Song #3

Sometimes the Jackal’s Lair resembled a dark tower with cruel spires. Other times it resembled a palace of ice. At the moment, the Jackal’s Lair looked exactly like his headquarters in California: a five-story building with bricks the color of molten copper.

In Los Angeles, his headquarters was known as the Bradbury Building, and it was the most evil place on Earth. The structure was elegant, covered with iron filigree and containing dizzying flights of stairs. Most people walked by it every day, never knowing what truly went on within its secret rooms. They were oblivious to the depths of evil that lurked inside.

But in the Woodbine, everyone knew exactly what went on in the Jackal’s Lair. It was a place of unnamed horror and unspeakable torture. The Lair was hidden from view by a force field that was said to shear the wings off any Guardian who flew too close. Its borders were marked by huge, flat pieces of stone. Woodbine legend claimed that the stones were the remains of the bridges the Jackal destroyed when he fell. It was said that the Jackal drew power from the stones, that they were needed to keep his force field in place.

Outside the stone wall, the landscape was dry and inhospitable. Scrub brush and stunted oak trees were the only things that grew there, and it was a place of unbearable heat.

But deep inside the Jackal’s Lair, it was very cold and very dark. Groundlings swarmed through the maze of dripping tunnels and halls like a maggoty infestation. All hope was abandoned inside the Lair, for its residents functioned on a different kind of energy.

The very walls seemed to ooze with these feelings, filling the occupants with the traits of their lord and master, the Jackal.

It was inside one of the Lair’s immense, underground caverns that Whiplash Scruggs had gathered an assembly of Groundlings to witness his moment of triumph. He’d narrowly escaped the Jackal’s wrath for not capturing the boy. As far as he knew, he’d only been spared because he’d brought his master another prize.

It had been a long chase. Scruggs had tracked the boy and his father from Portland to Los Angeles and then to the Woodbine. He’d been thwarted in his pursuit several times, but finally, outside the village of Woodhaven, Scruggs had caught up with them. Unfortunately, the boy had escaped. But Scruggs was certain that Edward Macleod would return to his clutches now that he had the boy’s father.

As the dank amphitheater filled with blue-eyed Groundlings, Scruggs stroked his black goatee and relished the moment that was about to come.

Melchior, known on Earth as Mr. Spines, had been captured. And every Groundling not on assignment had gathered to watch the Clipping, the ritual of severing a Guardian’s wings.

Scruggs’s fingers caressed the handles of his long-bladed scissors. For thousands of years, he and Melchior had been master craftsmen, creating Instruments of Power to be used with Guardian songs. But Melchior had always been just a little bit better at it, garnering the attention and praise of the highest-ranking Guardians. Where Guardians craved Melchior’s unique and inventive instruments and saw them as priceless collectibles, Scruggs’s were seen as well made but lacking in imagination.

Scruggs would have given much to have the success and fame that Melchior had. And it had only irritated him more that Melchior hadn’t cared about the praise. He’d cared only about the work itself, something that Scruggs had never understood. What point was there in creating something if it didn’t garner rewards, he thought.

It was Scruggs’s bitterness over being second best that had eventually led to his fall. For him, there just wasn’t enough room for both he and Melchior in the Woodbine. So he had chosen to fall. He’d abandoned his craft and turned his sharp intelligence to finding creatively cruel ways to fulfill the Jackal’s orders.

And now it had paid off. He had Melchior just where he wanted him. And when he was finished with him, he would dispense with his son, Edward. Scruggs would be the most famous Groundling ever, and would gloat in his final victory.

“Who’s laughing now, eh, Melchior?” Scruggs whispered to himself as he opened and shut his scissors with a deliberate SNIP!

Scruggs removed a silk handkerchief from his breast pocket and polished his beloved shears, admiring them with renewed appreciation. The handles were brass, but the blades were made of pure silver. He’d forged the scissors himself after much testing and trying of other metals. Ultimately, he’d proven that silver was the best for the job. It was the only metal that sliced effortlessly through a Guardian’s wings.

Scruggs finished shining the deadly scissors and gazed around at the throng of hideous Groundlings. The commotion in the huge amphitheater settled down as a low-ranking Groundling, Belthog by name, hobbled onstage and motioned for silence. The creature had a vulture’s beak, a humped back, and two glowing blue pinpricks for eyes.

“Brothers and sisters,” he croaked. “It is my great honor . . . golp”—the gnarled Groundling paused to make a disgusting, burbling sound in his throat—“to introduce to you the esteemed Moloc, known to mortals as Whiplash Scruggs. He has arranged an evening of entertainment, golp, that is sure to leave you both thrilled and inspired.”

The Groundling introduced Scruggs with a twisted claw, and the assembled throng let out a series of thunderous squawks, grunts, and cheers. Scruggs was positively radiant at the praise, sweeping off his huge, plantation style hat and bowing low.

“So it is without further ado”—burble, gulp— “that I give you the most innovative and dedicated servant of the Jackal, a Groundling without equal, a genius of torture . . . MOLOC!”

More cheers. Scruggs motioned to the back of the stage and two more Groundlings, twisted apes with pig snouts, wheeled out a gurney with a small porcupine-like figure strapped down to it.

Mr. Spines was far too weak to struggle against his bonds. His face was pale and he looked half starved. He gazed sadly at row upon row of jeering Groundlings, who spat and let out a chorus of catcalls when he appeared.

Oh, this is even better than I imagined, Scruggs thought happily. Scruggs waved his hands for silence and raised his huge, silver scissors so that they caught the light of the blazing torches surrounding the stage.

“My esteemed colleagues,” Scruggs drawled. “I must say, I’m overwhelmed by your outpouring of affection and obvious admiration for my person and talent.”

There was scattered, halfhearted applause from the assembled Groundlings. They weren’t as interested in Scruggs as they were in the entertainment to come. A few wriggled in their seats and exchanged glances, fearing a long speech.

Scruggs continued his planned speech, oblivious to his less than enthusiastic audience. “I have waited for this moment a long time. And although our lord and master, the Jackal, can’t be with us today, I received a communication from him earlier that expressed his profound gratitude to me for capturing one of his most disobedient servants.”

This, of course, wasn’t true. Scruggs hadn’t heard anything from the Jackal since he’d brought Melchior into the Lair. But he took the fact that the Jackal hadn’t eliminated him from existence for failing him again as praise enough. Besides, it felt good to inspire jealousy among his fellow Groundlings. It would only help his rise to the top of the heap.

There was more scattered applause from the Groundlings, but less than before. They all wanted him to get on with it. Everyone was eager to see the Clipping.

Sensing that he was losing his audience, Scruggs raised his voice and spoke with more animation. “But let me just add that I couldn’t have done any of this without the help of one very important individual.”

His eyes glinted and he gave a sharp-toothed smile. Murmurs of confusion echoed through the assembly. Everyone knew that Scruggs never acknowledged anyone other than himself. What was going on?

The fat man waited until an expectant hush descended on the crowd and then added, with a mocking bow, “I’d like to thank Melchior’s son, Edward. Without his help, I wouldn’t have been able to capture my sworn enemy.”

The crowd cackled at Scruggs’s little joke. This was the kind of thing they liked. Humiliating a victim prior to torture made for great entertainment.

“Yes, I must say,” Scruggs chuckled, “if it hadn’t been for Edward Macleod, we wouldn’t be sitting here today. It was he who made a rather inept attack on one of our forces, alerting me to Melchior’s presence.” Scruggs left out the part about Melchior having bitten him on the arm in order to help Edward escape. He kneaded his right forearm at the memory. Melchior’s teeth had gone uncomfortably deep.

Scruggs’s words had their intended effect. There were more jeers from the crowd. They were eating it up! He had them in the palm of his hand. Scruggs beamed, relishing every second! Once again, he held up his plump hands and motioned for silence.

“Yes, yes, I can’t take all the credit myself. Perhaps we have misjudged Edward Macleod? Perhaps he wishes to work for our esteemed master instead of following in the footsteps of his traitorous father?”

Cheers rose from the crowd again. Mr. Spines flinched at Scruggs’s words, a motion that wasn’t lost on Scruggs. That struck a chord, he mused, noticing Melchior’s discomfort. Scruggs knew that his enemy couldn’t bear the thought of his son signing on to serve in the Jackal’s army.

Scruggs continued, enjoying the audience’s enthusiastic response. “Well, I’m sure that after we catch this so called ‘Bridge Builder,’ and catch him we will . . .” he emphasized, “we will be able to persuade him that serving the Jackal is a much more rewarding venture than his current, misguided cause.”

This statement was met with thunderous applause. Chants of “Jackal! Jackal! Jackal!” echoed through the mass of Groundlings; a general stamping of feet and claws, and snapping of beaks, added to the ovation. Scruggs, smiling wide, waited until the commotion had died down a bit to continue.

“So now I must ask our prisoner that all-important question, and it is one that could affect his eternal fate.” Scruggs turned to Melchior and said with a booming voice, “Do you, Melchior, relinquish all alliance with the Higher Places? The Jackal himself awaits your plea for mercy. Perhaps if you show him that you are willing to return to his service and honor your contract, your pitiful existence might be spared.”

Scruggs leaned in to Melchior’s ear and whispered, “After I’m through with you, I’ll capture your son and do the same thing to him. Two quick snips! Then I’ll go after your wife . . .”

Suddenly Scruggs reared back, clutching his eye and shouting curses. Melchior’s well-aimed glob of spit had found its mark.

“That was very rude, old friend,” Scruggs growled, wiping his eye with his sleeve. He turned to the massed crowd and shouted, “WE HAVE OUR ANSWER. LET THE CLIPPING BEGIN!”

A roar of approval swept through the crowd as Scruggs displayed his gleaming scissors. Soon the chant was taken up again, but this time, instead of “Jackal!” the crowd was shouting “Moloc! Moloc! Moloc!”

Scruggs grinned at the use of his ancient name. Once, long ago, human empires had feared him so much that they had made sacrifices to him. He hadn’t felt powerful like that in ages.

The scissors flashed. A scream tore from Melchior’s lips as a withered wing, a shadow of the glorious being that he had once been, fell to the floor.