King

 

A WARHAMMER 40,000 NOVEL

FARSEER

William King

 


 

For Michael Mooney, Clear Ether, Grey Lensman.

 

 

 

IT IS THE 41st millennium. For more than a hundred centuries the Emperor has sat immobile on the Golden Throne of Earth. He is the master of mankind by the will of the gods, and master of a million worlds by the might of his inexhaustible armies. He is a rotting carcass writhing invisibly with power from the Dark Age of Technology. He is the Carrion Lord of the Imperium for whom a thousand souls are sacrificed every day. so that he may never truly die.

 

YET EVEN IN his deathless state, the Emperor continues his eternal vigilance. Mighty battlefleets cross the daemon-infested miasma of the warp, the only route between distant stars, their way lit by the Astronomican, the psychic manifestation of the Emperors will. Vast armies give battle in his name on uncounted worlds. Greatest amongst His soldiers are the Adeptus Astartes, the Space Marines, bio-engineered super-warriors. Their comrades in arms are legion: the Imperial Guard and countless planetary defence forces, the ever-vigilant Inquisition and the tech-priests of the Adeptus Mechanicus to name only a few. But for all their multitudes, they are barely enough to hold off the ever-present threat from aliens, heretics, mutants - and worse.

 

To BE A man in such times is to be one amongst untold billions. It is to live in the cruellest and most bloody regime imaginable. These are the tales of those times. Forget the power of technology and science, for so much has been forgotten, never to be re-learned. Forget the promise of progress and understanding, for in the grim dark future there is only war. There is no peace amongst the stars, only an eternity of carnage and slaughter, and the laughter of thirsting gods.


ONE

A DESPERATE MAN

 

'Someone is looking for you, captain.'

Janus Darke looked up drankenly from the sediment of his drink, a concoction of Cadian firewine and the last of the powdered golconda. There had been nothing too interesting at the bottom of his glass anyway, he decided. His bleary gaze took in his surroundings warily.

Unsurprisingly, the Palace of Pleasure did not look any different from the last time he had raised his head. Same kidney bean-shaped pit filled with drinking booths, drinkers and scantily clad bargirls. Same dim reddish glow-globes floating in their mock-Imperial chandeliers below the ceiling. Same poison snoopers hanging like metal-legged spiders above every table. The voice was somehow familiar… soon he might be able to put a face to it. Alternatively, he thought, he could just try and bring the face into focus. The little man was far from the prettiest sight Janus had laid eyes on. He was skinny, with thin, receding hair and a rat-like face that went well with his general demeanour.

'I know you. You're Weezel, you gretchin-spawned bastard informer,' he said. Feeling the trader's eyes on him Weezel began to dry-wash his hands, and coughed apologetically. Over Weezel's shoulder Janus could see Dugan glaring at him. He didn't like Weezel's sort and he particularly didn't like Janus, at least not since he had taken up with Justina. Janus suspected the hulking bouncer was sweet on his employer.