Russ jabbed at the drone's reactor. Power plants were a weakness in all fighting machines, including legionary battleplate. The drone's was well armoured. He thrust the spear tip at the slot of a vent, where mesh protected pipes and casings of a uniform, dirty oil-brown. The machine spun around on the ball mount at its waist, swatting the spear out of the way with one fist, the second following hard behind to aim at Russ' head. The primarch ducked, sweeping the spear at the machine's feet as they tracked round to match the changed direction of the torso. The shaft rang off chunky greaves, scraping a shallow groove into the metal. The machine stumbled a little at the force of the blow, but checked its fall and stepped resolutely at the primarch. Russ jabbed at its chest. The unpowered spear-point dinged into the plasteel, Russ' godlike strength knocking out a divot of metal. The machine rocked back on its heels, recovered again and powered on, swinging one fist after another in blurring arcs. Russ ducked one, and the second, attacking the machine with controlled jabs of his weapon in between. He was a graceful warrior. No movement was wasted.

He ducked and leapt the machine's swings until he saw an opening, and thrust the spear deep into a gap between two armour plates. Hot oil dribbled from the wound. The movement of the left arm roughened. But the spear was stuck fast, and before Russ could pull it out, the training Dreadnought swept its right hand down over its chest, snapping the weapon's haft.

Russ laughed, and threw himself at the machine. It raised its fists to deliver a double-handed blow, but he caught them and dug his heels into the training arena floor, and pushed hard. Sand banked up behind him. He slowed. Finding a natural point of balance between his own and the machine's strength, he pushed, and slowly he forced the training drone backwards over the sand. Its motors whined with the effort. Russ' veins stood out in his neck. He adjusted his grip, switched his footing, and with a shout forced the machine sideways.

His enormous strength bearing down on it forced it to bend its left knee. Teeth gritted, Russ kicked at the right, slamming his foot into the joint's side again and again, until it gave out with a wrench and a spray of oil, and the machine fell over to the floor.

Russ danced back, ready for the next assault.

'End programme,' said a voice.

Russ looked up. He was still alone, but the lenses of a hololithic projector set into the wall sparkled with white light and, into the air, painted an image of an old man leaning on a staff.

'Malcador,' said Russ. 'Where have you been hiding? I've had no word from you for a week.'

'I have not been hiding, Leman,' he said. 'You can beat a Dreadnought unarmed.'

'I can. Easily.'