The Primarch of Liberty

Chapter 27: The Deity in the Sword



As Franklin emerged from the temple, he was greeted by a scene of beautiful chaos. The Liberty Eagles were "holding the line" in the most Liberty Eagle way possible - by unleashing an unrelenting barrage of firepower into the demon-spewing portals.

"Now that's what I call a warm welcome!" Franklin shouted, his voice barely audible over the cacophony of explosions and gunfire.

"YOUR MEN FIGHT WELL, PRIMARCH!" Khaine's voice boomed in his head. "THOUGH THEY LACK FINESSE IN CLOSE COMBAT, TRUE WARRIORS SHOULD REVEL IN THE BLOOD AND VISCERA OF THEIR FOES!"

Franklin winced, both at the volume and the sentiment. "Okay, first off, indoor voice, remember? And secondly, have you considered that maybe, just maybe, not getting covered in demon guts is actually a good thing?"

Before Khaine could retort, Franklin noticed the Liberty Spires cracking under the strain of the demonic assault. More portals were opening, allowing a tide of warp-spawn to pour onto the planet's surface.

"Ah, crap," Franklin muttered, raising the Deathsword. "Looks like it's time for some close- quarters problem solving."

As he charged into the fray, Franklin marveled at the sword's power. With each swing, demons fell, their bodies withering and crumbling to dust before they even hit the ground.

"Okay, I'll admit," Franklin said, decapitating a particularly ugly daemon, "this is pretty impressive. But do you have to be so... messy about it?"

"MESSY?" Khaine sounded offended. "THIS IS ART! THE PINNACLE OF WARFARE!"

Franklin rolled his eyes as he continued to carve through the demonic horde. "You know, you're starting to sound an awful lot like Khorne. Are you sure you two aren't related?"

There was a moment of shocked silence in his head, then an explosion of indignant fury. "HOW DARE YOU COMPARE ME TO THAT MINDLESS BRUTE! I DEMAND A REMATCH! WHEN I GET MY HANDS ON HIM, I'LL-"

"Whoa, whoa!" Franklin interrupted, narrowly dodging a daemon's claws. "Let's focus on the fight at hand, shall we? You can plan your divine boxing match later."

As they fought, Khaine began to explain the nature of the sword, albeit begrudgingly when he mentioned the name of Vaul "THIS IS NO MERE BLADE, PRIMARCH. IT IS A CRONE SWORD, FORGED BY VAUL FROM THE FINGERS OF MORAI-HEG HERSELF, IMBUED WITH THE CONCEPT OF DEATH ITSELF."

"Fascinating," Franklin replied, only half-listening as he bisected three daemons with a single swing. "And the part where it keeps trying to eat my soul?"

Khaine had the decency to sound slightly embarrassed. "AH, YES. WELL, WHEN I WAS SHATTERED BY THAT OVERGROWN BLOOD BANK KHORNE, MY LARGEST FRAGMENT WAS ABSORBED BY THE SWORD. IT... MAY HAVE ENHANCED ITS PROPERTIES SOMEWHAT, TRANSFORMING IT INTO THE DEATHSWORD YOU NOW WIELD"

"'Somewhat,' he says," Franklin muttered. "Listen, buddy, I appreciate the power boost, but could you maybe dial back on the whole 'soul-absorbing' thing? I'm rather attached to mine."

As they continued to battle, Franklin sounded the retreat for his men. Hundreds of thousands of personnel carriers descended from the skies, ready to evacuate the Liberty Eagles and their support staff.

Khaine, meanwhile, was critiquing the fighting style of the Liberty Eagles. "THEIR RANGED COMBAT IS IMPRESSIVE, BUT THEY LACK FINESSE IN CLOSE QUARTERS. PERHAPS IF THEY-

||

The god's voice trailed off as he noticed Denzel Washington, Franklin's First Captain, cutting through swathes of demons with graceful efficiency.

"BEHOLD!" Khaine exclaimed, his excitement palpable. "THE BLACK WARRIOR! HE MOVES WITH THE GRACE OF A PHOENIX LORD! TRULY, HE IS A WORTHY CHAMPION!"

Franklin couldn't help but grin with pride. "That's my boy. Denzel's always been a cut above the rest. Though maybe don't call him 'Black Warrior' to his face. We're trying to move past that kind of thing."

As the battle raged on, Franklin found himself curious about his new divine hitchhiker. "So, Khaine, what's your deal anyway? God of war, sure, but what does that actually mean?"

Khaine seemed to preen at the question. "I AM THE EMBODIMENT OF WAR AND MURDER, THE BLOODY-HANDED GOD OF THE AELDARI. MY POWER IS UNMATCHED IN COMBAT, MY FURY UNQUENCHABLE!"

"Uh-huh," Franklin nodded, decapitating another daemon. "And how's that working out for you, being all shattered and everything?"

There was a moment of silence, then a grudging response. "IT... HAS SEEN BETTER DAYS. BUT MY ESSENCE LIVES ON IN MY AVATARS AND IN BLADES SUCH AS THIS!"

Franklin chuckled. "Well, at least you're staying positive. So, what do you think of all this?" He gestured at the chaotic battlefield around them. "Bit different from your usual Aeldari scuffles, I'd imagine."

Khaine's response was thoughtful, surprising Franklin. "IT IS... INTRIGUING. YOUR WARRIORS FIGHT WITH A PASSION I HAVE NOT SEEN IN MILLENNIA. PERHAPS THERE IS HOPE FOR YOUR RACE YET."

As they continued to fight, Franklin found himself warming to the excitable god in his head. Sure, Khaine was loud and more than a little bloodthirsty, but there was something endearing about his enthusiasm.

"So, Khaine," Franklin asked, bisecting a daemon with casual ease, "what's your deal anyway? You seem to know a lot about current Aeldari culture for a guy who's been stuck in a sword."

Khaine's voice took on a note of melancholy. "I AM AWARE OF MY OTHER FRAGMENTS, SCATTERED AMONG MY CHILDREN. THROUGH THEM, I GLIMPSE THE STATE OF THE AELDARI, THOUGH THE PICTURE IS... FRAGMENTED."

"Sounds rough, buddy," Franklin sympathized, then paused. "Wait, fragments? You mean there are more pieces of you running around?"

"YES," Khaine confirmed. "WHEN I WAS SHATTERED BY... THAT BARBARIAN KHORNE, MY ESSENCE WAS SCATTERED. THIS SWORD ABSORBED THE LARGEST PIECE, BUT OTHERS

EXIST."

Franklin whistled. "Talk about identity crisis. So, what you're saying is, I'm basically wielding the premium version of you?"

"IN A MANNER OF SPEAKING," Khaine grumbled. "THOUGH I WOULD PREFER YOU SHOW MORE REVERENCE TO A GOD OF WAR AND MURDER."

"You know," Franklin mused as he cleaved through another group of daemons, "this could be the start of a beautiful friendship. Or at least a really weird buddy cop movie."

"I DO NOT UNDERSTAND THAT REFERENCE," Khaine replied, "BUT I SENSE IT IS MEANT IN GOOD SPIRIT. NOW, LET US CONTINUE TO SMITE OUR FOES!"

As the last evacuation ship took off, Franklin activated his personal teleporter. In a flash of golden light, he disappeared from the battlefield, leaving behind a horde of very confused and suddenly weaponless daemons.

Materializing aboard his flagship, Franklin slumped against a bulkhead, the Deathsword still clutched in his hand. "Well," he sighed, "that was... something."

"A GLORIOUS BATTLE!" Khaine agreed enthusiastically. "THOUGH IT ENDED TOO SOON."

As Franklin arrived on the bridge of the Sweet Liberty, he was greeted by the controlled chaos of a post-battle debriefing. Dr. Elena Vasquez, her lab coat slightly singed and her hair in disarray, rushed up to him with a dataslate in hand.

"My lord," she began, her eyes bright with excitement despite the exhaustion evident on her face, "I have some fascinating findings regarding the Liberty Spires."

Franklin raised an eyebrow, absently twirling the Deathsword. "Let's hear it, Doc. I could use some good news after the demon-infested mess we just left behind."

"DEMONS ARE EXCELLENT PRACTICE," Khaine's voice boomed in Franklin's head. "THOUGH YOUR SWORDSMANSHIP LEAVES MUCH TO BE DESIRED."

Franklin winced, both at the volume and the critique. "Indoor voice, remember? And I'd like to see you do better with no arms."

Dr. Vasquez, used to her Primarch's occasional non-sequiturs, continued undeterred. "We've identified the primary material used in the Spires. I'm calling it Noctilith. It has remarkable properties, particularly in relation to warp energies."

"Noctilith, huh?" Franklin mused. "Catchy name. What's the catch?"

"Well," Elena hesitated, "it's rare. Very rare. We'll need to organize search parties across the Imperium to find more. And it won't be cheap."

Franklin grinned. "Doc, when has expense ever stopped us from doing something awesome? Set it up. We'll make it a treasure hunt. The boys could use some R&R anyway."

As Dr. Vasquez hurried off to begin her preparations, Franklin made his way to the observation deck. The vast expanse of the Independence Cluster spread out before him, a testament to human resilience and ingenuity.

"IMPRESSIVE," Khaine's voice rumbled, softer now but still filled with divine authority. "YOUR REALM IS VAST AND POWERFUL. BUT TELL ME, PRIMARCH, WHAT IS THAT?"

Franklin followed the god's mental nudge and spotted the massive, star-shaped construct floating serenely beside one of the Cluster's forge worlds.

"Oh, that old thing?" Franklin chuckled. "That's a Blackstone Fortress. Found it drifting in space a while back. Makes for a great conversation piece, don't you think?" There was a moment of silence, then Khaine spoke again, his tone filled with a mixture of awe and excitement. "A TALISMANS OF VAUL! I HAD THOUGHT THEM ALL LOST OR DESTROYED. PRIMARCH, DO YOU REALIZE THE POWER YOU POSSESS?"

Franklin shrugged. "I mean, it's a big, ancient space station. Looks cool, sure, but we haven't figured out how to turn it on yet. Why? You know something about it?"

"KNOW SOMETHING?" Khaine's laughter boomed in Franklin's mind. "I AM A GOD OF THE AELDARI! OF COURSE I KNOW ITS SECRETS! LISTEN WELL, PRIMARCH, FOR I SHALL MAKE

YOU AN OFFER."

"I'm all ears," Franklin replied, intrigued despite himself. "But if this involves any blood sacrifices or eternal servitude, I'm going to have to pass."

"NOTHING SO CRUDE," Khaine assured him. "MERELY A EXCHANGE OF KNOWLEDGE. IN

YOUR NEXT CRUSADE, SHOULD YOU DEDICATE A PORTION OF THE SOULS YOU SLAY TO ME, I SHALL TEACH YOU HOW TO AWAKEN THE TALISMAN OF VAUL."

Franklin considered the offer. "Souls, huh? Any preference on the flavor? We've got quite a variety pack out there in the galaxy."

"ANY SOUL WILL DO," Khaine replied, a hint of eagerness in his voice. "THOUGH I MUST ADMIT, XENOS SOULS HAVE A CERTAIN... SPICE TO THEM."

Franklin sighed. "Right. Well, I'll put that on my to-do list, right after 'teach ancient war god

the concept of subtlety' and 'explain to Dad why I'm now best friends with an Aeldari deity'."

As Franklin made his way to his private quarters, Khaine's voice piped up again. "SPEAKING OF COMBAT, YOUR SWORDSMANSHIP IS ATROCIOUS. YOUR FORM IS SLOPPY, YOUR FOOTWORK ABYSMAL. IT'S EMBARRASSING."

Franklin snorted. "Well, excuse me for not being up to your godly standards. In case you

hadn't noticed, I'm more of a 'shoot first, ask questions later' kind of guy. The sword thing is

new for me." There was a moment of silence, then Khaine spoke again, his tone almost... eager. "PERHAPS... I COULD TEACH YOU. THE WAYS OF AN AELDARI GOD OF WAR. IT WOULD BE SHAMEFUL FOR THE WIELDER OF MY BLADE TO BE SO... INEPT."

Franklin paused, considering the offer. "You know what? Why not. It'll give us something to

do between battles. But fair warning: I'm a hands-on learner. Hope you're ready for some trial and error."

As Franklin practiced his swordsmanship, Khaine's voice boomed in his head, "NO, NO, NO! You move like a lumbering Krork! The blade should flow like the rivers of Isha's tears, not

thrash about like a Enslaver's tentacles!"

Franklin paused, panting. "Krork? Enslaver? Care to translate for those of us who weren't

around for the War in Heaven?"

Khaine sighed, a sound like grinding mountains. "The Krork were the ancestors of your Orks, Primarch. And Enslavers... pray you never encounter them. Now, focus! Your stance should be as immovable as the Crone Worlds, your strikes as swift as Cegorach's wit!"

As weeks passed, Khaine's instructions became a strange mix of combat training and history

lessons. "Rotate your wrist as you strike, like the spiral dance of the Void Dragons! No, no, your footwork is sloppier than a Jokaero's first attempt at metallurgy!"

Franklin, dripping with sweat, couldn't help but chuckle. "You know, for someone who's been

shattered, you've got a remarkably good memory."

"I AM A GOD, PRIMARCH," Khaine retorted. "My memory spans aeons. I remember the

galaxy when your species was still learning to walk upright."

During one session, as Franklin executed a particularly complex maneuver, Khaine's voice held a note of approval. "Better. You're beginning to move with the grace of a Howling Banshee. Though you lack their melodious battle cry."

Franklin grinned. "I'll leave the singing to you, oh divine one. I'm more of a humming guy

myself."

As they trained, Khaine would often reminisce about the old days. "Ah, the glorious battles of old! When the Aeldari Empire spanned the stars, and our warriors danced across solar systems. Your Imperium, vast as it is, is but a pale shadow of our former glory." Yeah, yeah," Franklin quipped, parrying an imaginary blow. "And I bet you had to walk uphill

both ways to school, too."

Khaine ignored the jab. "You jest, but there is much you could learn from the old ways. The Aeldari of old knew the importance of balance - in art, in war, in life."

As their training progressed, Franklin found himself genuinely interested in these snippets of ancient history. "So, tell me about this War in Heaven. Sounds like it was quite the shindig."

Khaine's voice grew somber. "It was a time of unimaginable conflict, Primarch. The Old Ones

and the Necrontyr, locked in a battle that reshaped the very fabric of reality. We gods were born in that crucible of war, forged from the psychic might of the Aeldari." Franklin nodded, his expression thoughtful. "And now here you are, teaching a human Primarch how to swing a sword. Funny how things turn out, isn't it?"

"INDEED," Khaine replied, a hint of amusement in his tone. "The paths of fate are as unpredictable as the laughter of Cegorach. Now, enough chatter! Show me the Sword Wind technique I taught you, and try not to look like a drunken Hrud this time!"

And so their training continued, a bizarre fusion of ancient Aeldari wisdom and Franklin's

irreverent humor. With each session, the Primarch of Liberty grew not only in skill but in understanding of a culture long lost to time, with The God Of Murder Learning to lower his

volume.

Franklin stood at the helm of the "Sweet Liberty," his massive frame dwarfing even the

largest command consoles. The 21st world to fall under the banner of the Imperium through

his latest crusade was now secure, its compliance assured by the overwhelming might of the Liberty Eagles.

"Another one for the Emperor, eh?" Franklin chuckled, his booming voice echoing through

the bridge.

A spectral voice rang in his mind, tinged with impatience. "Bah! Compliance without

bloodshed? Where's the fun in that, Liberator?"

Franklin rolled his eyes, a grin spreading across his face. "Khaine, my murderous friend, must

everything end in a massacre with you?"

"Of course!" the god of war and murder retorted. "It's in my nature. Now, about that

promised crusade of slaughter..."

"All in good time, you bloodthirsty shard," Franklin laughed, patting the hilt of the Death

blade at his side. "For now, be content with the souls we've collected. Quality over quantity,

right?" Khaine grumbled incoherently, a sound that reminded Franklin of a petulant child denied a treat. The thought of the ancient Eldar god pouting nearly sent him into a fit of laughter. Suddenly, an urgent voice cut through the bridge. "Lord Primarch! We're receiving a distress

call from a nearby Imperial world!"

Franklin's demeanor shifted instantly, his jovial expression hardening into one of grim determination. "Put it through."

The message crackled with static and desperation: "This is Governor Thallius of Lumina

Secondus! We are under attack by xenos raiders! Dark Eldar! Please, any Imperial forces, we need immediate assistance!"

"Well, well," Khaine's voice purred in Franklin's mind. "It seems the galaxy has answered my prayers for blood."

Franklin snorted. "Your prayers? I thought gods didn't pray."

"Figure of speech, you oversized mon-keigh," Khaine retorted. "Alright, alright," Franklin said aloud, addressing his crew. "Looks like our compliance tour

just got interesting. Set course for Lumina Secondus, maximum speed. Let's introduce these Drukhari to some good old-fashioned Liberty."

As the Battlefleet Liberty translated into the warp, Khaine's excitement grew palpable. "Yes! Finally, a worthy battle! Crush them, Liberator! Paint the ground with their ichor!" Franklin chuckled. "Easy there, blood god. These are your children, after all. Having second

thoughts?" Khaine's laughter was cold and mirthless. "Children? I massacred my own offspring because of a prophecy. What makes you think I care about these dark reflections?" "Point taken," Franklin conceded. "You're one messed up deity, you know that?"

"I prefer 'focused,'" Khaine replied smugly.

The journey through the warp was mercifully short. As they translated back into realspace, the

scene before them was chaos incarnate. Drukhari raiders swarmed around the beleaguered Imperial world, their sleek, spike-adorned ships darting between lumbering system defense

vessels.

"All ships, open fire!" Franklin roared. "Show these xenos what real firepower looks like!"

The Battlefleet Liberty erupted in a symphony of destruction. Lance beams, macro cannons, and exotic weaponry beyond Imperial science tore through the void. Drukhari ships, caught off-guard by the sudden arrival of such overwhelming force, began to disintegrate under the

onslaught.

As the fleet engaged, Franklin's keen eyes spotted something on the planet's surface. "Khaine, what's that structure near the southern continent?"

"Ah, you see it too?" Khaine sounded impressed. "That, my trigger-happy host, is a Webway portal. If you wish to truly hurt these raiders, you'll need to cut off their escape route." Franklin grinned. "Now that's the kind of tactical advice I like to hear. Any other pearls of

wisdom?"

"Yes," Khaine's voice turned deadly serious. "Leave none alive."

"Aww, you do care," Franklin quipped as he issued orders for planetfall.

The Liberty Eagles and their enhanced Guardsmen companions made planetfall in a storm of drop pods and gunships. As they touched down, the true horror of the Drukhari assault became clear. The streets were littered with the dead and dying, while dark, barbed skimmers

darted between buildings, snatching up terrified civilians. Franklin strode forward, the Death blade humming with anticipation in his hand. "Alright,

boys! Let's show these pointy-eared pirates what happens when you mess with the

Imperium!"

The Liberty forces moved with practiced precision, their tactics a blend of overwhelming firepower and strategic genius. Whenever a Drukhari raider revealed their position, that entire area would be suddenly showered with a hail of disintegration beams and explosive ordnance.

"Overkill much?" Khaine commented dryly as another city block was reduced to rubble, taking a squad of Drukhari with it.

Franklin shrugged, decapitating a Wych with a casual swing. "Hey, if it's worth shooting, it's worth shooting twice. Or a hundred times. Whatever gets the job done." The screams of the dying and the acrid smell of burning flesh filled the air as Asdrubael Vect surveyed the battlefield from his elevated position. His raid on this Imperial world had been going perfectly until the unexpected arrival of the mon-keigh reinforcements. Now, his carefully laid plans were unraveling before his eyes.

A commotion near the center of the conflict caught his attention. Vect's eyes widened as he beheld a giant of a man, easily Quadruple times the size of a normal human, carving through his Kabalite warriors as if they were made of parchment. The giant wielded a blade that seemed to drink in the light around it, leaving trails of darkness and dried up corpses in its

wake.n/o/vel/b//in dot c//om

"Impossible," Vect muttered, his mind racing to comprehend what he was seeing. The giant clearly one of the legendary Primarchs Vect had heard whispers about - moved

with a grace that belied his enormous size. Each swing of his blade was precise, economical, and devastatingly effective. Vect watched in growing horror as entire squads of his best

warriors were cut down in seconds.

"Valorian! Valorian! Valorian!" The chant rose from the Imperial forces, growing louder with

each passing moment.

Vect's lieutenants began to falter, their confidence shaken by the unstoppable force cutting

through their ranks. The young Drukhari leader knew he had to act fast if he wanted to salvage anything from this rapidly deteriorating situation.

With a snarl of frustration, Vect leaped from his perch, his own blades singing as he cut down

a pair of human soldiers in his path. He needed to confront this 'Valorian" directly. If he could

take down a Primarch, his path to power in Commorragh would be assured. As Vect approached, he could hear the Primarch's booming laughter. "Come on, boys!" Franklin called out to the retreating Drukhari. "The party's just getting started!" The Primarch's blade flashed again, and a Ravager exploded in a shower of twisted metal and screaming bodies. Vect's eyes narrowed as he studied Franklin's movements. There was something familiar about his fighting style, something that tickled at the edge of Vect's

memory.

"You there!" Vect called out, his voice cutting through the chaos of battle. "Face me, if you

dare!" Franklin turned, his eyes twinkling with amusement as they fell on Vect. "Well, well," he grinned, casually beheading a Wych who tried to flank him. "You must be the man in charge of

this little soirée. Gotta say, your party planning skills could use some work." Vect didn't reply, instead launching himself at Franklin with blinding speed. His blades were a

blur as he attacked, aiming for the weak points in the Primarch's armor. Vect's eyes widened as he recognized the fighting style Franklin employed - a perfect blend

of Aeldari grace and transhuman power. "Impossible! You fight like... like..." "Like a severely pissed off Eldar god?" Franklin finished for him. "Funny story, actually. Want

to hear it over a drink? I know this great place that serves barbecued Drukhari." With a snarl of rage, Vect launched himself at Franklin, his own blade a blur of motion. The

two danced a deadly waltz, their weapons clashing in a shower of sparks and psychic energy.

"Oh, come on!" Khaine shouted in Franklin's mind. "You're not even trying! Put your back

into it!"

Franklin parried another of Vect's strikes, laughing out loud. "You know, most people have a little angel and devil on their shoulders. I've got a murder god. How's that for an upgrade?" "Who are you?Mon-Keigh!" Vect hissed, barely avoiding a strike that would have taken his

head. "How do you fight like that?"

Franklin's grin widened. "Me? I'm just a guy who's had some really interesting dance lessons lately. You should try it sometime - great cardio!"

Their blades met again, and this time Vect's sword shattered under the impact. He staggered

back, genuine fear gripping his heart for the first time in centuries.

"It's been fun," Franklin said, raising his blade for a final strike, "but I think it's time we

wrapped this up."

At that moment, a nearby explosion rocked the battlefield. Vect, seizing the opportunity,

threw a handful of shuriken at Franklin's face and bolted towards the Webway portal.

"Aw, leaving so soon?" Franklin called after him. "But we were just getting to know each

other!"

As Vect dove through the portal, he caught one last glimpse of the Primarch. Franklin had turned away, his attention already on the next group of Drukhari warriors. But it was the blade

in his hand that seared itself into Vect's memory - for just a moment, he could have sworn he

saw a face in its surface, grinning with bloodthirsty glee. As the Webway portal sealed behind him, Vect stumbled onto the twisted streets of Commorragh, his breath coming in ragged gasps. The sounds of battle faded, replaced by the ever-present din of the Dark City. He had escaped, yes, but at a terrible cost. His raid in ruins, his forces decimated, and his pride wounded - Vect's mind reeled from the encounter. But amidst the chaos of his thoughts, certain images burned bright: the giant Primarch's mocking grin, the impossible blade that drank in light and souls, and most importantly, the colors and symbol of his newfound nemesis. Vect's fists clenched as he rose to his feet. He had lost this battle, abandoned his warriors to

their fate. But he was alive, and in Commorragh, that was all that mattered. This defeat would

be a lesson, a stepping stone on his path to power.

"Valorian," he hissed, the name tasting like poison on his tongue. "Enjoy your victory while

you can. For I, Asdrubael Vect, will not rest until I see your precious Eagles broken and your

worlds

burning."

With renewed purpose, Vect melted into the shadows of Commorragh. He had schemes to revise, alliances to forge, and a long-term plan for revenge to set in motion. Commorragh at this time was less a unified city and more a sprawling corsair port, a patchwork of fiefdoms ruled by competing Archons and their Kabals. The hierarchy was fluid, power constantly

shifting as alliances formed and shattered with dizzying speed.

The sub-realms that would later become fully integrated into the Dark City still maintained a

degree of autonomy they would whisper of his failure today, but he would make sure they

would scream his name in fear tomorrow.