Fire In The Desert, Pt. VII
In which the desert ritual gets interrupted in 1945, Jean-Marc investigates, and Hugo meets someone.
This is my third short story from the HugoVerse.
Previously: The desert ritual went awry and Jerzy and Malik got into even bigger trouble, and Hugo heard some unpleasant truth from Al-Khatib.
AUTHOR’S NOTE:
Just a small reminder that I’ve published my previous short story, “Theodora’s Necklace”, currently paywalled, as an ebook on Amazon! If you’re not ready to take out a subscription and follow my writing on an ongoing basis, you can support my writing by buying it here!
Somewhere in Jordan. 2005.
Hugo was slowly regaining consciousness. His body was still a bit numb, and his head felt as if his brain had been turned into cotton candy.
He couldn’t move. He had been tied up thoroughly, and now he was lying on a hard floor of a truck, bouncing hard as it travelled somewhere. Not very comfortable. It was older and a bit dirty. With sand everywhere. But at least he had slept a bit.
There were a few boxes lying around that looked like some kind of equipment. Digging hardware?
What is going on?
He began to regain, bit by bit, his memory of what had happened. Al-Khatib. His own anger. The fight. The strange smell.
He had been so very stupid. Again. Allowed his emotions to make him lose awareness of his environment.
And then his grandfather. Could Al-Khatib tell the truth?
Hugo realized how little he knew about his past. His war time was something he rarely talked about, and Hugo never really asked. Maybe he should have.
It was high time to learn the truth. But certainly not from a stranger.
Hugo knew his grandfather was a good man. He was the best grandfather he could have.
But what if all of that had been an illusion? If he had another side?
Hugo was aware that the reality of war and how it made people do horrible things. And the reality of espionage, which basically worked the same way.
He was suddenly overcome by the pain of realization we really don’t know even those who are close to us.
A bump in the road made him bounce inside the truck. Which brought him back to immediate reality.
Where the fuck are we going? Who are those people?
And what the fuck had happened to Jean-Marc?
Malik’s school, Wadi Rum desert. 2005.
Putain!
Jean-Marc was standing behind the door leading to the backyard, having opened it just a few inches to see what was going on.
He had to do something immediately.
Just as Al-Khatib attacked Hugo, Jean-Marc swung the door open and made a step outside, only to see an obstacle. Two figures appeared as if out of nowhere, sneaking to Hugo from behind.
Shit.
He immediately put his hands together, creating a ball of white energy. Then he directed his hands at the backyard, trying to move the wind to stir up the sand and thus create a bit of a mayhem.
Then he felt something cold that had been pressed to his back rib.
‘Stop it.’
Jean-Marc raised his hands as a sign of surrender. The sand fell on the ground.
But then he swiftly moved his hands to the side and turned back to see the man that was standing behind him, while directing the wind and the sand straight at the guy’s face.
But the man was quicker. Jean-Marc felt a strong blow to his head and darkness began to descend on him like a shroud of oblivion. The last thing he saw was the other two guys pressing a piece of fabric to Hugo’s face.
Jordan, somewhere between Amman and Azraq. 1945.
It all happened at the same time.
The spirit disappeared.
Malik fell to the ground, unconscious.
And the lights from the oncoming car blinded him for a second.
Jerzy was left to his own devices.
At least he had his powers back.
For a few seconds, he was still in a shock of having killed Farid, but he knew there was no time for that.
He began with immediately creating a protective cloak around him. This might not protect him from the bullets, but in the unlikely chance there was a wizard with them, he would be covered for at least some time. Then he jumped behind the rock formation. He knew the terrain, they didn’t.
‘Drop the gun and give up. You’re overpowered,’ said a female voice in a harsh accent. Probably Russian. No surprise.
The Soviets. His biggest enemies. The people who basically murdered his country, its elite, and took over his land. The land his family has been cultivating and living on for hundreds of years.
Jerzy felt hatred rising in him, together with anger and grief. He knew it would blind him, cause him make stupid decisions.
But he was trained to deal with those things. And he knew this hatred. He was used to feel it rising in him in many situations.
‘Like hell I am,’ he shouted back.
And then he distanced himself from all the emotions and channelled them outside.
Think!
First objective – kill the lights. Jerzy focused on the torches, speaking to the flames. Then he drew power from them in the form of a few electricity currents that rapidly converged into a ball between his palms. He then split the energy into two separate currents and blasted them onto the car lights.
Everything went dark, except the last two faint torchlights that allowed Jerzy to see a bit. He could then amplify it with infrared vision spell, and they couldn’t – unless they were wizards.
Then, suddenly, a ball of light was shot into the sky, which illuminated everything, almost blinding him.
Jerzy looked at it, completely taken aback.
This is impossible.
And everything changed.
Malik’s school, Wadi Rum desert. 2005.
Jean-Marc felt his head would explode, as if there was a bomb inside, pounding and ticking. He opened his eyes and looked around, trying to remember what exactly had happened. Everything looked a bit blurry at first, then slowly began to get into focus.
Ah yes. The school. The back entrance. But there was something else, something more important.
He looked at the lantern at the other end of the corridor. The light felt like piercing through his eyes.
And his head felt as if someone stuffed it with cotton.
And then it came back to him.
Hugo!
He tried to get up quickly, but lost his balance and fell to the ground. He immediately felt dizzy and nauseous.
Oh fuck.
He stayed on the floor for a few moments, and then he tried to focus. He needed a few basic healing spells.
First, Clarity of Mind spell to cut through the mental fog. It was a basic spell, but in his state even focusing for a few seconds was tough. He felt nauseous again. But he forced himself not to vomit, placed his hands over his head and released the energy of the spell.
Better. As if after a good cup of coffee. Now he could think.
His head was pounding, he was still feeling nauseous, but he had no time to lose.
Deputy head master. He must know something.
He stood up again and dragged himself forward. He thought he would puke, but he overcame it and pressed on.
Slowly the dizziness subsided and his nervous system began to stabilize.
He reached Jalal’s office and knocked.
Silence.
He knocked again, more forcefully.
Nothing.
What the fuck.
He could only do one thing. He pressed the handle and let himself in.
And then he saw Jalal on the floor.
Jordan, somewhere between Amman and Azraq. 1945.
Dead bodies. More dead bodies.
Jerzy sat in the pre-dawn darkness, staring at the battlefield in front of him. The dust had almost settled. Malik was coughing hard while trying to crawl out of the rock formation.
The artefact was lying in the sand, outside the protective box.
Jerzy suddenly felt sick.
He crawled to the side and puked. He wanted to purge himself of everything he’d been through since 1939. He’s had enough. This is the end. No more of this shit. He was exhausted.
And yet a part of him knew this was not the end.
He was on the brink of bursting into tears. Something broke through. All the years of fighting, killing, hiding. This was just too much for one man. Even if this one man was a very powerful wizard.
Then he felt a hand on his shoulder.
‘I’m so sorry.’
He turned and saw Malik, who got down on his knees.
‘Please forgive me. It was my mistake that brought this onto you.’
The honesty and sense of honour in this man brought Jerzy to tears.
‘It’s… We all make mistakes. It’s all right.’
‘I will help your family and your descendants whatever the circumstances, whatever the cost, till the end of my life.’
‘You don’t…’
And then Jerzy stopped himself. This man was in pain, and all he could do was to graciously accept his offering.
‘Thank you. I’d appreciate that.’
There was relief and gratitude in Malik’s eyes.
‘Now let’s clean up this mess and finish the ritual.’
And then Malik bowed, and without uttering a word went away to start the work they were left to do.
Somewhere in Jordan. 2005.
The truck suddenly stopped.
Hugo heard a few people opening the front doors of the car. And speaking Russian.
Then there was another car, who just stopped. A few more doors opened.
Then someone entered the back of his truck.
A woman. Around 30 years old, black hair, cut into an immaculate bob, dressed in a black leather jacket and a pair of black jeans.
‘We finally meet,’ she said to Hugo in Polish, in a strong Russian accent.
Hugo wanted to say something spectacularly rude, but he found himself gagged. What an inconvenience.
‘You might wonder who I am.’
She approached Hugo in a quiet, self-composed manner.
‘This story begins in 1945.’
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More adventures await…
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