The Machine of Doom

by Cavan Scott

  But there were no sheep to be seen.

  “Watch out!”

  Gill turned to find himself staring into the startled eyes of a large, fat ewe. He tried to get out of the way, but couldn’t move quick enough and ended up with a mouthful of course, bitter-tasting wool.

  He was still choking on it when the sheep swept around and shot back to the debris-strewn market square.

  “Sorry, Gill.” Spyro whacked the spluttering Gillman on the back. “I tried to warn you.”

  “This is just weird,” said Eruptor as they watched a flock of flying sheep streak over the collapsed stalls in a perfect arrow formation. “How are they doing it?”

  “I’m not sure,” admitted Spyro. “It’s not as if they’ve sprouted wings or anything.”

  “So what are we going to do?” asked Gill, finally clearing his throat.

  “Why don’t you try blasting them with your water cannon?” suggested Spyro, taking to the air himself as three sheep soared a little too close for comfort. “See if you can slow them down a bit.”

  “Great idea,” yelled Gill, his eyes sparkling as he aimed the nozzle of his water cannon in the direction of an incoming flock. “It’s time for a wash down.”

  A column of water gushed from Gill’s cannon, hitting one of the approaching sheep right between the eyes. The force of the water knocked the animal sideways and it dropped like a very soggy stone.

  “Good shot,” praised Eruptor as they ran to where the sheep lay on its back, legs wiggling helplessly in the air. Its drenched wool had absorbed most of the water and had swollen to twice its normal size.

  Spyro gently butted the animal back on its feet. It stood for a second until its trembling knees gave out under the weight of its waterlogged wool and it collapsed once again with a splat. Gill prodded the creature with the barrel of his cannon.

  “This is one low-flying lamb chop that is well and truly grounded,” he reported proudly.

  “What are you waiting for?” asked Eruptor. “Soak ’em all.”

  Gill didn’t get a chance to answer. He was too busy landing on his behind as the sopping sheep suddenly leaped from the ground, smacked Gill in the face for the second time that day, and took off back into the air with a bleat that sounded as surprised as they were.

  “I thought you said that thing couldn’t fly anymore?” barked Eruptor, as he dodged the dripping dive-bomber.

  “Well, excuse me for not being an expert in soaring sheep.” Gill spat out a lump of matted wool. “I don’t see you coming up with any clever ideas.”

  “Guys!” Spyro jumped in between his two squabbling friends. “We haven’t got time for this.”

  It was at that point that the banana hit Spyro on the nose.

  The banana was followed by an apple, then a peach, and then an orange. Before they knew it, the Skylanders were being pelted from all angles. Fruit and veggies were flying everywhere.

  “First sheep and then this?” yelled Eruptor, who was quickly being smothered in fruit pulp. “Who’s throwing this stuff, anyway?”

  Spyro tried to look, ducking sharply to avoid an incoming pumpkin. “There’s no one there. It’s just picking itself off the ground and chucking itself at us.”

  “I’ve heard of tossed salad,” Gill cried out, scraping tomato seeds from his eyes, “but this is ridiculous. Can today get any worse?”

  “Funny you should say that.” Eruptor was staring at Gill’s trousers. “Do you know you’ve got dynamite shoved in your belt?”

  Chapter Four

  The Spell Punk

  Gill’s eyes stretched even wider than usual. Sure enough, tucked into his waistband was a stick of dynamite, its fuse lit and sparking away merrily. With a cry of alarm, the Gillman snatched the explosive out of his belt.

  “What are you waiting for?” bellowed Eruptor. “Get rid of it!”

  Gill didn’t need to be told twice. He pitched his arm back and threw the dynamite as far away as possible. It bounced off a perplexed-looking ram and exploded in midair, sending the slightly singed farm animal shooting off at a tangent.

  More explosions blossomed all around as the remaining stalls were suddenly consumed by balls of flame. Spyro threw up his front claws to protect his face from flying shrapnel and charred cucumbers.

  “I don’t get it,” he said as another stall was reduced to splinters by a blast. “First the sheep, then the fruit, and now this. Nothing about this makes sense.”

  “This isn’t doing my indigestion any good at all,” Eruptor complained before burping out molten lava onto the ground in front of them. “Pardon.”

  Spyro only just jumped out of the way before his toes could be fried, but someone—or something—wasn’t so lucky. To the Skylanders’ amazement, steaming footprints appeared in the pool of magma. There was a shrill shriek and the footprints continued across the lava and into the grass before vanishing not a meter from where the Skylanders were standing.

  “Did you see that?” exclaimed Gill.

  Spyro nodded. “But what was it?”

  “I’ve got an idea. Quick, scoop as much of this fruit into my pack as you can.”

  Spyro and Eruptor looked at each other, shrugged, and did what Gill asked, scraping the fruit mush from the ground and slopping it into the pack that fed the Gillman’s water cannon.

  As soon as they’d finished, Gill started jiggling about on the spot. Water sloshed everywhere as Eruptor looked on in bewilderment. “This isn’t the time for a dance-off, fish fingers.”

  “Watch and learn, rock face,” said Gill, spinning on his heels and raising his cannon toward a nearby trio of hovering sheep. “Watch and learn.”

  As Gill’s finger tightened around the trigger, a gloopy stream of multicolored sludge squirted from the cannon. The sheep bleated in alarm, but relaxed as it shot beneath their flailing legs.

  “You missed!” Eruptor said in disbelief. “You never miss. That sheep must have hit you harder than we thought.”

  “He wasn’t aiming for the sheep,” called Spyro over the roar of the cannon. “Look.”

  “The sheep weren’t flying,” Gill shouted triumphantly as the sludge slammed into something just beneath the startled ewes. “They were just being carried by invisible trolls.”

  Eruptor’s mouth dropped open. Sure enough, three stocky figures had appeared out of thin air, dripping with Gill’s slimy fruit cocktail. The mucky mixture had coated their see-through bodies, making them visible again.

  The three sticky silhouettes looked at each other, realized they could be seen, and fled, discarding their sheep as they ran.

  Gill spun in a circle, dousing the entire marketplace in pulp. More concealed trolls were revealed wherever the goo splashed.

  “Since when have they been able to make themselves invisible?” Spyro wondered as the newly visible trolls beat a hasty retreat, slipping on pulverized fruit as they scrabbled to get away. “How are they doing it?”

  “Who cares?” replied Eruptor with a grin. “If we can see them, we can fight back! Time for them to feel the burn!”

  The lava monster raised his glowing fists and let loose a barrage of lava blobs. At least two of the scampering trolls yelped, shot into the air, and clutched their seared behinds.

  Spyro was about to join the fight when he spotted something out of the corner of his eye. A figure broke cover from a pile of discarded pallets and darted across the marketplace. It was small, hovered a foot or so off the ground, and wore a large, pointed hat. Spyro growled. It could only be one thing—a spell punk.

  Spell punks were loathsome wizards who only used their magic to cause mischief. Worst of all, most of them worked for Kaos. If a spell punk had turned the trolls invisible, then the treacherous Portal Master was probably behind the attack on the market. But what could Kaos possibly want
with a few fruit and vegetable stalls?

  Whatever Kaos was plotting, the spell punk would have the answers. Leaving Gill and Eruptor to deal with the trolls, Spyro flew after the mischievous mage and was soon snapping at its flapping robes. Panicking, the wizard scooped up a handful of grapes from a stall and flung them back into Spyro’s eyes. The dragon stumbled for a second, swatting the fruit away, but it was just long enough for the spell punk to change direction and duck into the old clock tower that stood in the middle of Mabu Market. It glanced back nervously and slammed the door shut.

  Spyro smiled. The only way the spell punk could go was up. The dragon shot up the side of the clock tower, dived through a window to the belfry, and waited for the spell punk at the top of the spiral staircase.

  The wizard turned to run back down the stairs, but was too late. Spyro pounced and pinned the struggling punk to the cold stone floor.

  “I told the trolls this would happen,” the spell punk screamed in frustration. “We just needed to test the invisibility spell, but they would insist on playing their stupid games, drawing attention to themselves.”

  “But why does Kaos need an invisibility spell in the first place? What is he planning?”

  “Well, how else do you expect him to get his hands on the Chattering Key?” the spell punk asked before his eyes went wide. “Oops. I wasn’t supposed to mention that!”

  “The Chattering Key?” Spyro snapped back.

  “What’s the Chattering Key?”

  But the spell punk wasn’t listening. He was staring mournfully over Spyro’s shoulder, where a dark, swirling storm cloud had appeared from nowhere. Lightning flashed across the sky as a giant, glowering face materialized in the center of the maelstrom. Spyro’s eyes narrowed—it was the face of Kaos!

  “IDIOT!” Kaos boomed, his voice so loud that it rattled the bricks of the clock tower. “I knew you couldn’t be trusted.”

  “M-master, I’m sorry,” the spell punk stammered. “I didn’t think . . .”

  “You never do, that’s the problem. I am surrounded by NINCOMPOOPS!” Kaos bawled. “You just wait till I get you home! You are DOOOOOMED!”

  With a strangled sob, the spell punk disintegrated into a puff of dark, foul-smelling smoke. Spyro raced to the window and watched as all the fruit-splattered trolls also vanished, transported back to Kaos’s lair.

  Spyro hurled himself out of the window and was immediately buffeted by gale force winds. He flapped his wings furiously to avoid being dashed against the clock tower.

  From the eye of the storm, Kaos bellowed with laughter.

  “And to think I was worried that Eon’s sorry band of Skylanders would ruin my plans. Ha! You can hardly even fly.”

  Spyro stared defiantly into the eyes of his enemy. He wasn’t beaten yet.

  “What is the Chattering Key?” he yelled, his voice cracking as he struggled to be heard over the ever-increasing tempest, “and why do you want it so badly?”

  Kaos just grinned.

  “That’s for me to know, little dragonfly,” the evil Portal Master sneered, “and you to find out. Farewell, Skyblunderers!”

  And with that, Kaos’s face shimmered away to nothing and the dark clouds parted to reveal shards of brilliant sunlight. Exhausted, Spyro half-tumbled down to where his friends were waiting. They needed to get back to Eon.

  Chapter Five

  The Map

  The library beneath Eon’s citadel was big. Really big. In fact, it was so big that it was said you didn’t just need a map to navigate its labyrinthine corridors and endless sections—you needed an entire atlas. Hugo claimed that he even tried to cross the library by foot once. Three years into his trek, he’d only reached the C section before giving up and trudging back to the front desk.

  While Spyro wasn’t sure he believed Hugo’s tall tale, Eon had installed a network of portals so that the little historian could jump from one section to another without wearing out a lifetime’s supply of shoe leather.

  As soon as Spyro had mentioned the Chattering Key on his return to the citadel, Hugo had leaped into action.

  Granted, he’d instantly tripped on his own shoelace and landed flat on his face. However, as soon as he’d dusted himself off, Hugo had scrambled onto the nearest portal and zipped off to the “Arcane Artifacts and Otherworldly Objects” section (which apparently was just next to “The History of Plumbing” and “Break Dancing”).

  “Kaos, eh?” Flynn muttered beneath his breath as they waited for Hugo to return. Thanks to Boomer’s help, the dashing-if-bungling pilot had finished repairs on his ship, but had insisted on staying behind as soon as he’d heard that Kaos was involved. Like all in Skylands, Flynn hated the villainous Portal Master. “That guy really pumps my propellers. I’d like tofly my balloon right into that stupid, big head of his. Boom!”

  “It’s not even his real face,” complained Eruptor, who was still picking scorched strawberries from his arms. “He’s fooling no one. We know he’s just a useless little twerp behind all those special effects.”

  “Kaos may not be the tallest fellow, but it would be unwise to dismiss him as useless.”

  Eon strode into the library, his pristine silver robes sweeping across the highly polished floor.

  “Aw, come on, boss,” said Boomer. “You could take that pipsqueak any day of the week. He’s seriously small fry. Plus, that troll he hangs with, Glumshanks? I heard that he flunked everything back in the Troll Academy, from rudimentary detonation to advanced annihilation. He couldn’t even work out which end of the dynamite to light.”

  Eon lowered himself into an elegant chair and rubbed the bridge of his long nose. Spyro frowned. The Portal Master was looking so tired, so weary. The others were right to a degree. Kaos was, at a basic level, a bit of a joke. But he was an increasingly powerful joke. Spyro had to admit that the cowled head that had appeared in the clouds above the market was terrifying. It had looked like Kaos, but all the features had been heightened. They were sharper, more imposing, and brimming with malevolence. Kaos was getting stronger, and over the last few years had certainly been living up to his name.

  Hugo had once told Spyro that Kaos had been born into a royal family, but while his brothers were blessed with long flowing locks, good looks, and devastating charm, Kaos was bald, ugly, and devastatingly smelly. When his father dismissed him as an embarrassing runt, Kaos renounced his family and fled into the wilderness, alone and friendless (unless you counted his faithful butler, Glumshanks). Desperate for companionship of the nontroll variety, he set to work on trying to build friends of his own out of wood. Remarkably, he actually had some success, and thus the mannequin people known as the Wilikin were born. Unfortunately, Kaos being Kaos, even his own creations could not bear to be around him. Despite being equipped with no sense of smell, the Wilikin were nonetheless able to detect their creator’s distinctive odor, and ran off to become servants for the royal family. It wasn’t all bad news for Kaos, however. Having created the Wilikin, he realized he had something of a knack for magic, and he threw himself into learning more about this unexpected power. When his research brought him to the subject of Portal Masters, he immediately knew that he must be one of them. The only problem was, he didn’t have a portal. So, with Glumshanks at his side, he began to scour the universe for one.

  It was only a matter of time before they found their way to Skylands and learned of the Core of Light, the mysterious machine that filled Skylands with light and kept Darkness at bay. Hungry for power, Kaos had tried to destroy the Core there and then, but had been defeated by Eon and the Skylanders. Unfortunately, the evil Portal Master had never given up on the dream of grinding Skylands beneath his stinking boot.

  Spyro shuddered at the thought. If Skylands fell, the universe would follow.

  “Are you all right, master?” Spyro asked, padding up to the Portal Master. “You
look tired.”

  A weary smile stretched across Eon’s face, banishing a little of the tension. “I am tired, Spyro, but it’s nothing a good night’s sleep wouldn’t solve. Don’t worry yourself. All is well.”

  “I’m not so sure about that!” Hugo appeared in a flare of light from the middle of the portal. The squat scholar was clutching a cumbersome book that was almost as big as he was. He squeaked with alarm when it threatened to topple over and squash him against the portal’s surface.

  “Just a little light reading, eh, Hugo?” Gill quipped as he rushed to assist the historian.

  “If only, Gill,” replied Hugo. “There is nothing trivial about the objects catalogued in this book.”

  Spyro flapped around to look over Hugo’s shoulder. “Professor P. Grungally’s Rise and Fall of the Ancient Arkeyans, volume 817,” he read. “How many volumes are there?”

  “At last count, somewhere in the region of two thousand.”

  “And you’ve read every one?”

  “Twice, as it happens. They get a bit stale around volume 1,462, but pick up by the end.”

  “I’m sure all of this is fascinating,” grumbled Eruptor, “but have you learned anything about this Chattering Key thing?” Eruptor was never one for reading. It’s hard to flick through a paperback when you keep setting the pages alight.

  “Yes, indeed,” babbled Hugo, grabbing his lapel and bringing himself up to his full, rather unimpressive, height. “What have I learned?”

  With a sigh, Spyro dropped back to the floor. Hugo was about to launch himself into lecture mode. Other than stamp collecting and quaking in fear from harmless lawn-grazers, imparting his not inconsiderable knowledge was Hugo’s favorite pastime.

  “Well,” he began, hardly drawing breath, “as you know, Skylands was once ruled by the terrible Arkeyans . . .”

  “Yes, yes, yes,” interrupted Eruptor.