waiting for her victims to blunder into her

Phelim swung his sickle. The wheat hissed, the bearded ears fell against his face making him close his eyes. Then the curve of the blade clanged against something hollow and metallic and black.

A woman’s rib cage.

No white-clothed beauty this. At close quarters, he could see the rust-red eyes, the adze-shaped chin, the nose as curved as a bill-hook. Her long black skirt was pale with dust, but not the shiny black of her iron upper body. Her long, flue-black, iron breasts had blunted countless sickle blades as she stood amid the wheat, waiting for her victims to blunder into her. She held a long-handled scythe, but she and her sisters had not come to harvest wheat.

Only the reapers.

Geraldine McCaughrean
The Stones Are Hatching