The berserker gang was on Ragnar now, in full flow. He smote left and right with awful power, the meat-cleaver sound of his chainsword on flesh telling him he did damage with every blow. He lost all track of time and sense of self, becoming an unleashed whirlwind of death and destruction that smashed through the panicking mutants with all the fury of a Fenrisian thunderstorm. He lived only to kill, and he took action to preserve his own life only in so far as it would allow him to slay more. A few shells ricocheted off his armor. He ignored them. A few desperate mutants managed to land glancing blows before he sent them to greet their dark gods. He did not feel them. In the nightmare world of the 41st millennium, the galaxy is riddled with war. All that stands between humanity and its extinction are the Space Marines, and most savage of these are the Space Wolves. When one of their Chapter's most holy artifacts is seized by the forces of Chaos, Space Wolf Ragnar and his comrades are plunged into a desperate battle to retrieve it before a most terrible and ancient foe is set free.