the Arab is sitting, and the others glance that way in turn.

We are definitely being watched, is the conclusion they all reach.

“We are not only being watched, we are also being discussed intently,” Teuns finds.

“Yes, that is quite certain,” Podolski agrees. “That group there at the table belongs together, one can see that all too clearly.”

“Why would we be watched and discussed?” is the question Jack Ritchie voices, and it is also the question each of them asks, although they do not voice it aloud.

“We are famous people,” opines Fritz. “How many times haven’t we made the yellow-bellies look foolish,” he says proudly.

“You mustn’t forget that we hid the Sabre of Doetra, brothers,” says Podolski out of the blue. “That makes us marked men among the Arabs.”

They all fall silent at once, for this fact strikes each of them individually. Jack Ritchie glances quickly at the Pole, and Teuns suddenly fidgets with his fingers, his expression abstracted, his eyes somewhat sombre.

“You make a joke about it now,” says Teuns, “but it is the truth. The Arabs can forget the disappearance of the ceremonial Sabre of Doetra just as little as Jack Ritchie’s people can forget the battle of Waterloo.”

“You sound terribly impressive. One would swear the Arabs know we threw the Sabre of Doetra away in the Harba oasis.” It is Petacci who speaks thus.

“Arabs are the best detectives in the world,” Teuns opines. “If they want to find out who hid the Sabre, they will find out, of that you can be very sure, Signor Petacci.”

The Arab watching them most intently is a small, ridiculous little man with sly eyes and pockmarks on his face. His garment is different from those of the other Arabs. It is of a dark blue, rough fabric, and the hood is much longer than that of the ordinary Arab, so that he can conceal his face very deeply if he were to pull the hood fully forward.

“To which tribe does he belong?” asks Fritz, while glancing sideways again at the little Arab who is watching them so fixedly.

“Must be one of the tribes in the far south,” says Teuns. “The tribes near the border of Libya wear that type of clothing.”

“Then the whole story regarding the Sabre of Doetra falls apart,” says Podolski, “because it is only the Doelaks who are interested in the Sabre. If this little creature comes from the border of Libya, you needn’t think he is looking at us because he imagines we know something about the Sabre of Doetra.”

“Your story about the Sabre of Doetra is inappropriate in any case,” Petacci opines. “No Arab knows who hid the Sabre, nor where.”

Teuns picks up a bottle of wine and fills everyone’s glasses again. “We must finish drinking and leave,” he says. “I don’t like the attitude of that little filth at all. We cannot afford to get into trouble during our leave.”

“I’ll see him in hell before I gulp down my wine just because he’s sitting staring at us,” threatens Fritz Mundt.

“How do you know then that that creature comes from the far south?” Jack asks Teuns. “This is the very first time I’ve seen an Arab in that attire. Seems you know more about the Sahara than the rest of us.”

“He probably read it somewhere,” Podolski guesses.

“I didn’t read it anywhere,” Teuns answers somewhat curtly. “I have seen those Arabs before and have been among them.”

The men look questioningly at the South African, this time with far more interest than when they questioned him about the evening with Julie Lefevre.

“Among them?” asks Fritz Mundt, his eyes betraying disbelief. “When were you among the Arabs near the border of Libya then?”

“When I was searching for my brother,” says Teuns Stegmann briefly and matter-of-factly. They all fall silent at once and just stare at the tall blond man. He had told them about his brother once before, but he had never said much about it.

“That little man is a member of the nomadic Raff tribe. They wander through the southern desolation of the Sahara, near the border of Libya. A rotten bunch and very cruel.”

“I didn’t know we had a traveller in our midst,” says Petacci softly. “You have never told us much about your brother.”

Teuns fidgets with his hands on the table. “It is because of my brother that I am in the Foreign Legion,” he says, suddenly feeling inclined tonight to say more about this matter.

“Your brother?” asks Podolski, as he had never heard Teuns’s story before.

“During the Second World War, my brother was a pilot. He was shot down in the southern desert and afterwards began to trek somewhere on foot. I later established that he ended up among the nomadic Arabs. Apparently, he went seeking help from them. They then simply killed him. However, I do not know if it was these Raffs. There are indeed indications that my brother came further northwards. That is why I temporarily gave up my South African wine farm and joined the Foreign Legion.”

“So you are a Crusader?” inquires Podolski.

“If you wish to call it that,” the South African answers calmly.

“Have you never heard anything more about your brother?” asks Petacci.

“There are strong indications that he was indeed murdered, but I have never accepted it as final. I have always held onto the hope that he is alive, that he is being held captive somewhere by these barbarians. That is why I am in the Foreign Legion... partly to try and find my brother in case he is still alive, and otherwise to avenge myself on these cruel wretches who may have murdered him...”

“We are still being watched intently,” says Fritz Mundt. “I’m starting to get thoroughly fed up with it.”

“Sit still, Fritz,” says Teuns. “This thing will move one way or the other shortly. I have an idea that little creature won’t just keep sitting and staring at us.”

“I want to go ask him why he’s sitting there looking at us?”

“Sit still, Mundt,” Podolski admonishes again. “If you make trouble here tonight, our hair will properly fly, because there are about four Arabs for every Legionnaire here.”

“There is another way to determine exactly what is going on,” says Teuns. “We can quickly find out if that fellow is just staring at us because he hates Legionnaires.” The South African suddenly stands up.

“Where are you going now?” Jack Ritchie wants to know.

Teuns does not answer. He begins to walk slowly between the tables, through the throng of people and tables.

He had not moved three paces when that strange Arab with the unusual garment also got to his feet.

Teuns walks no further. Quite unobtrusively, he turns around and sits down again. “What did I tell you?” says the tall man. “It seems our friend doesn’t want me to leave this restaurant.”

“But the ridiculous little filth,” says Fritz, grinding his teeth. “I’m going to knock his jaw off right now.”

“It is rather an interesting phenomenon,” says the perceptive Petacci. “It is clear that yellow-belly is seriously after your blood, Stegmann.”

Teuns doesn’t answer, but he knows those words are true. It causes a strange tingling inside him. It even makes him slightly short of breath. “Let’s go,” he suggests. “I don’t like this business, and besides, I don’t want trouble on this leave.”

“We can understand that all too well,” says Podolski. “If I had Mademoiselle Julie by the wing, I wouldn’t tolerate disturbances either.”

“Don’t be frivolous, Podolski,” admonishes Jack Ritchie. “We are all in this affair together, of that I am quite certain.”

“They are primarily after Teuns’s blood,” says Petacci decisively, as if it were a fact that could not be reasoned away at all.

“You sound very sure of yourself,” mocks Podolski.

“There is one big difference between us two, Podolski,” answers Petacci ill-humouredly. “I pay attention to things, and you dream your time away. When Stegmann stood up, I watched those yellow-bellies carefully. The way they gestured, the way they stared at him, and the way they talked amongst themselves, proves only one thing, and that is that they are very interested in Stegmann. I don’t know why... perhaps Stegmann entertained the Sheikh’s first wife when he wandered among the Raffs.”

“Yes, apparently your past is catching up with you, Stegmann,” teases Fritz Mundt. “But don’t worry, mon ami. You have four very loyal comrades who will stand by you if they perhaps want to skin you.”

“What are we going to do?” asks Teuns uncomfortably.

“Drink wine,” answers Fritz nonchalantly. “And if necessary, we fight our way open to the door. My hands are itching tonight to knock a few yellow-bellies flat.”

“We are still being discussed, and we are still being stared at,” Petacci informs them. “That little one with the funny garment looks to me like a rat that has starved for a long time. If he greeted me tomorrow, I would first check if the sun was shining.”

“Now the waiter is coming to tell us something,” relates Petacci, who observes everything more meticulously than the others. “He was over at that table, and now he is coming here.”

The Arab waiter comes to stand very solemnly and subserviently beside the men’s table. He looks at them in turn, with a question in his dark eyes. Fritz Mundt’s eyes are narrowed and threatening, his breathing deep.

“Easy does it, Fritz,” Teuns admonishes him again, and the big German remains seated with difficulty.

“Legionnaire Stegmann, I am looking for Legionnaire Stegmann,” the waiter announces tremulously.

“I am Legionnaire Stegmann,” Teuns answers curtly.

“There is someone there at the other table who would very much like to speak with the Legionnaire,” says the waiter. “He asks if the Legionnaire would not drink a glass of wine with him.”

“Tell him to go to hell,” answers Fritz before Teuns can say a word.

“Tell him to go drink from a camel,” mocks Podolski, bursting into proper laughter.

Teuns looks up at the Arab. “What does he want to talk about?” the South African asks.

The waiter shrugs his shoulders. “Don’t know, mon ami,” he says familiarly. “He just said it is very important.”

“Does he perhaps want to sell dates?” asks Jack Ritchie disparagingly.

The waiter just shrugs his narrow shoulders again.

“Tell that fellow if he wants to talk to me, he can come here. I am not following him.” Teuns’s words are hard and chill. “Tell him the day has yet to be born when I will follow a Raff...”