Malus mumbled in his sleep, lost to the foggy dreams that only a hard night of Clar Karond’s cheapest could produce. He was sprawled on silk sheets, an unusual luxury but one necessary for the preservation of what little sanity he retained; after the chaos, and the battles against said chaos, of the sea-borne expedition against the Skinriders, a scheme-riddled venture which had successfully claimed the life of his beloved brother Bruglir but failed to deliver the heads of either Urial or Yasmir, after all that time on the cursed water, Malus needed a day or two of true, pure rest. He dozed on in this questionable flesh house, still groggy but, after a steaming bath, at least no longer grimy.

He didn’t stir at all when the door to his private chamber opened and a hooded figure slipped inside. The shadow who’d entered the room seemed to pause at the sight of the splayed-out highborn and cocked its head. Malus let out a cranky snore and muttered some ancient curse, giving the figure a start. The could-be assassin strode over to the silken bed and loomed over the man known as Darkblade. The hooded person began to fumble in the folds of their cloak, perhaps rooting out some poisoned dagger or some other weapon of murder.

Malus groaned and suddenly thrashed out at some invisible enemy, then bolted upright, sweating. The shadow was taken by surprise and stumbled back, cursing in unison with the highborn. Malus’ sleepy eyes widened in alarm at the sight of this intruder. He instinctively reached for his sword, but it wasn’t where he’d left it. His legs were already swinging out to make contact with the ground as he prepared to shout for his retainers.

The figure threw back their hood. “My lord, it’s me!”

Malus narrowed his eyes, the cry for Hauclir dying in his throat. The dead word still came out regardless, now edged with anger. “Hauclir.” It managed to be as much a question as a threat or a command. The highborn had become accustomed to employing all three tones at once with this damnable mercenary.

“Aye, my lord.” Hauclir gave a curt bow.

The highborn eased himself back onto his bed. It must have been the hour of the wolf or there abouts; this was no time to wake a resting noble. Facing the ceiling, where, to the flesh house’s credit, fine human skins had been hung from short hooks to cover the brickwork, Malus addressed his retainer. “What in the Dark Mother’s name are you doing in my chamber? I expressly odered you to guard my door and leave me in peace until dawn.”

Hauclir grimaced, as if unsure what to say. After a moment he cleared his throat. “I brought the… goods you asked of me, my lord.”

“What goods?” Malus barked.

“You know…” Hauclir looked over his shoulder at the open door. He hadn’t thought to close it. “The private goods.”

“Speak clearly man!”

Hauclir took a deep breath. “The lubricant.”

Malus paled and craned his neck to look at his retainer. “What did you say?”

“The lubricant, my lord.” The former captain produced the vial from his robes. A clear liquid glistened in a little glass bottle, lit by the crackling light of two low-burning braziers in the expensive chamber.

“I didn’t ask for any… such things.” Malus swallowed hard. He had no memory of asking for such an indecent thing. Even with his head still buzzing with drink, he felt something stir deep inside his body.

“Perhaps my lord has drunk too much of the house wine. You asked me not four hours ago. Told me you wanted the finest human spit.”

Malus could have sworn something was tickling him playfully beneath his ribs, slithering about his vital organs. His heatbeat quickened. Was the daemon playing some twisted trick. T’zarkan, he thought, what have you done? The Drinker of Worlds couldn’t give voice to a reply courtesy to the alcohol coursing through the highborn’s system, so he let Malus know the answer in other ways.

The bastard son of Lurhan let out a gasp of pleasure as T’zarkan slowly built up pressure on his prostrate, tickling the inner workings of the Druchii genitalia. Malus felt his cock instantly harden, and then continue to harden, growing stronger than it ever had before. It was as if the daemon was teasing his penis to grow, to stretch, to fill with evil seed. Wracked with slow waves of heavy pleasure, the highborn forgot all about Hauclir. His face became flushed. His cautious breathing gave way to wet panting. Lust and desire coursed through his sensual body. The daemon sparked a sexual appetite that would have put a Slaaneshi priestess to shame. Malus needed an outlet. Something. Anything.

His hands raced down his bare chest, tweaking the nipples as they went, rubbing the whiteish skin, alighting nerves. When they came upon the leather covering his groin and legs, they set to work deftly untying tassels and loosening the garments. He couldn’t free himself from their oppressive clutch quick enough. He tossed the pants away. There before him, towering up, much like the Idol of Kolkuth funnily enough, was his cock, a magnificent spire ready to unleash fists of angry semen. The skin was as pale and luminescent as the rest of his increasingly corrupted form, though here purple veins throbbed just as hard as black ones. The pinkish tip swayed with each pump of blood. He knew on instinct that his hands would not be enough tonight.

It was now that he looked up, eyes ablaze, and remembered that he was not alone. Hauclir remained there by the bed, his attention split between the steaming pants that had landed by his feet and by the grotesque actions of his lord. The retainer realized he was being watched, and began to back away slowly, afraid.

You’ll do, Malus thought, chuckling to himself. He rose to his knees, pointing his cock at the hapless Hauclir. “Close the door,” he commanded.

Hauclir, with trembling hands, did as he was commanded.

“Come closer, my servant.” The highborn’s words slipped out, almost unbidden. Malus wasn’t just chuckling. He was laughing in his mind. The mirth spilled out and onto his lips. Hauclir eyed the man’s malicious smile with trepidation.

“Good. Now, disrobe yourself for me.” Malus’ head was a theatre, and the audience was in uproar. His fragile spirit joined in with the sickly cheering.

“That’s it. Now, open that vial, my sweet Hauclir.” Malus was in pain from the laughing. His ribs had gone tight. The imaginary audience was in outright chaos, standing, shouting, laughing, rioting with pleasure.

“My lord?” Hauclir did as he was told. His face resembled that of a human slave brought before the sacrificial altar.

“Lube yourself.” Malus enjoyed the frenzied revelry raging at the back of his head. Forget the pleasure of the raid. Forget the joy of plotting. Forget all the power in the world. This was everything that mattered. How had he never thought to ask the daemon for gifts with such… delicious acts before? He should have forced himself on Yasmir, given her a cock Bruglir could never hope to harden in his wildest of dreams. Hell, even Urial. Fucking that misbegotten cripple would have put him in his place. Malus’ head swam with sick thoughts and untamed sexual conquest.

“Like this?” Hauclir had applied some of the liquid to his finger and daintily begun spreading it about his unwashed slot. The whole thing was surreal, but a part of the retainer wished that he’d had a bath prior to… what his lord was about to do to him. He was no stranger to buggery; when he’d been ordered to ingratiate himself with Bruglir’s crew on their last adventure, that had been something his tastes had been opened to. But with Malus? Hauclir shuddered, his own fleshy penis barely erect, cold with dread.

Malus roared like a hungry wolf. ‘Yes! Now bend, fool!’ he wanted to say. The flames of desire showed him the image of a prostate Hauclir, his pink arsehole puckered and afraid of the mighty pounding it was about to take.

But the highborn’s mouth didn’t say ‘Yes’. It said, “No. Not like that.”

Hauclir froze, trying to imagine what hellish torture awaited if this wasn’t what his lord wanted.

“Lubricate your cock, dear, dear Hauclir.” Malus reeled at the words springing from his tongue. What was he saying? Suddenly his heart went taught. T’zarkan’s eel-like tendrils coiled nastily about him. What is this trickery, Malus thought, challenging the daemon. T’zarkan, the audience that had been laughing all along, was aching to explain, but first he continued to address Hauclir through Malus’ mouth. “Now, penetrate your lord!”

With a dramatic flourish, Malus found himself fling his body around, raising his lordly buttocks to Hauclir’s shocked face. “Take me like one of your salty cabin boys!”

The retainer crawled onto the bed, his face still a picture of pure fear. He rubbed more of the lubricant about his manhood, then tipped what remained of the vial into and around his lord’s anal passage as best he could. With unwilling hands, he clasped Malus’ waist, and poked his half flaccid cock into the breach. He let out a slight moan. Malus was tighter than any human he’d had before, let alone a Druchii.

Locked in his own mind, Malus looked askance at the daemon, his desires having turned to horror. This couldn’t be real. This was worse than any nightmare he could possibly have.

Oh, it’s all real, said T’zarkan, the words coming in slithery rasps through Malus’ ears, over the sound of Hauclir’s noisy breathing and the sound of his balls slapping about with each thrust. You were a fool, Malus, T’zarkan continued, to think you could drown me out with your alcohol or your Druchii concoctions. The daemon savoured every second of Malus’ physical pain and mental screams. I am your master, the Drinker of Worlds intoned, and you will not forget that. You felt the true power I offered, the daemon pulled on the veins that ran through the highborn’s cock to illustrate his point, the action giving a twinge of discomforting pleasure, but now you will receive an impossibly small taste of the punishments that await all those who fail me!

***

Outside the chamber lurked another figure, though this shadow was nothing at all like the one which had slipped into the highborn’s room. This shadow was blacker than black, practically invisible to any who might chance upon it. Whereas Hauclir had cut a bumbling figure, this one was skilled to a deathly level. A true master of stealth. A true assassin. The flesh house’s owner prided herself on affording her patrons rarely-paralleled discretion and safety, but this intruder had slipped in completely undetected, and would slip out in much the same manner. In fact, this person had travelled all the way from Hag Graef, and such was their ability to remain hidden, that they were still believed to be right there, asleep, at this very second.

Arleth Vann left nothing to chance when it came to Malus, the Druchii they believed to be the prophesied Scourge. Malus had, as usual, proved troublesome to his plans and decided to stay away from the Hag for now, and so Arleth was practically obliged to make the distance and quietly steal upon his lord, if only to check up on the man and make sure that the future Lord of Ruin had come to no ill fortune. He had been pleased to see the highborn safe and sound, asleep on silk sheets and enjoying some rest. He couldn’t say the same of Hauclir, but he bore the latest addition to the household’s force no ill will. He had been about to leave, after making arrangements with some of the local cultists to make his lord’s stay in this place just a little more secure, when he’d heard… well, the night’s frivolities.

The two men in the chamber yonder were still at it; Arleth could hear it all: their cries, their moans, the creaking of the bed, the smacking sound of skin on skin, the slippery noise of lubricated penetration. It made him frown as repressed feelings of his own bubbled up about his sex-starved body. There had been no time for loveplay in the Temple, and since he’d left to join up the true faith, only combat and the joy of killing had been on his mind. But this… if the Lord of Ruin could indulge in such acts, with the likes of Hauclir no less, than perhaps his own pleasure was not something forbidden…

As Malus was ridden hard by Hauclir inside, outside the room Arleth began to play with himself for the first time. He reached down into his flowing robes and tugged at his waking cock. The little fleshy stump began to grow hard at his touch. He tried to remember how he’d seen the whores and slaves pleasure each other. Before long, he was pumping and jerking away, letting out little moans of his own to accompany those of his beloved high servant of Khaine.

***

Malus lay broken on the bed, the stench of sex heavy about his lithe body, and the bodily fluids of Hauclir splashed all about the sheets. His own cock had gone off multiple times, adding to the damage. The flesh house owner would be expecting a generous fee for the cleaning that her slaves would be required to perform the following morning. He was still lying there, lost in brackish thoughts and the melancholy of one who’s been fucked against their will, as Hauclir hastily cast his robes about himself and began making for the door. Despite the night’s romp being entirely at his lord’s invitation, Hauclir felt dirty at what he’d been party to, and had decided that the next course of action was to find a drink, a bath, and then a female slave to assert his sexuality upon.

As the retainer made it to the door, praying all the while to the Dark Mother that he’d be allowed to leave with his head, Malus stopped him with five short words.

“Hauclir. Never speak of this.”

Hauclir nodded. “Never my lord.” He couldn’t face Malus. Instead, he left in shame, slipping out of the door. He remembered to close it this time. As he left, he stood in a puddle of something vile on the ground. He looked down, cursing his luck. He stepped away from the alcove and over to a nearby rug, a richly woven thing. He wiped his bare foot on the rug, then scampered away. He needed that drink badly.

Malus lay there, looking up at the flesh hooks, whips and chains dangling from the dark ceiling, refusing to let his eyes water from the pain still throbbing about his rear. He’d withstood the cruel torture of Drachaus, Valkhaurs and his own sweet siblings; he wasn’t about to shame himself with an expression of weakness before T’zarkan. He closed his eyes. He would get revenge. He had his hate. The daemon couldn’t take that away from him. The daemon could only inspire more of it. And with hate, all things were possible.