Scythe (Arc of a Scythe #1) - Neal Shusterman Page 0,117

told himself. I will not enjoy it. I will NOT enjoy it!

They came around a corner and Rowan saw their destination: some sort of compound made to look like an old adobe mission, completely out of place in the cold of MidMerica. The iron symbol atop the tallest steeple was a two-pronged fork. This was a tone cult cloister.

“Nearly a hundred Tonists reside behind those walls,” Goddard announced. “Our goal is to glean them all.”

Scythe Rand grinned. Scythe Chomsky checked the settings on his weapon. Only Scythe Volta seemed to have reservations. “All of them?”

Goddard shrugged as if it were nothing. As if all those lives meant nothing. “Obliteration is our hallmark,” he said. “We don’t always succeed, but we try.”

“But this . . . this breaks the second commandment. It clearly shows bias.”

“Come now, Alessandro,” Goddard said in his most patronizing tone. “Bias against whom? Tonists are not a registered cultural group.”

“Couldn’t they be considered a religion?” Rowan offered.

“You gotta be kidding,” laughed Scythe Rand. “They’re a joke!”

“Precisely,” agreed Goddard. “They’ve made a mockery of mortal age faith. Religion is a cherished part of history, and they’ve turned it into a travesty.”

“Glean them all!” said Chomsky, powering up his weapon.

Goddard and Rand drew their swords. Volta glanced at Rowan and said quietly, “The best thing about these gleanings is that it’s over quick.” Then he drew his sword as well, and followed the others through a gated archway that the Tonists always left open for lost souls seeking tonal solace. They had no idea what was coming.

• • •

Word spread quickly on the street that a small elegy of scythes had entered the Tonist cloister. As human nature would have it, rumor quickly raised the number to a dozen scythes or more, and as human nature would also have it, crowds that were slightly more excited than frightened gathered across the street wondering if they would get a glimpse of the scythes, and perhaps even the carnage they left behind. But all they saw for now was a single young man, an apprentice standing at the open gate, his back to the crowd.

Rowan was ordered to remain at the gate, sword drawn, to prevent anyone from trying to escape. His plan, of course, was to allow anyone to escape. But when the panicked Tonists saw him, his sword, and his apprentice armband, they ran back into the compound, where they became prey for the scythes. He stood there for five minutes, then finally he left his spot at the gate, losing himself in the maze-like compound. Only then did people begin to slip out to safety.

The sounds of anguish were almost impossible to endure. Knowing he’d be expected to glean someone before this was through made it impossible for him to disappear into himself this time. The place was a labyrinth of courtyards and walkways and illogical structures. He had no idea where he was. A building was burning to his left, and one walkway was littered with the dead, marking the passage of one of the scythes. A woman huddled, partially hidden by a winter-bare shrub, cradling a baby, trying desperately to keep it quiet. She panicked when she saw Rowan and screamed, holding her baby closer.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” he told her. “No one’s guarding the main gate. If you hurry, you’ll make it out. Go now!”

She didn’t waste any time. She took off. Rowan could only hope she didn’t run into a scythe on the way.

Then he came around a corner and saw another figure huddled against a column, chest heaving in sobs. But it wasn’t one of the Tonists. It was Scythe Volta. His sword lay on the ground. His yellow robe was splattered with blood, and blood covered his hands, shiny and slick. When he saw Rowan he turned away, his sobs growing heavier. Rowan knelt down to him. He clutched something in his hand. Not a weapon, but something else.

“It’s over,” Volta said, his voice barely a whisper. “It’s over now.” Clearly, however, from the sounds coming from elsewhere in the compound, it was not over at all.

“What happened, Alessandro?” Rowan asked.

Volta looked at him then, the anguish in his eyes like that of a man already damned. “I thought it was . . . I thought it was an office. Or maybe a storeroom. I’d go in, there’d be a couple of people there. I’d glean them as painlessly as I could, and move on. That’s what I thought. But