'What?' Gdolkin asked bluntly, the tone of his voice expressed in that one word suggesting that he too knew full well the feudal position of the thrall within the social structure of the Iron Hands' Chapter and that the wretched man would do well to remember it too. His neuro-linked servo-arm twitched irritably.

The Iron-Fathers had more respect for their mindless servitor-drone bodyguards than they did for the Chapter's thralls, viewing the slave-machines as marvellous creations of the Adeptus Mechanicus and the thralls as the lowest of the low who, through their failure to pass the trials and rigours of initiation, had demonstrated themselves guilty of giving in to the greatest failing, weakness itself.

'Your pardon, my lord Gdolkin, but a meeting of the great clan council has been called and the clan masters have asked that you attend.’ the thrall said, hardly daring to face the cruel gaze of the Iron-Father.

Gdolkin rose from the operating slab, detaching auspex cables and medicae connectors with both fully functioning augmetic hands. Caduceus watched him carefully.

A meeting of the great council. Such a thing was an uncommon event, only happening when the whole Chapter was called to war to make good the ancient vows every initiate swore, to protect and uphold the Imperium, or when the safety of the Iron Hands' homeworld itself was threatened. And for Gdolkin to be called to attend was an honour indeed. It spoke of potentially great things, when he could demonstrate his strength of will and body in service of the Immortal Emperor Enthroned.

'Tell the council I shall be with them presently.’ he said.

'You should rest.’ the Apothecary said. The medicae drones buzzed around the Space Marine medic's head, their anxious, darting movements reflecting Caduceus's concern for the wellbeing of his patient. You have just undergone surgery.’

'Minor surgery, Apothecary.’

'But surgery nonetheless. And your body needs time to recover and adjust. Take an hour at least. A day would be better.’

'I can't keep the council waiting.’ Gdolkin said flatly, turned his back on Caduceus and marched out of the apothecarion.

Iron-Father Gdolkin left the apothecarion, his servitor bodyguard falling into line behind him automatically, without a word from their master. Their pre-programmed logic subroutines took effect as soon as Gdolkin moved past them, resuming the pattern they would normally follow when accompanying the Space Marine on his business aboard the fortress-monastery Weyland. Brother-Apothecary Caduceus followed his charge as the Iron-Father strode from the chirurgia, the two servo-skulls still keeping pace with him, hovering two metres above the stone flagged floor of the passageway on their anti-grav suspensor units.

The stately party moved at striding pace through the ancient land-behemoth, following the broad, alcove-lined corridors - each alcove bearing an electrotorch-lit statue of one of the heroes of the Vur-gaan clan company, who had given their lives in the service of their Chapter and their Emperor. There were noble commanders, doughty Iron-Fathers, majestic Librarians and even noted Apothecaries, all rendered in bronze Imperial eagle-wings and battle-honour bionics picked out in the finest platinum filigree, electrum plating and gold leaf.