Syn

The silence was stifling, and figures moved surreptitiously through the evening stillness, instinctively avoiding the silent alley. Orana knelt with her head bowed, blood darkening the glimmer of her blade. Pain clouded her mind, but that was the price you paid for losing control. The tip of her opponent’s blade had broken off in her side, between her ribs, and the poison was even now working its way through her bloodstream, and she knew she was dying.
Synandria looked down at her dying teacher. She showed no emotion, just the twinge of knowing that a chapter of her life was closing.
“Orana, what can I do to aid you?” She asked kneeling down beside the dying woman. Orana opened her eyes; they dulled as she looked at her protégé. There was so much that needed to be explained to her, and now she would never have the chance. Orana smiled; as much as she loved Synandria, she knew it was never reciprocated. The child, having been abandoned by her mother, lacked the empathy to form an emotional bond.
“Remember what I have taught you. Our profession demands a solitary life, I hope you never have to relearn this lesson as I have...” Her sight became clouded, and quieter than she was born, she died.
Synandria shuddered. She had seen dead people before, though none from her own hand. However, here was someone who meant something to her, someone who had raised her from a child. Her gaze was drawn to the man, apparently a former lover of Orana’s, lying in an undignified death a few feet from where she was. He had been slaughtered, hacked to pieces in Orana’s uncharacteristic rage. Her usual delicate killing skill had been obliterated by her need for revenge; she had beserked, taking him out with such ferocious violence that there were no more than bits of his carcass left. She silently vowed to take Orana’s advice, love was too much of a distraction. However, she could not ignore the aching numb that seeing Orana dead had brought to her chest.
Silfain was still gripped in Orana’s right hand, the blade glimmering faintly blue in the dark, even through the dulling blood. Synandria reached out and removed the only relic she would take from this scene. Silfain had been Orana’s most prized possession. Magic oozed from the sword. It looked so delicate, as though it was made of the purest crystal, but it was harder than diamond and as sharp as a razor. She once heard that it was stolen from one of the Gods, she could not remember which one, but there had been a heroic battle and the God had fallen. She still didn’t know if this was truth or one of Orana’s elaborate stories. She never would find out now.
After burying Orana’s body in the forests on the outskirts of the town, Synandria went in search of sustenance and somewhere to think. Sanctuary presented itself in the form of the Old Dragon Inn, where beds and booze were as cheap as the company to be found inside. After eating a light meal of bread, cheese and salted meat, she settled back in the warm shadows to sup a mug of mead and contemplate a future alone. After what seemed like only a few minutes, a nervous tap on the table broke her reverie. She looked up into the face of an agitated man.
“You’re an acquaintance of Orana Baquinn, aren’t you?” It was more statement than question. Synandria sighed, and answered.
“Yes, I have known her.” The dull ache in her chest intensified slightly at the memory of Orana’s death.
“By my reckoning, that makes you for hire. If so, I may have some work for you. May I sit down?” He said this with no space for her to confirm or deny his assumptions. He then sat down heavily on the seat opposite her, without her consent.
“I was actually looking for Mistress Baquinn, but as you know her, I’m sure you will be adequately experienced for my needs.” As he spoke, she could see the nerves rising in him, making him fidgety. Of course she was for hire, that was what all the training was about. And that was what this slightly built, rather effeminate man wanted, and feared.
“...and he refuses to pay me. Would you be willing to deal with this problem?” He had been talking all the while, Synandria realised. Unfortunately, she had not been listening and had to quickly think back on his words.
“Hmmm… And the price on this mans head?” This was the first question Orana had taught her, and it didn’t need her to have been listening, thankfully.
“Fifty gold pieces, and anything you can find in the pockets of the hound!” The venom in his voice took her back a bit.
“I am an assassin, not a common foot-pad. I am not interested in what can be scavenged from this man’s corpse, just pay me for my talents.” As she said this she pulled back the hood of her cloak, his intake of breath was barely audible. It always amused her, the way people tended to react to her features. She bore the common traits of her race, the high cheekbones, the feline eyes and the delicate pointed ears. All these features were typical of Elves, all apart from her eyes. Not content with being one colour, they would change like dark opals. Sometimes they would be black, then dark green, then to dark blue, and even to a reddish brown. No matter what colour, there was always an unearthly iridescence about them.
She regarded him now with mild amusement, and a rare smile playing at the corners of her full lips.
“If you will provide me with his name and a description, or the number of his residence, I will be more than happy to provide the service which you require.” He was completely unnerved by the calmness in her voice, and the way she seemed to mock him. He feared what she was, but it was coloured with a grudging respect.
After she gained all the information she needed to carry out the gruesome task, she pulled her hood up and told the man to wait there. She would return with a token of the completed task.
The coolness of the evening was a refreshing reprieve from the hot, sweaty atmosphere of The Dragon. No one saw her duck down into the alley leading to Gall Street. Threading her way towards the victim’s house, all her training tingled in her conscious mind, and she placed herself in Orana’s shoes. She had accompanied her on many such expeditions, but never actually made the kill herself, this was the final test. If she fails now, there would be no point in living. She could not be anything else, considering the options open to a young lady.
Within ten minutes, she located the house where the deed was to take place. Here, in this quiet little nest, someone she had no knowledge of was sleeping peacefully and with no idea that this was to be his final night. Fear welled up in her like a damned river, what if she could not do this! She was never very fond of people, but to actually take a life! How would she feel after? What if she gets the knife to his throat and she just can’t do it? Swallowing down the doubt, she started to scale the side wall of the house. Effortlessly, she reached the window, which was closed. Being careful not to lose her footing, she extracted a slim dagger from the sheath strapped to her left thigh, and slid it between a gap in the wood. Having managed to slip the catch, she pushed the window wide.
Dropping lithely into the darkness beyond, she soundlessly approached the sleeping figure sprawled out on the bed. A faint snore reached her ears, and she detected the sound of someone moving around downstairs. Quickly she moved toward the door of the bedroom and locked it.
Like a ghost, she glided over to the bed and peered down at the sleeping man. He fitted the description, even down to the mangy moustache that rested on his upper lip like a fungal growth. Repulsed by the recumbent figure, all morals and inhibitions flew out of the proverbial window. Cautious not to wake him, she picked up one of the soiled pillows and held it above his head.
Her actions were born of training and survival instinct. Bringing the pillow down over his nose and mouth, to stifle any stray screams, she drew the dagger deeply across the man’s vulnerable throat. A sickening gurgling noise emitted from the fatal wound, and though he was near dead, his body thrashed around like a fish on a hook. After what seemed like an eternity, his death throes ceased. Feeling nothing for the crime she had just committed, she took the man’s hand, almost lovingly, and cut off his middle finger. There was a signet ring on the digit, with the man’s initials ‘SJ’ in solid gold.
Careful to keep the noise to a minimum, Synandria crept back to the window and climbed down the wall, disappearing into the welcome cover of the shadows. A feeling of utter joy started to swell in Synandria’s stomach, she had done it! She had made her first kill, and survived to collect her payment. Now she knew that there was no turning back, all she had to do was build up her reputation, perhaps she could pickup from where Orana left off. Maybe even add a little finesse to her technique, and maybe even invent a trademark! She could hardly believe the joy she could extract from killing. Her normally lifeless soul did cartwheels at the memory of the knife slicing through his pallid flesh, and the stark contrast of the crimson stain on the sheets.
When she arrived back at The Dragon, she had pulled herself together, and regained her professional exterior. She entered without being noticed, and slipped back into the chair she had previously occupied. Her employer was waiting nervously, and he jumped when he turned and found her sitting there sipping her drink.
“Have you done it?” He asked, looking around as though all eyes were on them.
“Aye, here is the proof. I will take my payment now.” She pulled the dismembered finger from her belt, and slid it across to him. The look of revulsion was more than enough to say he believed her.
“Aye, that’s his all right. Take it away, and I will pay you.” He turned away from the cooling finger, and took out his purse. Synandria removed the finger, and kept it for a souvenir.
“Now, how much did we agree? Twenty five gold pieces was it?” He said, slipping into businessman mode. Synandria flipped back her hood and gazed at him levelly.
“Fifty.” Her gaze bore into him, and he winced. He mumbled something about not paying at all, to which she answered:
“May I remind you that the fate that befell your friend may easily be repeated? I may not know your name, but I know your face. Just consider my words before you decide to pay me the full amount. The taking of life is not as hard as you think.” Her calmly reassuring voice persuaded him, and he flung the pouch on the table and left as quickly as he could.
Synandria counted the money, the correct amount was there. She leaned back in her chair and grinned widely. Life was looking good, now that she had made her first kill.