The Toll (Arc of a Scythe #3) - Neal Shusterman Page 0,118

for the High Blade’s leave, Baba ran across the field toward the closest ambudrone, like a lamb to the slaughter.

“Ahmad! No!” called Tenkamenin, but Baba was already committed and wasn’t turning back.

The moment the Tonists saw a scythe’s robe, they shifted gears and raced after Baba, intercepting him. He pulled out blades from his robe, took Tonists down all around him, but it was no use. They overwhelmed him, threw him to the ground, and attacked him with everything they had—including his own weapons.

Scythe Makeda tried to go after him, but Anastasia stopped her. “There’s nothing we can do for him now.”

Makeda nodded but didn’t take her eyes off her fallen comrade. “He may be the luckiest of us,” she said. “If they’ve killed him, the drones will get him. They’ll carry him off to be revived.”

But the drones did not go after him. There were so many other bodies around the compound, they were all already committed—and to an ambudrone, one body was no different from another.

And that’s when Anastasia realized. “They’ll killing the staff to tie up the drones… so that there won’t be any left to go after the scythes….”

And with no drone to carry Baba away, the Tonists grabbed his body and dragged him toward a flaming pyre that would reduce him to unrevivable ash. They hurled him upon it, and the flames surged.

“To the palace!” said Tenkamenin, and once more led the way, as if somehow being in motion made them any less trapped.

vii. Benedictus

They piled into the palace, where half a dozen BladeGuards closed the ponderous bronze doors behind them and took up defensive positions, should the Tonists break through. At last there was a blessed moment of peace. A blessed moment to strategize within the madness. It could mean the difference between living or dying as ignobly as poor Scythe Baba.

Although the palace had many windows, they all faced the central atrium, which meant that the High Blade’s pleasure dome was also a mighty fortress. The question was, how mighty?

“They must have gathered every Sibilant in SubSahara for this,” Scythe Makeda said.

“It will be all right,” Tenkamenin insisted. “The peace officers of Port Remembrance will arrive to fight alongside the BladeGuard, and the city’s firefighters will douse the flames. All will be well.”

“They should have been here by now!” said Makeda. “Why don’t we hear sirens?”

It was Anastasia—insightful as ever—who burst their bubble. “The first explosions,” she said. “The far-off ones…”

“What about them?” said Tenkamenin almost threateningly. Fighting for his tether of safety.

“Well… if I wanted to wage an illegal attack,” she said, “the first thing I would do would be to take out the peace officers and firefighters.”

And the truth of it left them all in silence. Until Tenkamenin turned to his valet, who was silently wringing his hands in terror.

“Where are my things?”

“I’m… I’m sorry, Your Excellency. I left the suitcase in the rose garden.”

Jeri glared at the High Blade. “We’re all about to be incinerated, and you’re worried about your things?”

But before the High Blade could respond, a flaming truck crashed through the massive bronze doors of the palace, the doors fell off their hinges, crushing four BladeGuards beneath them, and Tonists began to flood in.

That’s when Jeri grabbed Anastasia and pulled her behind a column, hidden from everyone’s view.

“I have an idea,” Jeri said, “but you’ll have to trust me.”

viii. Offertorium

The sibilant curate was in his element. This was what he was born for, this was his purpose, and had been his plan for years. Even before the Thunder fell silent he knew this day would come. His extreme brand of Tonism would soon be the dominant one. All those lesser Tonists who believed in tranquility, tolerance, and passive acquiescence would soon die off and burn, just as the High Blade of SubSahara would burn today. The time for words was gone. Had been gone for a long time. If the curate had his way, language itself would be outlawed and replaced by wordless adulation to Tone, Toll, and Thunder. As it was meant to be. And he would be High Curate over it all. Oh what a glorious day that would be! But first this.

A scythe in a turquoise robe raced up a grand staircase, trying to escape. The curate pointed, and half a dozen of his flock raced after the scythe. Before him a woman in a salmon silk robe, whom he recognized as Scythe Makeda, was on the attack, skillfully gleaning the Tonists attacking her. Loyal