The Machine of Doom Read online

  The Machine of Doom

  by Cavan Scott

  Grosset & Dunlap

  An Imprint of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  GROSSET & DUNLAP

  Published by the Penguin Group

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  © 2012 Activision Publishing, Inc. Skylanders Spyro’s Adventure is a trademark and Spyro and Activision are registered trademarks of Activision Publishing, Inc. All Rights Reserved. Published by Grosset & Dunlap, a division of Penguin Young Readers Group, 345 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014. GROSSET & DUNLAP is a trademark of Penguin Group (USA) Inc. Printed in the U.S.A.

  ISBN 978-1-101-59196-3

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Epilogue

  Chapter One

  Danger from the Skies

  Spyro the Dragon was worried. This would be his biggest challenge yet. As a Skylander, Spyro had faced all manner of terrors. He’d seen off armies of chaotic cyclops, ghastly ghosts, and wicked wizards, yet nothing compared to the horror that lay ahead. The mere thought of what was to come was enough to make his scales tremble.

  Gill Grunt was about to sing.

  Now this probably doesn’t sound too bad. Everyone loves a good tune, after all, but Gill was a Gillman. In fact, Gill was the bravest Gillman Spyro had ever met. Together they had protected Skylands from evil and tyranny on countless occasions. And after a tough day righting wrongs and generally being heroic, Gill liked nothing more than to relax with a singsong.

  The snag was, like all Gillmen, Gill was a dreadful singer. An appalling singer. The kind of singer that made you want to pull off your own ears rather than listen to another note. Not that this stopped him. Even though he sounded like a bullfrog gargling rancid jelly, Gill honestly believed he was one of the greatest singers in history, and his friends were just too fond of the delusional Gillman to tell him the truth.

  Except for Eruptor, that was. Eruptor was a hotheaded lava monster who never shied away from speaking his mind. When he had learned that Gill was celebrating their latest victory over the forces of darkness with a special concert, Eruptor had insisted that he would rather do something more fun—like boil his own head.

  Eruptor had finally agreed to attend Gill’s musical extravaganza on the condition that Gill promised never to stage such an event again.

  “And you’re sure he’s only murdering one song,” Eruptor rumbled, his face like thunder. “No medleys. No encores.”

  “It’ll be fine,” Spyro insisted, almost convincing himself. “Isn’t that right, Boomer?”

  Unfortunately, the troll sitting to Spyro’s right couldn’t hear him, as he was too busy shoving sticks of dynamite into his own ears, just in case.

  A hush fell over the audience as a tall, regal figure swept toward the stage. This was Eon, the Portal Master who had first recruited Spyro into the ranks of the Skylanders, the band of brave heroes who protected Skylands from attack.

  Spyro had met the old wizard while playing in the Summer Forest back home. With a wave of his hand, all those years ago, Eon had opened a portal to another world.

  “This is Skylands,” the Portal Master had explained proudly, revealing thousands of floating islands suspended in an azure blue sky, “the very center of the universe. Here, all things are possible and adventure lies around every corner.”

  “It’s beautiful.”

  “Indeed it is,” Eon had agreed. “But unfortunately, it is also in constant danger from terrible dark forces.”

  “Why?” Spyro had asked. “What do they want with it?”

  “Control,” came the grave reply. “From here, you can travel anywhere in the cosmos. If Evil managed to gain a foothold in Skylands, no world would be safe.”

  “You talk about evil as if it’s alive.”

  “Maybe it is,” Eon had said sadly. “It gets stronger as I grow older. I have protected Skylands for centuries, but now I need help. Your help.”

  Spyro had agreed to become a Skylander there and then. Eon had transported the young dragon to his mystical citadel where he had met Gill, Eruptor, and the others. From that day on, they had fought horrors that threatened to turn his scales white. He’d never looked back.

  “Skylanders,” Eon boomed out, his voice magically amplified around the grounds of his citadel, “thank you for coming to Gill’s latest concert . . .”

  “Gill’s final concert!” Eruptor reminded from the front.

  “I’m sure we’re all looking forward to seeing what musical treat he has in store for us, so please put your hands together for Gill Grunt!”

  To the sound of rather cautious applause, Gill walked out on the stage, beaming from fin to fin. With a wave of Eon’s enchanted staff, sweet music filled the air, and a growing sense of doom descended over the audience. Gill opened his mouth and . . .

  . . . someone at the back of the crowd screamed.

  “That’s a first,” Eruptor snorted. “Usually they wait until after Gill’s started singing.”

  “It’s not Gill’s singing that’s the problem,” Spyro said, looking up. “It’s that!”

  Eruptor followed Spyro’s gaze. There, high in the sky, was a hot air balloon. That in itself wasn’t unusual. Unlike Eon, not everyone in Skylands could open magical portals to jump from island to island, so most traveled in airships, from the smallest balloon to the largest galleon.

  The problem with this particular balloon was that it was coming in fast. Too fast.

  “It’s out of control!” Spyro warned as the Skylanders scattered. Only Boomer didn’t move. Spyro’s heart sank when he realized that the troll had dozed off exactly where the balloon would crash!

/>   Chapter Two

  Crash!

  Boomer!” Spyro yelled. “Get out of the way!”

  But Boomer couldn’t hear, thanks to the sticks of dynamite that were still jammed in his ears.

  The balloon was almost upon them. Spyro lowered his head and charged toward his little green friend. If Boomer wasn’t going to move, he’d have to do it. With only seconds to spare, the dragon butted Boomer out of harm’s way. Behind them, the balloon plowed into the ground, its heavy wooden basket smashing through the stage.

  Out of breath, Spyro slid to a halt beside the distinctly dazed Boomer.

  “What did you do that for?” the bewildered troll snapped.

  “Just trying to save your life, that’s all.”

  “Eh?” Boomer yelled. “What did you say?”

  Spyro rolled his eyes. “Boomer, take the dynamite out of your ears!”

  “You what?”

  “I said,” Spyro shouted louder, “take the dynamite out of your ears!”

  “I can’t hear you,” Boomer yelled back, pointing at his crammed ears. “I’ve got dynamite in my ears!”

  Spyro left the troll trying to remove the explosives from his ear canals and ran over to the wreckage. Planks of wood were scattered everywhere, and the balloon itself was completely shredded.

  Gill pulled a large, rotund figure from the remains of the basket.

  “I should have known,” bellowed Eruptor, recognizing the survivor. “Flynn, is there any vehicle you can’t fly into the ground?”

  “Cool it, hot stuff. If the best pilot in this or any other world wasn’t at the helm, we would have really been in trouble.” The newcomer flashed a lopsided grin. Flynn was a Mabu, the race of creatures that largely populated Skylands.

  His usually immaculate flying outfit was covered in dirt, but amazingly, despite a few cuts and grazes, Flynn had escaped unscathed. Perhaps it wasn’t that surprising. When it came to crashing, Flynn had plenty of experience, although he would never admit it. “That was some landing. Boom!”

  “Some landing?” Spyro looked at where the basket had plowed through the gardens of the citadel. “Look at the damage.”

  “Don’t worry.” Eruptor grinned. “If Flynn had been a minute later, Gill’s vocal chords would have done a lot worse.”

  But the Gillman wasn’t listening. Instead, he was still scrambling around in the wreckage.

  “There’s someone else in here,” he called, his voice muffled by the twisted wood. “There is?” Flynn asked, before remembering his passenger. “There is! Is the little fellow all right?”

  “No, the little fellow certainly is not,” came a shrill voice from within the basket. “Somebody get me out of here!”

  “Hugo?” called Spyro, recognizing the voice. Things were getting stranger by the minute. Hugo was Eon’s librarian and general assistant. He was also completely terrified of flying. It wasn’t so much being in the air that bothered the little Mabu. It was the thought of plummeting helplessly back to earth. He was the last person you’d expect to hitch a ride with Flynn. What had he been thinking?

  “That’s the last time I step into your basket,” Hugo spluttered as Gill finally pulled him free.

  “There’s gratitude for you,” huffed Flynn, crossing his arms across his expansive stomach. “Next time you need to warn the Skylanders of impending doom, don’t come running to me.”

  “Impending doom?” repeated Eon as he approached the basket, his brow creased with a frown. “What happened, Hugo?”

  “Oh, Master Eon, it was horrible.” Hugo nervously pushed his glasses back up his nose. “I’ve always said this was going to happen. They’ve been planning it for years and now they’ve struck.”

  “Who’s struck?” asked Spyro, fearing the worst. “Is it the ice ogres? Or the basilisks?” He paused for a minute as a terrible thought occurred to him. “Please don’t say it’s Kaos.”

  A groan went around the assembled Skylanders. Kaos was their archenemy, an evil Portal Master who was always trying to conquer Skylands.

  “No, it’s even worse than that, Spyro. Skylands is under attack . . .”

  No one dared to even breathe as Hugo paused for dramatic effect.

  “. . . by sheep!”

  Chapter Three

  Mabu Market

  “You’re joking!” Spyro couldn’t help but laugh. “All of this is because of a few sheep?”

  “Oh, you can mock, young Skylander,” scolded Hugo, wagging his finger at the dragon. “But I always told you this day would come.”

  Even Eon allowed himself a wry smile.

  “Hugo, how many times do we need to go through this?” the Portal Master asked. “You have nothing to fear from sheep. They’re harmless.”

  Hugo couldn’t believe his ears. “That’s what they want you to think. ‘Look at those gentle little lambs. Aren’t they cute? Aren’t they cuddly?’ But they’re not. They’re merciless mounds of mutton and now that they can fly, there’ll be no stopping them.”

  Eruptor shook his head in disbelief. “Wait a minute. Now that they can fly? I think somebody hit his head when he fell out of the sky.”

  “The little fellow may not appreciate a good pilot when he sees one, but he’s not wrong,” chimed in Flynn. “I wouldn’t have believed it if I hadn’t seen it with my own peepers.”

  “You actually saw sheep fly?” asked Gill, “But that’s . . .”

  “. . . impossible, I know. If you ask me, the only things that should fly are birds, dragons, and unbelievably handsome pilots!”

  “This is most irregular,” said Eon, stroking his beard. “Hugo, you better start at the beginning.”

  “Well, the citadel’s larders were running low, so I popped over to Mabu Market,” began Hugo. “I was happily browsing the stalls, when something swooped over my head. I stumbled and my glasses fell on the floor. There I was trying to find them when this blundering ignoramus barged into me.”

  “Hey, less of the blundering,” Flynn retorted. “I was just shocked, that’s all.”

  “You were screaming like a little girl, that’s what you were doing,” Hugo insisted. “‘They’re after me, Hugo, they’re after me.’ Sound familiar?”

  “Fair’s fair,” Flynn sniffed, self-consciously straightening his scarf. “It’s not every day you get dive-bombed by levitating livestock!”

  “You mean the sheep?” asked Spyro.

  “Yes, I mean the sheep,” confirmed Hugo. “I found my glasses, only to see the dreadful things soaring through the air like wooly vultures, grabbing all and sundry with razor-sharp talons.”

  “Sheep with talons?” repeated Gill, gulping hard.

  “Well, hooves,” admitted Hugo, “but it’s much the same thing.”

  “Come, Skylanders.” Eon strode toward the citadel doors. “We must see this for ourselves.”

  Spyro and the others followed the Portal Master into the main hall where a huge portal of power sat on a raised platform. Eon ascended the stairs and swept his staff across the ancient device.

  “Portal,” he commanded, “show me Mabu Market.”

  A ghostly image appeared on the surface of the plinth. It was faint at first, but soon shimmered into focus.

  “Mabu Market,” Spyro whispered, unable to believe what he was seeing, “but it’s completely wrecked.”

  “Are you sure that Flynn didn’t just crash into it?” asked Eruptor as he shoved his way through.

  “I heard that,” called out Flynn from the back.

  “Now will you believe me?” asked Hugo. “It’s those dratted sheep.”

  Spyro frowned. “I don’t know, Hugo. I can’t see . . .”

  A blurred, white shape flashed across the image.

  “There’s one,” Hugo yelled out excitedly. “And a
nother. Did you see?”

  Suddenly the skies above the market-place were filled with indistinguishable white blobs.

  “Maybe Hugo’s right . . . ,” admitted Gill, rubbing his fins nervously.

  “There’s only one way to be sure,” Eon decided. “Spyro, Gill, and Eruptor, you must go to Mabu Market and discover what is really happening.”

  “What about me?” chimed in Boomer. “I haven’t blown up anything all day.”

  “Not this time, Boomer.” Eon shook his head. “Flynn will need your help repairing his balloon.”

  With a wave of his staff, Eon primed the portal. It hummed with energy, the strange symbols carved into its rough stone sides glowing brightly before a column of blinding light erupted up to the high, vaulted ceiling.

  “You know the drill,” yelled Gill, strapping on his trusty water cannon and jumping headfirst into the portal. “Last one there’s a tadpole!”

  erstood Hugo’s aversion to sheep. If it had been trolls, then he would totally get it. The only troll Gill trusted was Boomer, who, save for his love of explosives, had turned his back on the troll lifestyle. On the whole, trolls were nasty pieces of work. Their hobbies included war, bullying, and hiding bombs in each other’s pants. These were the kind of creatures whose idea of relaxing was sitting down with a map to work out which civilization to oppress next.

  Unfortunately, trolls were also partial to barbecued fish. There had been plenty of times, even in the midst of battle, when Gill had spotted trolls giving him funny looks and licking their horrible, wet lips. He knew the green brutes were picturing him slowly basting over a roaring fire.

  But sheep? As far as he knew, sheep had never harmed anyone, save for the time they munched their way through Hugo’s cabbage patch.

  That was, until today. The scene that greeted the Skylanders was one of total chaos. Stalls were upended and spoiled fruit and vegetables were being trampled into the ground by panicked Mabu.