Scythe (Arc of a Scythe #1)(101)

The rest of Goddard’s body fell limply to the ground, and in the silence of the moment, Rowan heard from behind him:

“What the hell did you do?”

Rowan turned and saw Chomsky standing at the entrance of the chapel, with Rand beside him.

“You are so gleaned when he’s revived!”

Rowan let his training take over. I am the weapon, he told himself. And in that moment he was a lethal one. Chomsky and Rand defended themselves against him, and although they were good, they were nothing compared to a weapon so sharp and precise as he. Rowan’s blade cut Rand deep, but she kicked the sword out of his hand with a well-placed Bokator kick. Rowan responded with an even more effective kick that broke her spine. Chomsky set Rowan’s arm ablaze with the flamethrower, but Rowan rolled on the ground, putting it out, then grabbed the toning mallet from beside the altar and brought it down on Chomsky like the hammer of Thor, striking again and again and again as if he were toning the hour, until the curate grabbed his hand to stop him and said, “That’s enough, son. He’s dead.”

Rowan dropped the mallet. Only now did he allow himself to let down his guard.

“Come with me, son,” the man said. “There’s a place for you with us. We can hide you from the Scythedom.”

Rowan looked at the man’s outstretched hand, but even now Goddard’s words came back to him. The eagle or the mouse? No, Rowan would not scurry away and hide. There was still more that had to be done.

“Leave here,” he told the man. “Find the survivors, if there are any, and get out—but do it quickly.”

The man looked at him for a moment more, then turned and left the chapel. Once he was gone, Rowan picked up the flamethrower and got down to business.

? ? ?

Out in the street, fire trucks had already pulled up and peace officers were holding back crowds. The entire cloister was now on fire, and although firefighters raced toward the blaze, they were intercepted by a young man stepping out of the main gate.

“This is a scythe action. You will not intervene,” he said.

The fire captain who now approached him had heard of scythe-related fires, but never had such a thing happened on his watch. There was something about this that didn’t seem right. Yes, the boy appeared to be wearing a scythe’s robe—a royal blue one, studded with diamonds—but the robe clearly didn’t fit him. With flames consuming the compound at an alarming rate, the captain made a judgment call. This kid, whoever he was, was no scythe, and was not about to hinder their efforts.

“Out of the way!” he told the kid dismissively “Get back with the others and let us do our job.”

Then the kid moved with lightning speed. The captain felt his legs kicked out from under him. He landed on his back, and suddenly the kid was on top of him, a knee painfully pressed into the captain’s chest and a hand around his throat squeezing so tightly it almost closed off his windpipe. Suddenly the boy didn’t seem a boy at all. He seemed a whole lot bigger. A whole lot older.

“I SAID THIS IS A SCYTHE ACTION AND YOU WILL NOT INTERVENE, OR I WILL GLEAN YOU RIGHT HERE, RIGHT NOW!”

The fire captain now knew he had made a grievous mistake. No one but a scythe could be so commanding and take such absolute control of a situation. “Yes, Your Honor,” the captain rasped. “I’m sorry, Your Honor.”

The scythe stood, letting the captain get up. He told his squad to fall back, and the squad, having seen the scythe take their captain down so effectively, didn’t question it.

“You can protect other buildings that are threatened,” the young scythe said, “but you’ll let this entire compound burn to the ground.”

“I understand, Your Honor.”

Then the scythe held up his ring, and the captain kissed it with such force, he cracked a tooth.

? ? ?

Rowan felt his skin crawling beneath Scythe Goddard’s blood-soaked robe, but as unpleasant as it was, he needed it to play the part. He was far more convincing than he thought he’d be. He frightened himself.

The firefighters now directed all their attention to adjacent buildings, hosing down nearby roofs with fire retardant. Rowan found himself standing alone between the burning Tonist cloister and the crowds still held back by peace officers. He stayed until the steeple caved in and the giant fork at its apex plunged into the flames, resounding with a mournful clang as it hit the ground.

I have become the monster of monsters, he thought as he watched it all burn. The butcher of lions. The executioner of eagles.

Then, trying not to trip over the robe, Rowan strode away from the all-consuming inferno that would leave nothing behind of Scythe Goddard and his disciples but bones too charred to ever be revived.





Part Five


SCYTHEHOOD





* * *





Scythes Rand and Chomsky have these morbid conversations. They’re twisted, and the first to admit it, but I guess that’s part of their charm. Today they were talking about the method they might use to self-glean one day. Noam said he would climb to the top of an active volcano, and, surrounded by grand ceremony, hurl himself into the lava. Ayn said she would scuba dive the Great Barrier Reef until she either ran out of air or got eaten by a great white. They wanted me to join in their game and tell them how I’d want to go. Call me boring, but I didn’t want to play. Why talk about self-gleaning when it should be the furthest thing from our minds? It’s our job to end other people’s lives, not our own—and I intend to be doing it well into my thousands.