The Toll (Arc of a Scythe #3) - Neal Shusterman Page 0,117

intoning. They were of one mind, one spirit, one chord.

Then, climbing on the backs of her brethren, she and dozens of others began to scale the palace wall.

vi.  Agnus Dei

Anastasia and Jeri, with Scythes Makeda and Baba close behind, finally met up with Tenkamenin in the rose garden, halfway between the palace and his cottage. His valet was struggling with a large rolling suitcase that wouldn’t roll on the pebbles of the narrow garden path.

“We’ve called for the helicopter,” Scythe Makeda informed everyone. “But it will take at least ten minutes to get here from the airport.”

“And that’s only if the pilot isn’t off in some bar,” Baba added, “like he was the last time.”

“It will be fine,” Tenkamenin said, a bit out of breath. “It will come for us, and everything will be fine.”

Then he turned to lead everyone to the heliport, which was on the property’s west lawn. Around them the entire compound was in motion. Palace staff hurried, going this way and that, their arms full of belongings. The BladeGuard were flooding out of the barracks and taking strategic positions—something they had probably done only in exercises.

And then they heard a noise from the west. A chorus of droning voices, each one hitting a different discordant monotone. And figures began dropping over the western wall.

“We’re too late,” said Tenkamenin, halting them in their tracks.

Alarms began to blare all around them, and the BladeGuards took immediate action, firing on the invading force, adding the sound of gunfire to the cacophony. Tonists fell left and right, but for every one the guards took down, two more scaled the wall. It wouldn’t be long before the guards were overwhelmed.

These Sibilants were armed with more than rocks, and they used their weapons against the guards with such brutality it was shocking. Where the hell did they get those kinds of weapons? Didn’t Tonism espouse inner peace and stoic acceptance?

“That which comes can’t be avoided,” Anastasia mumbled. It was the Tonists’ favorite mantra. It suddenly took on a terrible new meaning.

The heavy south gate was blown off its hinges by an explosion, and, as the gates fell, a mob of Tonists pushed through. They cut through the line of BladeGuards in seconds and began throwing what looked like bottles of alcohol with burning rags shoved in them. Fire broke out everywhere the bottles crashed.

“They mean to burn us so we can’t be revived!” said Baba, near panic. “Just like Scythe Lucifer did!”

Anastasia wanted to snap at Baba for even mentioning Rowan in the same breath as this twisted sect of Tonists, but she stopped herself.

As the battle spilled onto the heliport ahead of them, Tenkamenin had them change direction. “The east patio!” he said. “There’s more than enough space for the helicopter to land there! Come!”

They doubled back, crossing through the rose garden, getting scraped, scratched, and poked by thorns on the way—but even before they reached the east patio, they could see that this end of the compound had also been breached. Tonists were everywhere, attacking people running out of the staff house, chasing them down, and rendering them mercilessly deadish.

“Why are they attacking the palace staff?” said Anastasia. “What possible reason could they have?”

“They are without reason,” said Scythe Makeda. “Without reason, conscience, or decency.”

Their server, who was so particular about the placement of silverware, was felled by a knife in the back.

That’s when Baba turned on Tenkamenin. “You should have fortified!” he yelled. “Added another garrison of BladeGuard! Or even gleaned this pack of Tonists before they could launch an attack on us! This is all your fault!”

Tenkamenin balled his hands into fists and stormed toward Baba, but Jeri got between them. “You can salvage your egos later,” Jeri said. “But first we have to live if you’re going to have this fight.”

Anastasia looked around. They were under cover of darkness, so had not yet been spotted, but that wouldn’t last long as the fires grew.

And then, as if the commotion around them wasn’t enough, a new sort of droning filled the air—this one from actual drones. From the sky descended a swarm of ambudrones. They had been mobilized from the nearest revival center when people began to go deadish.

They zeroed in on the bodies lying in the grass and on the pavement—Tonists, BladeGuards, palace staff—they didn’t differentiate between the dead and the deadish. They scooped them up in their insectlike pincers, carrying them off for revival.

“There’s our ticket!” said Scythe Baba. “Who needs a helicopter?” And without waiting