Just a thread to plonk any short stories I've been working on. Sorry for any odd formatting... I wrote it in Latex and there might be the odd bit of syntax in there. Comments/feedback always welcome!

Voices

A winter breeze swept through the streets of Middenheim, like daggers of ice on exposed skin, and Albrecht drew his furs closer to his body as he hurried through the altquarter. These past few weeks it had become dangerous to venture anywhere alone; thick fogs descending on the city for hours or even days at a time. With them had come elevated violence and unrest; every common thug and petty thief gone to ground had emerged and sought to make up for lost effort. People were saying the City Watch was swamped and buckling under the pressure of the crime wave.

Somewhere, a dog howled. At least, Albrecht Eberhart hoped it was a dog. His hand instinctively checked his dagger was in grabbing distance underneath his furs before he soldiered on. The fog was particularly thick this night, and Albrecht could barely make out the shapes of the crooked townhouses hemming him in, through endless expanses of white. Only the cobbles beneath could he make out clearly, slick with the gods knew what kind of silage. Ahead somewhere, the muffled sounds of songs and laughter, though they may have well been the other side of the Old World, for how removed Albrecht felt from them.

A few months ago, he would have been in the taverns every night, drinking his liver to rot with his companions. As a mercenary, he had come to accept death as part of his trade. Friends came and went, the lucky ones only lost limbs, the not so lucky lost their lives. Never had he thought that he would lose so many at once; now he only had their ghosts and memories to drink to, the war had seen to that.

Another gust whipped by, rattling window panes and swinging the rusted signs over doorways into off-key screeches. Still the street was deserted of human life. It was-- disconcerting. Even at this late hour, the streets in this area were often congested with drunkards bar-hopping, women of the night propositioning the gangs clustered around doorways, watch patrols making occasional rounds... Now? Nothing. Even the windows betrayed no presence of life; not a flickering candle along the entire street. The mercenary walked a few more steps, then stopped. He felt the hairs on his neck began to prickle, and if Albrecht trusted anything it was his instincts. His hand closed on his dagger, and this time he unsheathed it, comforted by the way it lay in his hand. Keeping it hidden under his fur coat, he began to turn warily. Each shadow of a doorway began to assume the shape of a common footpad or thug.

Albrecht had never faced a man and known genuine fear, he was sure of it. It was the way he had been brought up, amongst hardened and hardy folk. But here, alone, with a tormentor assuming no bodily form, he felt a creeping in his gut that he hadn't felt since the siege. Though months had passed since the battle for Middenheim had been decided, Albrect still had nightmares about what he had fought on those walls. Daemonic beings; grinning, impossible things. Quicker and stronger than any man could ever be, and they seemed to thrive on the terror they inspired. He began to see them now, shifting figures in the fogs, shapes darting in the corners of his eyes, always just out of sight. Waking nightmares that plagued his mind.

Come for me have yer?' he roared at them, his voiced cracked and dry.I ain't afraid! Quit yer skulking and face me!'

He accidentally bit down on his tongue hard, and felt coppery blood well up. The pain instantly calmed him, and his tormentors vanished, leaving Albrecht panting in the street. But he could still hear their voices, murmering, coaxing and goading him in his mind. He needed another fix. He was becoming addicted, he knew. But weirdroot took away the ghostly memories of his friends, and of the horrors that had killed them. It was a way out, if only for a few hours.

His purse was near empty now. Mostly his own fault, he knew. The last dregs of it gambled away in a game of chance. He had even pawned his sword to a loan shark on Grafstrasse, a desperate act for a hired sword. It didn't seem to matter now, since no one seemed to be hiring any more.

Albrecht passed close to The Last Drop, an inn with a reputation for its affinity with thieves and scoundrels. He pausing to hawk a blood-saliva mix into the gutter before disappearing into an alley behind. Taking care not to slip in the refuse of boxes, food waste and scurrying rodents, he made his way to a door so dirt blackened that it could be barely distinguished from the wall surrounding it. Above, an equally dirty sign aggressively scrawled out `Luitpold's gentleman's club'.

The mercenary hammered on the door and waited impatiently, glancing up and down the alley, still unable to shake the feeling of being observed.

Eventually, a peep hole hammered open and a pair of sly dark eyes peered out. Without comment, the door swung open and a short, slightly built man stepped out. Albrecht towered over him, but it was clearly whom of the pair was in control the situation. `Luitpold', for he it was, smirked up at Albrecht with his gaunt face, characterised by a pencil thin mustache that Albrecht despised. Behind his back, he was known as the quarterling, as it was rumoured that he was half human, half halfling.

`Albrecht,' said the man, by way of greeting. He had an oddly nasal voice that the mercenary likened to a weasel.

`I need a favour,' he replied, trying to keep his voice pleasant and reasonable.

Out of weirdroot already?' asked Luitpold, smirking more broadly.I'd love to help. Trouble is, you owe me already. Consider your supply terminated... until you can repay me, of course.'

Albrecht felt a wave of desperation overcome him. `Please, Luitpold. I've got work coming in, I can get you your money by the end of the week. You know I've been good for it until now... please!'

No dice, big fella'.' Luitpold leaned in, motioning Albrecht to do the same. He lowered his voice to a whisper, spalling fetid warm breath into Albrecht's face.Word on the streets is you're run up on all kind of debts. What kind of business man would I be to supply a snivelling, broke coward like you, eh?'

It was a step too far. Albrecht grabbed the self referred businessmen by his filthy camisole and shook him. `Yer want me to make you?,' he snarled, throwing the man against the door.

Luitpold giggled as he dangled above the floor. You want me to make you?' he repeated, mockingly.You ain't got the guts, and you know it. 'Sides, you don't know where my stash is. You think I leaving it lying about for any addict to rob me blind?'

Albrecht continued to hold Luitpold against the door, breathing hard, eyes wild as he digested what he was being told.

`Either run me through or put me down feth-head,' added the peculiar little man.

The mercenary inhaled and exhaled heavily a few times before admitting defeat. He wasn't a murderer, and he didn't doubt Luitpold's comment about the stash. He could comb the man's grubby home for weeks and end up with nothing. He lowered Luitpold to the floor.

Good choice,' said the dealer.See? That wasn't so hard was it you great, meandering oaf?'

Albrecht looked back miserably. A man that a child could probably take care of, and he couldn't bring himself to harm him out of a sense of mercenary honour, if such a thing existed.

Luitpold's beetle eyes gistened in the dark. He had the measure of Albrecht, and knew it. `Go and drown your sorrows with your last pfennigs, get me my money and don't come back until you do.' He watched smugly as the mercenary left, shoulders sagging like a beaten cur. That's what addicts were really; dogs. Give them enough juicy treats and they were loyal as Verena. If you cut them off, they were all the same; denial, bargaining, pleading, threats and acceptance; though not always in that order. If a dog got out of line, it needed to know who the master was. Just like Albrecht, thought Luitpold, watching the tall and burly man disappear around the corner, taking his wiry mess of a beard with him. Only if a dog actually tries to bite someone do they become a problem, and Luitpold suspected the mercenary wasn't that desperate yet. First he would resort to loan sharks and pawning his belongings, then robbery. Then perhaps murder. Luitpold found he didn't much care, as long as he got paid. And if he did try to bite, well... Luitpold patted the concealed sheath containing his poisoned dagger. Small may be, but all it would take to drop a brute like Albrecht is a nick.

Luitpold glanced up and down the alley a final time before retreating to his humble business. The dirty door slammed and at once was rendered almost invisible from the wall it was part of.

*****

`Another one, eh Werner?' mumbled Albrecht, over a number of empty glasses. He squinted around The Last Drop, trying to steady his spinning vision. Even in his state, he retained some vestige of common sense, and didn't make eye contact for too long. People were killed for things more trivial than taking too much interest in The Last Drop. Nearly midnight, and the place was practically empty. It looked like the fogs were bad for business. A couple of other lone drinkers, and a well dressed halfling and what looked like a foreigner discussing something in hushed voices in one of the partially enclosed booths. Seeing as it was in this particular tavern, Albrect was fairly certain whatever it was wouldn't be legal.

`Good for it are you?' asked Werner Wutend, the surly barman. A wicked looking scar ran full length along the left side of his face, from forehead to throat, which had curled his lip into a permanent snarl. From his reputation, he certainly was not one to cross, but Albrecht was getting desperate.

'Course,' replied Albrecht, trying to stop his voice from slurring.Getting paid tomorrow,' he lied. It was only his second time in The Last Drop, so he was relying on word not having got around yet how run up on debt he really was.

I'll take what you got now,' said Werner, after a penetrating stare.And you get one more. That's your limit...?'

`Heinrich. Heinrich... Wassermann,' said Albrecht, hoping against hope that Werner hadn't wouldn't follow his stare to the other end of the bar, where a jug of water sat close to a questionably hygienic sink.

It seemed not. After taking the last few pennies Albrecht had, Werner noted the name down shrewdly, along with the amount owed and stowed the debtors card under the bartop. `Same again?'

`Make it a Kislev firewater, double,' replied Albrecht, hoping he wasn't pushing his luck.

The barman scowled, and after pouring the measure, got the card out and amended the amount owed.

Albrecht stared at the tumbler for a while in silence. It was going to be his last for a while, unless the gods granted him some inspiration. Even through the alcohol, he could feel the wierdroot withdrawal tearing up his insides. And still the voices were whispering to him, though he was too far gone to remember why he cared.

With a sigh, Albrecht necked his tumbler and enjoyed the burn of the harsh liquor settle his stomach. He had to do something, but what? Colours glittered in front of his eyes, and his mind distorted them into daemonic grins. It was the damn drug - he couldn't think straight. The mercenary kneaded his head with his hands. It didn't help.

He stumbled outside, finally numb to the effects of stinging cold. It did little to revive the mercenary from his stupour. What was he doing again? Something to do with money. That was always the reason, never the answer. Money. Do the job, get paid. If you survived. Albrecht frowned, and grabbed the wall of the tavern for support. The pavement seemed to spin, melding with the fog in such a blur that Albrecht sagged to the floor.

*****

He had fallen asleep. Possibly. At least it felt like time had passed when his eyes fluttered open. The voices had begun talking to him again; and he was helpless to block them out. The grinning daemons flashed in his mind again, whispering how easy it would be, if only he would listen. Mentally exhausted, the urge to obey was overwhelming and Albrecht felt himself coil; like a snake waiting to strike.

A figure was approaching him in the dark... no, passing him. A heap on the floor, Albrecht realised must look as much a threat as the rotting crates beside him. Well, now was his chance at last. The person walking away was dressed with no great finery, he would not be missed.

Slipping stealthily to his feet, Albrecht padded after him. For a fleeting moment he felt alive again, back to his old self. The daemons were not raking his mind any more, they were aiding him. Urging him on. His heart thudded in his chest, coursing blood through his powerful limbs. This was his moment. The figure was blissfully unaware... it was almost too easy. The fog was his shroud, his veil. What he had feared before was now his weapon. Only when he was within a few feet did the figure sense something and begin to turn. Far too late. Albrecht's dagger plunged into the unprotected neck without hesitation; the victim was barely able to utter a hiss. Surprised eyes locked with Albrecht's own as the man groped at him stupidly for a few moments before he fell lifeless to the ground. It wasn't enough; hungrily Albrecht fell upon his victim, tearing with his hands alone. Crushing... rending...

Albrecht ceased his furious attack at last, and laboured breathing punctuating the silent night as he got to his feet. He watched the steam from pooling blood fuse with the thick fog around him. He felt strong. Elated. Like he had purpose again. It was strange... he had tried to ignore the voices, to block them out with alcohol and drugs. But by giving in, obeying, he had never felt stronger. He had been the hunter, the alpha male. Like a wolf. He liked that. Wolf.

Albrecht rolled over his victim with the toe of his boot and looked down at the face. Luitpold's wild eyes stared blankly back, uncomprehending. Albrecht looked blankly at the face for a moment, as if searching for an emotion to feel. Cold logic told him to be disgusted with himself, fearful at what he had become, but the daemons inside his head silenced the thought like a comforting blanket. In the end he could think to do nothing but laugh at the irony of the little man's death; he no longer wanted or felt the need for weirdroot gnawing at his system. The void that he had felt on the wall had been filled at last. He knew now what the voices had been trying to tell him for so long was true. This was his drug. This was his true calling.

Although the fog was still thick about him, Albrecht knew that somewhere high above were the moons. Joyously, he arched his back, and howled his rebirth to the heavens until his lungs were raw.