Hunters of men (prologue)

It was well into the night, midnight at the earliest, and no moon. Nothing a few feet ahead of you could be see, but the boy knew the path, he’d ran it a thousand times, yet he was never so unsure of where he was going. The rain was pouring as if it was trying to snuff out hell, and frigid, rapid winds stole warmth and security from him as he dashed across the slippery countryside rock-path. He went toward one of the first houses in the river basin, the hearth inside wasn’t lit to his dismay. He was still a distance from the house, running parallel to the savage, foaming river which threatened to burst its banks if given the chance. Within a few tense moments he was almost at the doorstep, only a couple strides to go.1

He felt a force seemingly spawned from the spirit-world slow down his movement and vision. His eyes lifted to the sky aghast, a red light spread out from what seemed to be the middle of the storm and a crooked red lightning bolt crashed to the floor, his eyes trying to follow the quick energy mass. The house he was moving to was its target. Before he knew it he was flying back, the house nothing but ashes after the lightning strike, which echoed vehemently throughout the community, jarring dozens awake. He rose to his feet to see the wreckage of his home. A voice echoed in his mind. Xile, do not fear what has happened, I do not expect you to grasp it yet. I have been betrayed, go into the house find a chest, it should be easy amongst the debris, take its contents and flee into the city, never looking back. I’m sorry I dragged you into this son.2

Stripped of emotion by shock he approached the steaming remnants of what was once his home. Unscarred in the back of the house was a chest; its lock was ajar from the lightning’s force. He examined the chest, noticing no special details, it was like all the others he’d seen before, but yet it survived something that destroyed his home. He tried to flip open the metal lock, it burned, but he ignored it and began to open the lid. As it locked into position, he examined the clothes inside. The rain stopped falling.3

Glowing orange eyes came into focus from the edge of the darkness, bobbing up and down as the twelve pairs approached a small pack of wolves, shaggy hair the color of blood. All leisurely took positions around their paralyzed prey. He couldn’t think of his moves, he was surrounded. The wolf directly facing him began to advance. Barking and snarling, giving a full display of his menacing maw. Xile backed up, crawling backwards on his hands and feet. The wolves from all sides began closing in, some imitating the first, barking and snarling, others exhaling small clouds of flame and smoke from their mouths. Desperate he sprang for the suit, covering the distance in a moment.4

It came alive, moving faster than he could see binding itself around his body, the wolves stopped their advance, lowering their tails and whimpering. They darted in different directions, each as hazes of movement.5

He wore a glittering black cape with a hood, sprawling from his back and some even folding over his shoulders. A fine white top fitting like a vest with a slight “V” neck, revealing the chainmail around his body, his pants were black and fit snugly, bearing intricate stitching running all throughout them creating a maze-like pattern, over some light fabric-like chainmail. His boots were strangely the same ending just above the ankle, and he wore close-fitting black gloves. He drew the hood till he believed it covered his eyes, and moved toward the far off city unsure of what would happen to him next, he walked along the dusty trails, to the city a dozen miles away where the mountains gave way to a pass and a city sprang up as a traveler’s rest-spot. Along the way his mind drifted, wondering what had made the suit come alive? What dual life did his father lead to make this happen, to destroy his entire family in a lightning strike the likes of which he’d never before seen? Could both of his parents been involved in this, and what could he find in the city? What was the suit and what purpose did it have? For each question he conjured up a million answers, before shooting them down after pondering for a few moments.6

The thoughts consumed much more time than he believed, as he was at the outer limits shortly after dismissing his final question, he hardly remembered moving along the valley. He was hardly tired, and he was now on the outskirts, the housing district where oddly no house was alight with fire.7

“A little late to be up and about boy, it could be unhealthy.”8

“-Pfft- He doesn’t know that, look at how he’s dressed, he’s one of those rich boys from in the valley, and he doesn’t know hard work from his ass.” Xile turned back to face those who tossed jeers at him. Two men, slim build, broad shoulders, masked and dressed in thick leather.9

“En garde.” Xile mocked. The men brandished their shortswords, one attacked, first while the other lay in wait. Xile put up his guard and lingered where he was. 10

Something took control of Xile’s body, telling him what to do. As the man outstretched the sword to stab him, Xile moved like he didn’t believe possible. His right hand shot out like a cannonball fired from a cannon, his fingers held together he jabbed at the man’s wrist, automatically causing him to release the sword from his grip. Stepping forward, he swung his body around gracefully, relieving the man of his sword and planting it firmly in his gut. Stepping free of the man, Xile threw up the glittering cape around him, making him one with the scenery, he was invisible short of the faint profile visible when he moved.11

Strength was being rapidly sapped from his body. He was being milked dry; his reserves were fading faster and faster with every second. In a half-mad attempt to save himself he spread out both of his arms wildly, casting the cape from around him. The other man was already upon him, an instinctual dodge to the left saved his life. The fabric of his shirt and cloak were sliced, he could hear the seams rip and the cool night breeze kiss his exposed skin. Xile wove a strong punch through the man’s defenses, scoring a blow to his stomach.12

The man still came at him with the sword, Xile tried to evaded the strikes, but tripped as he stepped backwards. The man forgot his weapon, sat on Xile’s stomach and pounded him with his fists. He battered him until his knuckles were sore. Everyone above Xile’s waist hurt. His assailant got off of him, sure he could not get up, and he fetched his sword and now planned to finish him.13

Against his better judgment, Xile pulled the cape over him once more turning himself into a mirror image of the ground below. The man paused, mid-strike. Xile kicked his feet from under him and as the man fell, he pounced and stole his weapon from midair. The thief hit the floor, and before the dust could settle Xile killed him with his own sword.14

Now he was exhausted, the cape was sucking him lifeless; his muscles began to spasm, the world span. He was falling, failing. A breeze undid the cape and freed him from its embrace. He fell to the floor, motionless as the men beside him.15