Gunther von Grimm | Inquisitor

The mist descended as suddenly as if the devil himself had breathed upon these godforsaken woods. The horses stopped. The sullen men tugged at their cloaks angrily, trying to shield themselves from the weather. It was as if they were not moving slowly enough without the mist: Inquisitor Gunther von Grimm had been ordered by The Episcopate to reach the city by dawn on the third day, but it was as if the foul land itself had turned against him. The Lord Protector had insisted that Gunther be accompanied by a small detachment to keep up his tempo. Coupled with the increased secrecy, the mission seemed assured of absolute success. Gunther, Brother Gabriel in the bosom of the Holy Church, was honoured by the trust placed in him - but was convinced they were being sent to certain death. He maintained his place among the best of the Order of the Inquisition. Among his honours were successful operations to uncover hidden cults and covens, investigations against sympathisers of evil, indictments of officials, and countless damned souls. Among the rabble, he was known by the nickname "Bloodsucker" for his stubbornness, persistence and special opportunism in achieving his goals. The Episcopate felt that he was better suited than anyone to the role of Inquisitor in a land steeped in vice - and where the power of the Empire was at its weakest. Gunther did not oppose the word of the Lord Inquisitor. Gunther always obeyed the orders. From day one, things had not gone according to plan. Now that they were surrounded by a thick, milky veil, the Inquisitor recalled the faces of the local peasants: unwashed, unfriendly... And as if they knew something that could save the lives of their own defenders from the capital's diocese. Gunther von Grimm pulled the scarf from his face and turned in his saddle. "Officer Lorenz?" "Not a chance, Herr Gunther," there was a low clatter of hooves, and then a lightly armed rider emerged from the mist, "I can't see anything in this fog, not if I ride ahead and distract a possible ambush." "No," Brother Gabriel frowned, lowering his head. The broad-brimmed hat almost hid his face. "It would be a needless death." "What if we call for help from the city? Fire warning lights?" There was another muffled voice. "We'll just summon all the scum from the vicinity," he replied, "It's still at least four hours from the city, the guards won't see anything." As the knights talked, von Grimm dismounted. The sickening feeling of unease that had come with the mist kept him alert, and he drew a deep breath of damp coolness through his nose. If he was "Bloodsucker" to his enemies, he had an unspoken nickname among the young acolytes as "Hound of God", not only for his obvious work as a detective, but also for this strange habit of sniffing the air. For all its strangeness, however, this habit had a frightening pattern: he would only do it when heresy lurked nearby. "What if we let the horses gallop the rest of the way?" The knights continued to argue quietly. "We might get past them in time!" "Too risky," Lorenz interrupted, "do you know the way, Hans? I don't, and I'll tell you this: one fallen branch under your blind horse's legs, and all the filthy bastards will die of envy when they see your crippled corpse." "Quiet," Gunther interrupted. The forest made no sound. No trunks creaked, no leaves rushed. The animals were silent in their caves, as if afraid of the mist. Or they were afraid of something else. "To arms," the Inquisitor ordered quietly, jumping back into his saddle. “High alert.” "Protect Herr Inquisitor!" Lorenz ordered, raising his weapon, and the riders formed a defensive position around Gunther. There was a clang, and the chaplain, riding behind the Inquisitor, lit the heavy censer in his hand. In the other was his trusty dagger. They were mostly common guardsmen. Brave soldiers whose enemies were no worse than the cowardly berets of the West, and whose hearts were easily soothed by a mug of ale, a warm maiden, and a good song. Now, as these thirty horsemen lined up in a column around him, Gunther thought sadly for the umpteenth time, were they prepared to face the inexplicable with the same bravery? An enraged werewolf, a hungry vampire - or worse? These soldiers were his only defence against the renegades who practically owned the land. The outer row of riders swung halberds with sharp hooks, while the second row checked their rapiers and raised their crossbows. Silver-plated bolts with cores of pure iron - the death of any abomination, no matter from what abyss it crawled out - glimmered softly in the thick mist. The lamellar armour of the same pure iron, its plates protecting not so much against impact as against cursed magic, rattled. The Cardinal's Intendant had equipped the squad personally as if it were on a holy crusade. Gunther turned back to the chaplain: the stout, not-young priest spread his hands with his regalia and looked dour, calm. The Inquisitor nodded at him and the man suddenly smiled. "We are all children born of fear. That is why we must let His light in, Brother Gabriel. Then it will shine for us even in the darkest shadows of the horrors of the underworld." "Bless us, Father," Gunther said quietly, listening to the officer's orders. The chaplain bowed his head and raised his hand with the censer. The Inquisitor had already turned away when he heard the low, loud chanting of prayers behind him. It encouraged the soldiers, helped them to believe. But Gunther just could not get those seemingly random words out of his head: '...the horrors of the underworld...'.