Disclaimer: Warhammer 40,000 and all other associated copyrights owned by Games Workshop.
Hellsing and all other associated copyrights owned by Kouta Hirano.

Should any one of these parties wish it, I will remove this story at once.

*Transmitted: Aloreux IV
*Destination: Holy Terra
*Date: 2 217 M45
*Telepathic Duct: CLASSIFED
*Author: Chris Stork
*Title: Warrior-Saint
*Clearance: Vermilion
*Path: 100000003487862/57920754527.7890
*Thought For The Day: Cruelty is the Compassion of the Wise

Brother-Sergeant Michael cut through the foliage, his chainsword nearly clogged and dark red power-armour stained and the Great Seal of the Hellsing Order almost obscured by the sickly yellow of the battered plants. The landscape was a twisted nightmare, filled with horrible, pestilent overgrowths of warp-tainted 'life' Michael did not want to contemplate. The air was nothing but rot and decay; the ground was covered in a sickly greenish pus. Still seeking any sign of his Brothers and Sisters he snapped left and right; no sound, no trace. The assault had scattered badly. He raced over the foetid hills; towards the target, a ruined Imperial city, straining to heard any sound.

He stopped; a sound, there! He barreled through the hellish brush bearing down on the noise. Louder and louder it grew, he could pick out the clash of metal, the shriek of claws on armour. The warp-spawned copses terminated abruptly and Micheal beheld the battle. Three Sisters and two of his Brothers fought desperately, hacking and shooting where they could, against the tide of twisted and deformed creatures that dripped with pale ichors. The daemons advanced, slashed with plague-tipped claws and bit with broken fangs, in moments his brethren would be lost.

Michael screamed, drew his bolt-pistol and charged into the melee. The first daemon barely had time turn its head before Michael bought his sword across, sending its head arcing skyward. The second he shot blasting viscera in all directions, it came on regardless. They fell back, momentarily confused by the new attacker.

"OPEN FIRE!", Micheal yelled as he ducked under the daemon's swing. Bolter shell ripped into the plague-bearers, 'blood' and gore splattered the vegetation. Shrieking the shambled forward. "Secondary flank!" He raced out drawing the creatures attention while his brother and sisters got into position. A quarter of the daemons followed, Micheal sliced out, cutting limbs and tearing their pustular forms. "Attack!", his Brothers and Sisters surged forward, cutting into the rotting creatures. Ground between the three the daemons staggered back, hacking and spitting. They did not last long.

"Brother-Sergeant", Michael heard as he pulled his sword, now completely clogged, from the carcass of a daemon. He turned and returned the salute. He could see them more clearly now. By their gilded heraldry they were Initiates in the Order of the Valourous Sword. Cultists never held command positions.

"Sister", he said, "Have you had contact with the rest of our brethren?"

She shook her head, "No Brother-Sergeant, you are the first."

Michael looked around, hoping for a Sign. They could not stay, and he didn't have the numbers to assault the Death Guard in the city.

"We must press onwards, we will find the main force."

"Yes Brother-Sergeant."

Michael set forth, seeking the rest of their Order and engaging the Arch-Enemy where they found them. He gathered what few that could be found, a few came within range of the vox, several he blundered into. By the time he broke through the tainted jungle, he had found a mere three dozen. The heavy weapons team had four heavy bolters and a plasma cannon, the rest were split between tactical weapons and assault, no power weapons.

It was the sounds of screeching and hollow bangs that caught Michael's attention. He ran forward over to the cresting hill and saw the target. Once this had been the thriving, industrial heart of the world, it was no more. The buildings were rotten and collapsed; each coated with corrupted, blasphemous sigils wrought from what looked to be human flesh and the Marks of the Ruinous Powers of Chaos were burned into the structures. The warped and twisted symbols threated to draw his mind in, but he turned away not willing to waste his effort for no purpose. Michael scanned the area, hoping to see any of the Order. He did not have to search far.

A brutal melee was being waged not a hundred metres from him. The sickly greens and yellows of the Death Guard blurred together, but could not obscure the deep reds and rich blues of the Hellsing Order. Even at that great distance he could determine their heraldry easily. The Agrios Chines, The Saint's Guard. She was near. They stood in a circle around a building, barring all entrance. The Traitors tried, pitifully, to force they way through, each time to be torn apart with lighting claws or smashed asunder with thunder hammers.

A shrieking cacophony to Michael's left pulled his attention away from the battle. Across the streets a tidal force of putrefied bodies, pestilent limbs, and bloated rot poured toward the unhallowed edifice. A plan flared to life. Not ideal but he had nothing better.

"Devastators, purge the filth!", he ordered the heavy weapons team, pointing to the wave of daemons, "Tactical, advance ten metres left and screen them, Assault team secondary flank from the right remain unseen, primary with me!"

The heavy weapons teams moved into position and began to rain holy fire upon the obscenities. The abominations shrieked and tried to turn, but there were to many to wheel about effectively. The assault team lined up behind Michael and readied their weapons as the secondary raced into position.

Michael surveyed his warriors, the terrain and the Enemy. He wanted to find more of the Order before the final assault, he wished to find any ranking officers, he hoped for some sign as to what was the best course. He would simply have to trust in the Saints and the Emporer.

"FOR THE LINE OF SAINTS!", he yelled, thrusting his sword at the Enemy and charged. He heard the echoing chant, hoping it was loud enough to attract all their attention. Some of the Traitors heard and turned from the battle to face the new assault. They shambled into a wavering line and waited, scythes and axes bobbing. Michael began the Litany of Purpose and Being.

"In the Name of the Immortal Emperor", he began, the warriors around him picked up the Litany.

"Blessed be His Name!"

They thundered down the hill, the chants echoing across the ruins.

"The Debased souls of the Traitor and the Heretic!"

"Cursed are their Names!"

Micheal kept an eye on the auspex, the secondary team was not advancing as quickly as he thought.

"Shall be banished into Eternal Damnation!"

"The Light of His Judgment shall prevail!"

They wouldn't hit in time, he would have to improvise.

"HALT! Open fire! Aim low!"

Slamming to a stop he fire his bolt-pistol at the legs of the Death Guard, he heard his Brothers and Sisters do the same. Catch off-guard they staggered backwards before they tried to counter-charge. By then the secondary had the time they needed. Sparks flew and metal shrieked as chain-sword bit into tainted armour. The line crumpled from the onslaught, but held. It would not do so for long

"Charge" Micheal ordered. Moments before they hit the traitors, Michael remembered to complete the Litany. "Amen."

Ground between the two-pronged assault the traitors were slaughtered, chain-blades broke open the battered armour and shredded corrupted flesh and bone with ease. The rest of the Traitors aware of a rear-attack scattered, trying to prolong the battle. Micheal ducked a swing and shot the Traitor in the face. He rushed the next one and knocked it to the ground where an Agrios Chines eviscerated it. He plowed forward, intent upon reaching The Saint.

Suddenly a fell keening shattered the air. The walls of rotted building tore outward and wave of charred daemons issued forth. Micheal crushed the 'face' of one as it ran to him. So madden by pain it made no attempt to dodge. He hacked and shot at the rest as he charged through. Unlike their brethren before these collapsed at the merest touch.

Michael broke through the melee, his footfalls heavy on the sludge that coated the ground. He knew that the Saint was in the building, knew that one of the Arch-Enemy captains was there. He was determined to aid in any way possible. Michael turned his shoulder and smashed through the wall. It was over.

Rythun had lost, his deformed armour was charred and pitted from Her Presence, his attacks wild and erratic. The Saint, clad in her death-black power armour adorned with skulls, advanced mercilessly. Her much smaller form easily forced Rythun back. Unable to match her strength he fell back and swung his scythe at her. Almost casually, she twisted around and brought the Eternus Odium upon Rythun's scythe, shattering it into a thousand thousand pieces. Her free hand ripped out the armour plating of his torso, and with a swinging blow smashed the ancient daemonhammer into his chest. He flew across the room, visibly denting the wall he impacted. She launched herself at him, the Eternus Odium raised to strike. Rythun pawed at something on his wrist moments before the death-blow, he spastically jabbed. She brought the daemonhammer down, and hit nothing. Rythun had completely vanished. She paused staring at the spot Rythun had been. Her righteous fury was palatable. The Saint pulled the Eternus Odium back and locked it into place on her back. She turned and faced Michael.

"Sergeant Michael, sweep the compound, kill all the Fallen and take any prisoners to the west courtyard."

"Yes, Beati."

Michael saluted and ran to execute Her Orders. The battle outside was finished, a few minor injuries suffered. Quickly he formed search team and though he scoured the ruins for the Traitors they had all fled by Rythun's warp-craft. Leaving only their deluded followers behind to face the justice they evaded.

He had the last of the prisoners dragged to the appointed courtyard. All told, one quarter of a hundred had surrendered rather than face their wrath. Clothed in rags and covered with filth and grime Micheal forced them to kneel in the dirt and slime and await their reckoning. As the still highest ranking officer he went forth to inform the Saint.

By the runes on the auspex she remained near that desecrated structure Rythun had been bested in, doubtlessly hunting for proof of where the coward had fled. He moved with casual speed through the ruins; able to trace Her path through them by the burned and blackened icons of the Ruinous Powers. The distance was covered quickly and he found himself before a great circle of the Agrios Chines with the Saint sitting in the center. One of his Brothers had fallen.

His armour was rent and torn and his blood seeped into the ground, his shield shattered and stained with daemonic ichors, his hammer splintered with the force he had dealt with his blows. His mind and soul and fought and fought, until his body could no longer support them. She held his head in her lap, breathing quiet words in a language of her youth on Holy Terra. She had removed both of their helmets. Michael knelt, honouring his fallen brother with quiet prayers and exultations before commending his soul to the Immortal Emperor.

"Sergeant Michael", he heard the Saint whisper.

He started, thinking that he hadn't been noticed. Regaining his composure, he delivered his report. After Michael had finished she moved her fist across her eyes, a gesture he had never seen her initiate before, locked her helmet into place and rose. At a command several of her guard followed behind, the rest stayed to watch over the fallen.

Michael waited a moment, to give a last farewell to his fallen Brother. As he recited the last valedictions he noticed a few drops of clear liquid on his face. He briefly wondered at to its nature, it wasn't sweat, before putting it out of mind. It was not important. With a final word, he turned and proceeded after the Saint.

The prisoners still remained on the earth, shivering with fear. Moving with terrible purpose the Saint drew her ceremonial bolter-pistol, cambered a single round and strode behind the column of the heretics. Leveling it at the back of the first's head she asked:

"Do you ask forgiveness for your crimes against the Imperium?"

The man, who looked like a fish with wide staring eyes and a gray pallor, took some moments to respond through his terror.

"Y-Y-Yes, I-", whatever he tried to say was cut off when the Saint pulled the trigger and his head exploded. Screams rose in the throats of the heretics. Now that they truly understood their fate. Even now, after all his years in the service of the Emperor, he still marveled at Her capacity for mercy. Offering these things absolution in death was not something he could do. He would have burned them alive and sent them to the hell they had so willfully bargained for.

Uncaring, the Saint reloaded, walked to the next, and asked again. A woman this time, stricken with a wasting plague, answered faster.

"Pleeeease don't killl mee...", the Saint quickly snapped her free arm down, dropping the woman to the ground and stunning her. Before the apostate could gather herself two of the Initiates dragged her off. Ready for the long, arduous task of reclaiming her soul for the Emporer. Her screams began some moments later. Michael hoped she did not die before his Brothers and Sisters were successful, as much he hated the deluded followers of Chaos, he did not wish their time wasted.

Unhurried and unconcerned by all around her, the Saint carried on with her work. As the numbers thinned, Michael sent the unneeded guards to search the ruins for any marks and traces of where the Traitors could have fled to. He turned back and watched the last of the Emperor's Justice be dispensed.

Author's Notes:

To those wondering where Alucard is, he will be in towards the end with artificer armor and a two-handed chain-weapon.

Note on Languages: As English is currently a dead language in the story certain conventions are in place. Low Gothic, the common language of the galaxy, is represented as English. Latin is used to represent High Gothic, the language Low Gothic descended from. Greek is used to represent older languages, usually Modern English.