Note to readers: “2200 Blues” is a novel in progress, and each chapter is an early draft in its unfolding journey. Your thoughts and reactions are invaluable, guiding its evolution and refinement. 2200 Blues © 2024 by G.R. Nanda. All rights reserved.
Trekking up the rise and nearing the flat-topped peak, the rock began to disappear ahead, giving way to a flatter surface. As they walked, the rolling terrain vanished, revealing a wide-open sky that seemed to swallow them in a flash of bright gold, penetrating the orange fog from the high sun. The vast expanse above glowed a warm yellow in the afternoon light. The earth below seemed to vanish as the sky unfurled, casting its radiance.
“We have no good news for you, Vramung,” echoed the voice of a familiar Thraíha from below. As Nickel and Akela trekked over the ridged top and down its declining surface, the afternoon light flared above them before fading, shrinking to a dimmer visage hanging overhead as the orange deepened in the air around them—warmer than before.
“I told you,” boomed a loud and austere voice, “I haven’t come here looking for good news. I’m here to bring the next age!”
“We’ve had enough of your tricks!” responded another Thraíha voice.
Wisps of the Thraíha patrolmen came into view—hard, gray backs mostly concealed by the fog but appearing side by side in a flanking formation.
“We’re not letting you through,” growled one of the patrolmen.
“You have a disciple of mine,” said the man, presumably Vramung.
“He left our village six days ago!” snarled a patrolman.
“I know you’re keeping him hostage,” Vramung said calmly. The figures of the patrolmen grew clearer in the fog, yet Vramung was still unseen. “Until you bring him here safely, I will not leave.”
Cries rang out from the patrolmen, some of whom broke formation in agitation, their stone armor scraping and thudding voluminously.
“Your cursed Out-Cast spawn of a student isn’t with us!” shouted the same patrolman. “You can’t come here and make that devil-spawn our problem!”
A patrolman from the left, near the center, stepped forward into the concealing mists. He spoke, identifying himself as the previous speaker. “We will bring the might of the patrolmen down on you if you do not leave.”
“ENOUGH!” roared Akela, walking briskly, his pace overtaking Nickel. “Vráthokk!”
The Thraíha patrolmen quieted, turning to face Akela, their formation now completely broken.
A hooded figure stood still behind the patrolmen, his more distinguishing features shrouded by the fog.
“There will be no violence on my watch!” Akela commanded. “The night of the Red Moon was a hundred years ago and will not happen again.”
Akela hurried down the last slope of the rock. The patrolmen parted for him, and he passed through, his gaze fixed on the dark, hooded figure known as Vramung.
“You all know this man as Vramung,” Akela said, standing in front of the hooded figure. Nickel rushed down, standing just behind the patrolmen, Akela’s back nearly facing him. “But that’s only the name of the Cast-Out in Thraíha legend. I know you from the days of the Hallowed Oaths, beyond the far reaches of my Thraíha brethren’s lands. I know you by the ancient name, Rishi.“
A flicker passed over the stranger’s face beneath the hood—a twitch of the eyes, a glowing flicker in his pupils as he raised his head higher to meet Akela’s gaze.
“What is the real reason you’ve come into Thraíha lands, Rishi?” Akela asked in a low voice.
The sound of a patrolman scraping his armored boot across the earth to the far left broke the silence. A light pierced the fog, casting greater illumination on Rishi’s shadowed face. A smile spread between his thick, glistening black beard.
“So we meet again at last,” Rishi muttered. “I never thought the day would come when another Thraíha would remember.”
Akela stepped closer to Rishi.
“I remember the name Rishi like the last lifetime of my forefathers was a dream of yesternight,” Akela whispered. “So I ask you again,” his voice grew venomous, “for what purpose does a Rishi enter Thraíha lands?”
Wind blew stronger, brushing the ends of Rishi’s beard—the wiry black locks lifting, revealing themselves to be longer than they had appeared. His smile stilled, hardening into a neutral expression.
“A millennium has passed since the subliminal code of my order faced the primordial nature of your tribe,” Rishi said.
“Just over a hundred years, actually,” Akela replied.
“Point is,” Rishi said, raising his head higher and inhaling deeply, “I haven’t forgotten you, and you haven’t forgotten me. Our souls remain intact through our lineage. I’ve been summoned to these canyons.”
“Not by us,” Akela said.
“No,” Rishi said, lowering his head. “The gates of Oblivion have been open for centuries in the Atlantic. There are callings that arrive from time to time, disruptions in the canyons that stir the worst elements of the Atlantic.”
“Enough with your riddles and histories!” shouted a patrolman on the right, immediately hushed by his comrades.
“Silence!” Akela growled, waving his hand at the patrolman. “This is between me and him!”
“The Death Riders are on the prowl again,” Rishi said, turning toward the patrolman who had interrupted, smiling grimly.
“No!”
“It can’t be.”
A ring of shocked murmurs echoed among the patrolmen, their boots scraping once more against the earth. Nickel’s head buzzed, overwhelmed by fear and confusion.
“I don’t mean to frighten you, but if you’re impatient—well, that’s just the most immediate threat among others.”
“The last Death Riders to cross into Thraíha lands were slain by our best warriors a hundred years ago,” Akela said, his voice regaining a fraction of its former surety. “I don’t know what you speak of.”
“A hundred years ago, the Thraíha had warriors,” Rishi said. “Now you only have hunters. You will have to seal your fate with Father Hawk or venture beyond Thraíha lands!”
“That was a hundred years ago, because the Broken Pact hadn’t yet occurred!” Akela said, agitated. “The Shatterings of the Lost World hadn’t been healed!”
“The ruptures of the Past World that created the Thraíha are happening again!” Rishi cried, fury blazing in his eyes beneath his hood.
A patrolman shrieked from the far corner of the group, gasps rippling through the crowd. Several looked up at the sky, hands trembling in shock and confusion.
Rishi sighed, lifting his arms from his billowing sleeves and removing his hood. His face was austere, edged by the hard lines of age and toil. Long black hair flowed from his scalp, gathered into a ponytail along his back. His beard wrapped around a strong jaw, and beady black eyes sat above his broad cheekbones, beneath thick black eyebrows.
“I said before that I bring a new age,” Rishi intoned. “I’ve weathered the tolls of this one. It’s arrived, and I seek your help.”
“I owe a Rishi for the fate of my great-grandfather,” Akela gasped. “But I don’t understand you! The days of the warrior Thraíha are long gone! We are a tribe of hunters now because our lands haven’t been attacked by agents of the Past World in a century! No Death Riders have been seen for a hundred years! We hunt the hawk, along with the rest of the Huntsman’s kingdom!”
“Look to the stars, and you’ll see the finger of the Devil,” Rishi said. “The Huntsman has sent a call for salvation and remembrance.”
“I knew there was something,” Akela said, shaking his head. “I just didn’t know what. The priests have guided us for so long. I thought it was a new turn of the Great Hawk. This is greater than I imagined.”
“How did this happen?” Akela asked, looking up at Rishi.
“It happened as it always has,” Rishi replied. “A change in the fabric. An outworlder crashed just scores from the Death Riders’ valley. A hovercraft—a flying vehicle—was spotted by them before crashing into the canyons.”
Nickel frowned, his mouth widening. His heart nearly stopped. Could it be him?
G.R. Nanda 