3.Grey Hunter

 

GREY HUNTER

 

By William King

 

This book is dedicated to the memory of Madge BlainIT IS THE 'list 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 Impcrium for whom a

 

thousand souls arc sacrificed every day. so that he

 

may never truly die.

 

YET EVEN IN his deathless state, the Emperor continues his

 

eternal vigilance. Mighty battleflcets 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 Emperor's 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 arc 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-lcarncd. 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.
PROLOGUE
RAGNAR RACED FORWARD through the hail of enemy fire. Overhead, lightning split the night, turning the clouds an eerie electric purple. Moments later the thunder spoke, even its god-like voice unable to drown out the roar of small-arms fire. Rain the colour of blood, tainted by chemical pollutants and oxidised iron, pattered off his armour. Around him, las-fire ripped the night. Here and there grenades flared, bright as the lightning stroke and just as brief. Ahead of him the fortress loomed, a massive structure of plascrete sheathed in steel. Once it must have been the local headquarters of the Imperial levies, or perhaps a sector house of the Arbites. Now, it answered to a different master. Banners bearing the hideous eye of Chaos fluttered in the rising wind. Someone had painted baleful runes down the building's brisfling sides, creating an inscription in the language of evil gods. Was it a prayer or curse? Perhaps both.
The earth shook as Ragnar scrambled into position behind the tumbled remains of a wall. Shattered brickwork lay near him. Close to his hand he could see where stonework had run like water under the infernal blast of energy weapons. He smelled the air: it stank of explosives, chemicals and technical unguents from the huge machines all around. He caught the scent of his batde-brothers, all hardened ceramite and altered flesh of Fenris.