Chapter Eight
ALARM!
Whiplash Scruggs opened the silver scissors wide, ready to snip the other wing from Melchior’s back and finally put an end to the person he’d hated for so long.
Good-bye, Melchior, he thought. A wicked smile spread across his face. But as he moved the blades toward Mr. Spines’s wing, a screeching voice echoed through the amphitheater.
“Groundlings to battle stations! Groundlings to battle stations! Code red!”
The Groundlings leaped to their feet and began pushing and shoving their way to the doors. Scruggs cursed his luck. There were strict rules about conducting a Clipping. The Groundlings enjoyed these events so much that the Jackal had instituted a law stating that they must always be performed in front of a large audience. The Jackal wanted his army to remain inspired, and to give his soldiers the opportunity to witness his triumphs.
Scruggs contemplated his dilemma. He wanted to end this right now. He’d waited for this moment forever! But could he disobey the Jackal?
Forget the rules! he thought. I’ll finish this without an audience.
He placed the blades next to Melchior’s remaining wing and was about to snap the scissors shut when a heavy claw grabbed his wrist.
It belonged to a tall, thin Groundling with an iron grip. The Groundling’s blue eyes bore into Scruggs’s own, his sharp features contorted in a mocking grin.
“And what does he think he’s doing?” the Groundling said, indicating Scruggs in a rough, condescending voice. “Thinks he’s too important to follow the Jackal’s rules. Thinks he’s too high an’ mighty, don’t he?”
Scruggs scowled. The Groundling’s grip hurt his wrist, but he didn’t want to show any sign of weakness.
“What do you want, Charlie?” he grunted.
The skinny Groundling flashed a yellow grin in response. “Well, Charlie Hoof don’t want anything but the law. But he,” Charlie looked deep into Scruggs’s blue eyes, “he don’t respect the law. ‘No Clippings without a full assembly,’ that’s what the book says, don’t it? But Scruggs thinks he knows better. And Charlie says that it wouldn’t be proper. No. Negatory.”
Scruggs hated Charlie’s unusual way of referring to everyone as “he” or sometimes “it.” The Groundling even referred to himself by his first name.
Charlie glanced down at Mr. Spines and tapped his long, yellow fingernails on his knee as he spoke. “The way Charlie sees it, this one is a bit different from the others. Special,if you know what Charlie means. It’s to be thrown in the dungeon until we reconvene.”
Scruggs wrenched his wrist out from Charlie’s iron grip. Nursing it with his left hand, he glared back at the bony Groundling, wishing he could kill him on the spot. The problem was that, technically speaking, Charlie outranked him. He was head of the Jackal’s police force, and when Charlie Hoof got involved, everybody had to toe the line.
“Whatever you say, Charlie,” Scruggs spat.
And with that, the huge man strode from the stage, knocking over a columned pedestal as he went. Charlie stayed behind, flashing a sharp-toothed smile at Scruggs’s retreat.
“He should never underestimate Charlie Hoof,” he muttered softly. “Never. Negatory.”
Then, grabbing the end of Melchior’s gurney, the bony Groundling wheeled him from the stage and into one of the many dark passages that led to the dungeon.