Scythe (Arc of a Scythe #1)(64)

“Adequate,” Goddard would say, or, “That wasn’t entirely dismal.” High praise from the man.

And in spite of himself, Rowan felt satisfaction each time Goddard gave him approval. And he had to admit he was beginning to like wielding deadly weapons. It had grown on him like any other sport. Skill for the sake of skill, and then a sense of accomplishment when he did well.

On this particular day, things took a severe turn. It was evident from the moment he stepped out onto the lawn that something was up, because the dummies had not yet been put out. Instead, there were at least a dozen people milling about the lawn. He didn’t get it at first. He should have know that something was different because all the junior scythes were there today to watch his training. Usually it was just Goddard.

“What’s going on here?” Rowan asked. “I can’t do my training with people in the way—tell them to clear out.”

Scythe Rand laughed at him. “You’re charmingly dense,” she said.

“This ought to be fun,” said Scythe Chomsky, folding his arms, ready to relish what was to come.

And then Rowan finally understood. On the lawn the people weren’t milling around, they were standing, evenly spaced. They were waiting for him. There were to be no more dummies. Now his practice would be the real thing. Killcraft would now truly be killcraft.

“No,” Rowan said, shaking his head. “No, I can’t do this!”

“Oh, but you will,” Scythe Goddard said calmly.

“But . . . but I’m not ordained yet, I can’t glean!”

“You won’t be gleaning,” Scythe Volta said, putting a comforting hand on Rowan’s shoulder. “There are ambu-drones waiting for each of them. As soon as you’re done with them, they’ll be rushed to the nearest revival center, and be as good as new in a day or two.”

“But . . . but . . .” Rowan found he had no viable argument except to say, “It isn’t right!”

“Listen here,” Scythe Goddard said, stepping forward. “There are thirteen people out on that lawn. Every single one of them is here by choice, and every single one of them is being well paid for the service provided. They all know why they’re here, they know what their job is, they are more than happy to do it, and I expect the same from you. So do your job.”

Rowan pulled out his blades and looked at them. Those blades would not be cutting into cotton today, but into flesh.

“Hearts and jugulars,” Scythe Goddard told him. “Dispatch your subjects with speed. ?You will be timed.”

Rowan wanted to protest—insist that he couldn’t do it—but as much as his heart told him he couldn’t, his mind knew the truth.

Yes, he could.

He had been training for precisely this. All he had to do was dial his conscience down to zero. He knew he was capable of that, and it terrified him.

“You are to take down twelve of them,” Scythe Goddard told him, “and leave the last one alive.”

“Why leave the last?”

“Because I said so.”

“C’mon, we don’t have all day,” grumbled Chomsky. Volta threw Chomsky a withering glare, then spoke to Rowan with far more patience. “It’s just like jumping into a cold pool. The anticipation is much worse than the reality. Take the leap, and I promise all will be well.”

Rowan could leave.

He could drop his blades and go into the house. He could prove himself to be a failure here and now, and perhaps not have to endure any more of this. But Volta believed in him. And so did Goddard, even if he wouldn’t admit it aloud—for why would Goddard set this challenge before him if he didn’t believe Rowan would rise to it?

Rowan took a deep breath, gripped his blades tightly in both hands, and with a guttural war cry that drowned the alarms blaring in his soul, he launched himself forward.

There were men and there were women. The subjects represented different ages, ethnic mixes, and body types, from muscular to obese to gaunt. He yelled and screamed and grunted with every thrust, slice, and twist. He had trained well. The blades sunk in with perfect precision. Once he began, he found he couldn’t stop. Bodies fell, and he was on to the next, and the next. They didn’t fight back, they didn’t run in fear, they just stood there and took it. They were no different from the dummies. He was covered in blood. It stung his eyes; the smell was thick in his nostrils. Finally he came to the last one. It was a girl his age, and there was a look on her face of resignation bordering on sorrow. He wanted to end that sorrow. He wanted to complete what he had begun, but he overrode the brutal imperative of the hunter in him. He forced himself not to swing his blades.

“Do it,” she whispered. “Do it or I won’t get paid.”

But he dropped his blades to the grass. Twelve deadish, one left alive. He turned to the scythes, and they all began to applaud.

“Well done!” Scythe Goddard said, more pleased than Rowan had ever seen him. “Very well done!”

Ambu-drones began to descend from above, grasping his victims and spiriting them away to the nearest revival center. And Rowan found himself smiling. Something had torn loose inside of him. He didn’t know whether it was a good thing or not. And while part of him felt like falling to his knees and hurling up breakfast, another part of him wanted to howl to the moon like a wolf.