A/N: Replaced the cultist chant with latin. If my conjugation is off, please let me know.

Prologue

Despite the summer weather and the torches that adorned the walls of the lowest level of Castle August, the room was strangely cold. The little girl, who could not have been older than three, laid prone in the middle of a circle of midnight blue runes, shivering terribly and wishing very much that one of the priests would give her a blanket, or a cloak, or anything at all to shield her from the chill. She tried to move or give voice to her desire, but having gone unfed for several days, her strength failed her, and her tiny voice was completely covered by the chanting of the priests.

“Prognatus nox noctis, victus atrum, insquequo nex umbra…” The robed priests chanted over and over, the words seeming to make the room even colder to the child.

“I’m hungry,” whispered the girl, tears beginning to form in her eyes. She’d lost track of how many times she’d cried since these priests took her away from her mommy and daddy.

“Prognatus nox noctis, victus atrum, insquequo nex umbra…” The chanting continued, even as the circle of robed men parted to allow a quartet of people to enter, people who the girl had not yet seen.

These new arrivals were all women and save for their odd manner of dress, there was nothing particularly memorable about any of them. Each of them was entirely nude save for a plain silken loincloth, though, this fact was difficult for the girl to determine because their arms, legs, and torsos were almost entirely obscured by strange red symbols that appeared to have been painstakingly painted on. The four women took positions at the girl’s head and feet and sank to their knees before each taking a wrist or ankle into their hands. Closing their eyes the four began whispering a chant of their own, “Vindico Prosterno, nos precor vestrum…”

“Prognatus nox noctis, victus atrum, insquequo nex umbra…”

The chanting continued for sometime longer as the girl struggled weakly against the painted women who held her. Slowly, the words ceased to sound like words to her small ears and started to sound like the buzzing of a fly. Her eyes closed against her will, as the cold seemed to fade away and leave her with nothing but an overwhelming numbness.

Strange voices whispered into her mind, strange things, horrible things, things that made her want to cry, though she lacked the strength even to do that. They told her that her parents weren’t even looking for her, that they didn’t even care that she was gone. They told her that they were going to eat her, bit by bit, piece by piece. She wanted so much to cry and yell at them to go away, but even within her thoughts, she could do nothing but listen.

“Prognatus nox noctis, victus atrum, insquequo nex umbra…”

“Vindico Prosterno, nos precor vestrum…”

A deep voice sounded out above the chanting, “Lords of the Night, hear the call of thy lowliest servants,” the voice spoke with ritual clarity, its owner standing at the child’s head. He wore ornate robes, as would be expected by a priest, but they had no sleeves, leaving his arms bare, showing the dozens of the scars that crisscrossed his forearms. His steely gray eyes shone with the faintest hint of fanaticism as he took the forefront of the horrifying ceremony.

“Prognatus nox noctis, victus atrum, insquequo nex umbra…”

“With impure blood, I sanctify this vessel of purity, for thee, Lords of the Night,” the leader of the ritual drew forth a long kris from within the folds of his robes as he spoke. Holding his free arm out above the girl, he touched the tip of the knife to the inside of his wrist and pressed until a single drop of blood welled up. Then, with slow precision, he pulled the knife back towards his chest, opening his flesh and letting much more blood flow forth and drip onto the girl’s face.

“Vindico Prosterno, nos precor vestrum…”

“Oh magnificent Lords of the Night, your servants beg of thee, accept the gift of life that we offer unto thee!” He turned the bloody kris downward as he spoke and prepared to drive it deep into the child’s heart.

Thud. The bolt from a crossbow lodged itself firmly between his shoulder blades before he could complete his intended sacrifice. He stumbled forward a step and faltered, but he did not fall.

“Ye won’t be sacrificin’ any wee chil’ren while I’m abo’, ye filthy demon-worshipper!” shouted Paladin Mac Carthaigh as he tossed his crossbow aside with a clatter and drew his sword, “We are the instruments o’ God, messengers of the divine punishment o’ Heaven! We will purify this house and cast ye foul heretics into the deepest pits o’ Hell!”

“Amen!” answered the four soldiers flanking Mac Carthaigh as they drew their swords and charged into the midst of the robed men. Like a sickle threshing wheat, they cut into the unarmed cultists, striking down one after another in the ensuing chaos. The blood of the men who had sought to spill the blood of a child soon flowed like water.

Mac Carthaigh himself walked purposefully towards the apparent leader of the cult and thrust his sword into the man’s stomach, “I am Paladin Liam Mac Carthaigh, an’ I purify ye in the name o’ God!”

“Purify me? I’ll peal the flesh from your bones, priest,” gurgled the injured man as he spit up a mouthful of blood, “You may kill us, but the child will never be safe, her blood is too precious.”

The cultist let his knife fall to the floor noisily as he lifted his uninjured arm up to tenderly caress the side of his killer’s face. With a wicked smile, he tightened his grip suddenly and plunged his thumb into Mac Carthaigh’s soft, yielding left eye, drawing forth a scream of pure agony. Blood gushed out over his hand as he forced the holy warrior to his knees with inhuman strength. He was not yet finished with his revenge, and soon his already blood-soaked free arm drifted up to caress the other side of the paladin’s face. Laughing hoarsely, he prepared to pluck out the paladin’s remaining eye.

“In nomine patrie,” Mac Carthaigh let out a loud war cry as he ripped his blade free from the cultist’s stomach, and with a surge of strength borne of desperation, severed both of his foe’s arms with a single swing, “Et fili…” Despite the great pain that hammered into his brain from his destroyed eye, the paladin rose to his feet, “Spiritu sancti!”

To Mac Carthaigh, it seemed as if a crimson geyser had erupted as his blessed blade struck true. With a soft thump, the cultist’s head landed on the hard stone floor, his body staying upright for a moment before slumping to the ground.

“I’m gettin’ too old fer this,” muttered the paladin, cradling the mess of gore that had once been his eye, “All this o’er a wee lass… well, she’s safe now, tha’s fer sure… an’ I’ll make certain stays it stays tha’ way. No matt’r wha’ it takes.”