In ages past the tribesmen had fought each other for the best hunting grounds, the most valuable mining claims and the least active of the earthquake-tormented lands. The primarch, the Emperor and Omnissiah keep him, had decreed that this proud martial tradition should continue, that his sons might forever test themselves in battle and struggle against each other to eradicate the weak from among their number, fighting their own physical failings as much as they were fighting each other.

The Medusa system being so close to the Eye of Terror - that visceral maelstrom of warp-realspace overlap - all that the universe had to offer the Iron Hands' Chapter in the dying years of the forty-first millennium was an eternity of war. That was why the primarch had decreed in ages past that the only life his sons would know was one of constant battle. And that was why their primarch and all the warleaders and Iron-Fathers since had demanded that the Iron Hands should strive to eradicate all weakness and physical frailty from their already enhanced, biogi-neered physiques. And that was why the Chapter favoured the use of bionics and augmetics so much more readily than some orders of the Adeptus Astartes. If the spirit was willing but the flesh was weak, then the flesh had to be replaced by something stronger.

But what demanded Gdolkin's attention were not the ancient battle-banners or the esoteric secrets of the Mechanicus's technomancy but the ten imposing figures standing in the centre of the vast chamber, intimidating in their stance and stature, exuding authority. They were all giants by the measure of men and even other Space Marines, but three of them were true leviathans of war.

The dreadnoughts were the epitome of what an Iron Hand wished to become. They inspired awe and respectful reverence in equal measure in their younger brethren, with the weight of centuries that they carried upon their broad adamantium shoulders. They had been in the service of the immortal God-Emperor for thousands of years.

As ancient warriors, they were revered and highly esteemed. Encased in the sarcophagus of their dreadnought armour, they served the Emperor forever more in His battle against the forces of Chaos. Centuries of warfare had granted them wisdom like no others amongst their Chapter.

They were the tempered voice of reason amongst the clan companies and the more impetuous, hotheaded leaders. Their age and their great deeds were respected; their battle prowess, tactical skill and mastery of strategy revered. When one of the venerable dreadnoughts spoke, the Iron Hands listened, as though their very lives depended on it - which of course they did.

Gdolkin's servitor entourage came to a halt at the edge of the vast chamber as the Iron-Father approached the group gathered at the centre, standing on the white marble and black onyx image of the iron hand. Out of the corners of his eyes - both aug-metic and organic - Gdolkin could see other servitors, honour guards and tech-thralls waiting in silence in the gloom around the edges of the vaulted space.