Okay, hands in the air, I know it's been a ridiculously long time since I updated, and I'm sorry. The next chapter should be up sooner, and I'm also aware I've been wrong the last few times I've said that. This time I mean it though. I hope...

The battlefield was already littered with corpses, the stench of spilt blood and ruptured organs mingled with the reek of the already rotting Nurglites and the more subtle, delicate aroma of the Slaaneshi to create a horrific assault on the senses that remained just on the brink of belief, yet denied all comprehension.

Zaan barely registered the already dead however, it mattered little how many of the plague-ridden ones died, nor how many of the perfumed slavers lost their lives. All he cared about was being the one who killed them. He finally had a chance to take revenge for the deaths of his friends in that first battle and to free himself of the Sorceress. He was aware of a subtle force at the back of his mind driving him to kill, but he dismissed it as a primal urge rising to the surface after being suppressed by Liasha's manipulations of his other base instincts.

The thundering of a cavalry charge caught his attention and, turning, he saw a barbarian unit carrying the marks of the plague god bearing down on him. Through his urge to destroy, he maintained his soldier's instincts. A lone warrior could not stand against a cavalry charge, even one on what looked to be sickly ponies. There were seven of the Marauder horsemen and though he could not easily tell whether they were closely related to the Norscans under all their skin abrasions, he doubted their sense of honour was too different. All men had pride. The followers of Chaos certainly had an abundance of it, which Zaan knew was his only real chance at any kind of victory.

Standing his ground, he flourished his over-large sword in the direction of the horseman he assumed to be the champion, and was more than a little relieved when the central Marauder barked an order at his men and they slowed their pace a little, allowing their chieftain to pull ahead. His 'blessings' were many and his muscular torso bore an almost incredible array of diseases and lesions. Half of his chest was covered by three large pus filled tumours in a triangular arrangement; the space between each bore a long thin mark of some kind. The overall appearance of this collection of putrescent symptoms bore a remarkable similarity to the symbol on the ragged banner borne by another of the marauders.

The way the Nurglite Chieftain spurred on his steed, Zaan was amazed that it's bloated sides didn't rupture under each successive impact. Clearly the mules were made of sturdier stuff than he'd imagined. He was tempted to call out at the approaching Marauder, but he resisted, partly in the hope that his silence would disconcert the Chieftain, but mostly to prove to himself that he could still resist his impulses, despite Liasha's efforts.

With the sword at his right side, Zaan subtly shifted his weight to the left in readiness to dive that way and take the mules legs out from under it, bringing his opponent to a more even combat.

Whether out of sheer luck, or by anticipating Zaan's plan, the Marauder veered to the left at the last moment before Zaan struck, and swinging his axe down toward the Brettonian's head. Having started his own attack, Zaan's blade was already moving. Using it's momentum and the strength it's enchantment lent him, he was able to block the axe blade.

The two weapons collided hard, but neither was damaged when they parted. As rusted and ancient as it seemed, the axe in the Chieftain's hand had equal, if not greater strength than Zaan's own weapon. Zaan turned to follow his opponent, and held his blade behind him as though to strike upwards on the left again. With his right arm across his chest as it was, he was limited in the number of possible motions he could make and if the Chieftain changed his attack pattern, he would be left wide open. At least that's what he wanted the Nurglite to think.

Sure enough, the Horseman came on with the same vigour as before, and a smug look on his face, thinking himself to be up against a simpleton.

Anticipating the swerve to the right, Zaan twisted round to his left, reversed the direction of the blade, gripped it with both hands and swung with all his might. The mule's throat was exactly where he'd expected it to be, and the rotten looking skin of it's neck parted like parchment under the strength of his blow. The blade's sorcerously keen edge and the unnatural strength which filled him carried the swing through flesh and bone, right out the other side, cleanly decapitating the animal, before biting deep into the chest of the Chieftain on it's back.

The enchanted steel ended its path half way through the Marauder's ribcage, not only ruining his heart and lungs, but slicing through two of the pustules that made up the mark on his chest. The Marauder's surprise at Zaan's unconventional movements undoubtedly saved the Brettonian's life; or at least his limb. As the adrenaline of the challenge wore away, Zaan felt a terrible pain in his left arm. Not yet daring to look, he tried to ignore it as he edged away from the collapsing corpses of the Horseman and his mount. He forced it from his mind by cleaning the rotten man's bodily fluids off his sword by wiping it on the corpse. He tried to restart the adrenaline flow by fighting the remaining horsemen, but when he turned on them, they shied away from him, their moral apparently broken after losing their champion.

He assumed it was simply the ease with which he'd achieved it, something which even surprised himself, but the fear he could see even through their diseased faces was something different. When he gripped his sword in both hands once more, relieved that his left arm still obeyed him, their fear doubled, and they reigned their horses around to flee.

Finally the numbness of his arm broke through to his mind, and he forced himself to look, knowing that to ignore it any longer would simply be foolish.

The gash in his bicep was as ragged as the frayed ends of his trousers and there were shards of rusted steel showing in the wound, the deepest of which were embedded in the bone. Horrified at his own stupidity, Zaan hurriedly tore the cloth from around his mouth and bound it round his shoulder in as tight a tourniquet as he could manage before gritting his teeth and slowly removing the shards, hopefully before the wound had time to become infected.

The moment he dropped the enchanted sword, it's mystical strength had begun to leave him and he gradually felt the effects of the pain and blood-loss catch up with him. Dreading what he might see when, and more importantly if, he awoke, he stumbled away from the already putrefying corpse of his erstwhile opponent and collapsed to the ground.

*

Zaan's first thought upon waking was relief; his mind had been tormented by nightmares; images of corruption, mutation, and worse. Such dreams had become common since his capture and subjugation by the Slaaneshi but as his experiences with the followers of Chaos grew, so did the breadth of degradation his subconscious mind created in his sleep.

His attempts to convince himself it was only the effect of the brand scarring his face were less comforting than he had hoped and when he saw Liasha kneeling over him, her legs either side of his chest, dressed in her customary extravagant robe, open and loose as ever, he felt even worse, especially as she settled down to rest her hips on his, drawing his attention inescapably to the fact she had removed what little clothing he had been wearing. That his body accepted it with such ease made him all the more uncomfortable. Liasha giggled; at what he couldn't be sure, but it unnerved him how innocent she managed to look, in spite of her position.

"I'm glad you're awake." Her lilting voice held a tone that rang true with her words. So compassionate that Zaan couldn't help feeling that she wasn't finished, and after a moment's pause, the sorceress continued, her voice now tinged by her true sadistic nature. "I'd have hated for you to miss this."

She clicked her fingers and the binding spell she'd placed on her slave's arm dissipated, releasing the pain of his injury to flash through him. The surface pain of his torn flesh underpinned by a deep burning of the remaining shards.

"You should've been more careful"

He would have responded, but he wasn't sure whether he would have been able to force the words from his lungs through the pain. It took almost more willpower than he had not to give Liasha the satisfaction of expressing his pain more than he already had when the agony had flooded into his mind.

She frowned at his resistance; "Silly little slave. If you don't accept the pain it's just going to cripple you. Then you'll be no fun. I think you can guess what happens to toys that bore me can't you." She had leant down onto him now, so that her face was almost resting on his. Her eyes held such a gleefully sadistic look that the heir of Parravon felt a greater terror of her than he ever had for any foe. At that moment, he would rather have faced a dragon while armed with less than a peasant farmer could manage than endure her gaze for much longer.

She suddenly straightened up and drew a viciously curved dagger from beside her shin, and sliced it across her right palm as she brought herself down onto Zaan, joining them at the hips before clasping her bleeding hand around the wound in his bicep.

The simultaneous shock of pleasure and pain brought a scream from the young slave's lungs. When she began to shudder against him, pouring her magic through his body, the convulsions intensified both sensations until they peaked at a level beyond anything he had ever experienced, even at Liasha's hands. After an almost mind-shattering pulse, the pain began to recede. Now each pulse of magic seemed to turn another level or pain into an even greater height of ecstasy.

Finally the physical and mystical stimulation reached a point his mind could no longer cope with, and he remembered nothing further until his consciousness surfaced and he found himself slumped, exhausted, on top of Liasha.

His shock at this caused him to jerk away from her. She looked at him with a twinge of disappointment, "Oh, you're sentient again already?" she gave a surprisingly heartfelt sigh, "I was quite enjoying myself with the animalistic side of you. It's been a while since I had a slave so forceful." Her face broke into a self-satisfied smirk.

"No..." In spite of the evidence before his eyes, Zaan tried to convince himself she was only manipulating him again. No matter how he denied it though, even his own body presented proof of her claims.

"Oh, very much yes. With my blood in you, what did you expect?"

She broke into peals of genuine laughter as the shock of realisation dawned in her slave's eyes, and he knew that now he was undeniably her slave. Even with her brand marring his face, and her supernatural allure woven around him he had been able to deny it; but her blood was in him now and he dreaded to think what kind of control that could give a sorceress of her power.

He was still sinking into despair when his mistress gripped his throat, and flipped him onto his back. She climbed swiftly over him, pinning his left wrist with her right knee, and his right with her left foot, keeping both his arms stretched away from his body. Her actions, which he barely had time to register, let alone the energy to oppose, drew his attention to the almost normal feeling in his wounded arm. Like his punctured shoulder, he could feel where the wound was, but it no longer pained him to any great extent.

Liasha paused in her unconventional position; looking, despite her lack of any covering, much more dangerous than alluring. "Now that you're awake enough to feel again, it's time to finish the ritual. Unleashing the real you was fun, but I think I need to take a precaution before I do it again. You did try to kill me several times after all."

A glimmer of hope shone into Zaan's mind at her words, and a memory flashed to the surface; He is on his knees, leaning backwards, with Liasha's back resting on his chest. Her knife in his hand, he feels her tense against him as the blade penetrates her chest, right under her heart.

The moment of relief at the memory of his resistance against her magic fled when he realised that even such a clean, fatal blow had failed to end her. "How... Why are you still alive?"

"It was my knife you silly boy. Now, hold still."

His confusion at her words almost distracted him completely from the knife in her hands. The same knife which he had plunged into her breast and which had failed to leave a mark. The blade was still slick with her blood, which she lost little time combining with her essence. She raised the dripping blade above his arm, and he felt the mixed fluids splash onto him, just above the gouge in his flesh.

His mind was still groggy from her magic and he could barely comprehend her actions until she thrust the sorcerous dagger into and through the bone. With a word of power, a flash of energy rent the flesh along the edges of the blade, neatly severing his arm.