The Machine of Doom Page 3

  “We know. Evil sorcerer kings, lived in dark and dusty underground cities, built thousands of enchanted weapons of mass destruction, and were sealed in a vault of eternal sleep after a battle to end all battles, yadda, yadda, yadda.”

  Hugo fixed the lava monster with an icy stare. “I’m sorry if I’m boring you, but it appears the Arkeyans also created the Chattering Key that Kaos seems so keen to get his grubby little mitts on.”

  “A key to what?” asked Spyro.

  “A very good question, Skylander.”

  “Any chance of a good answer?” Eruptor glared back at the historian.

  Hugo sniffed and turned to Spyro, ignoring the lava monster. “I’m afraid no one knows. All Professor Grungally says is that it’s a ‘mysterious, ancient Arkeyan artifact rumored to open an even more mysterious, ancient Arkeyan tomb that possibly contains an infinitely more mysterious, ancient Arkeyan weapon.’”

  “Just the kind of thing the Kaos creep is always searching for,” mused Flynn.

  “Exactly.”

  “And what’s the betting that Professor Smartypants fails to mention where this mysterious, ancient artifact is hidden?” complained Eruptor to a sniggering Boomer. The troll always enjoyed a little bit of Hugo-baiting.

  “You’re correct,” admitted Hugo, a slight smile playing across his thin lips. “Unfortunately, the professor doesn’t know the location of the key . . .”

  “Told you!”

  “But I do!”

  With a flourish, Hugo pulled an old scroll from his satchel and brandished it like a trophy.

  “Is that a map?” asked Spyro excitedly. Maps meant adventure. Sure, they also usually meant life-threatening danger and hideous monsters, but that came with the territory.

  “No, it’s my shopping list,” snapped Hugo. “Of course it’s a map.”

  “So, where’s the key?” inquired Gill, licking his lips at the prospect of a new mission.

  Hugo unrolled the map and laid it across the open book.

  The surface of the brittle parchment was shaded green, indicating areas of dense vegetation, except for a central clearing marked by a big red cross. A grin spread across Spyro’s face. A treasure hunt—his favorite kind of adventure.

  “Don’t get too excited, Spyro.” Eon had risen from his chair and walked over to gaze down at the map. “If I’m correct, that is one of the most perilous islands in all of Skylands.”

  Hugo nodded gravely.

  “You’re right, master. The Chattering Key lies at the heart of the Forest of Fear.”

  Chapter Six

  The Forest of Fear

  “Brace yourself!” Gill swallowed hard.

  “Is it just me . . . ,” the Gillman said, a slight warble in his voice betraying his nervousness. “Or does that ground look like it’s coming in really fast?”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” replied Spyro, with little in the way of confidence. “I’m sure Flynn knows what he’s doing.”

  “I have absolutely no idea what I’m doing,” shouted Flynn from the controls of the airship, “but it sure is fun.”

  “We’re going to crash!” shouted Boomer excitedly, almost beside himself with glee.

  “And that’s a good thing, why?” whined Eruptor.

  “Because it’ll make a huge boom!” Boomer cheered, jumping up and down and making the oversized basket shake even more. Eruptor just moaned. The fiery Skylander had been feeling airsick since leaving Eon’s citadel, a fact that continued to worry Spyro. Wicker baskets and monsters that vomit up burning pools of molten lava don’t go well together.

  “I still don’t understand why we couldn’t just take a portal to the Forest of Fear,” Eruptor groaned, looking decidedly green.

  “Because the forest is surrounded by thick mist storms,” Spyro explained for the hundredth time. “Master Eon can only create a portal if he can see where we’re heading. The fog’s just too dense.”

  “So’s our pilot,” shot back Eruptor as the balloon lurched violently.

  “If I wasn’t so busy trying to keep us in the sky, I would take that personally,” Flynn yelled, randomly pulling this lever and yanking that, none of which seemed to make the slightest difference to their descent.

  “Grab hold of something,” warned Gill, holding onto the side of the basket and screwing his eyes shut. “Here comes the ground in all its bone-breaking glory!”

  Eruptor screamed. Gill screamed. Even Flynn screamed. Boomer giggled, but he’d always been a little odd. Spyro, meanwhile, couldn’t take his eyes from the rocks that were spinning toward them. Of course, he could have just flown out of the basket, but then he would have been in danger of getting tangled in the coarse ropes that held the basket beneath the gigantic balloon. It couldn’t end like this, he thought as the airship spiraled down. All the adventure, all the magic, and they’d meet their end in a balloon crash? It didn’t seem fair.

  At the last minute, Spyro turned away and closed his eyes, waiting for the inevitable impact.

  It never came.

  Cautiously, Spyro opened one eye. They were all still in the basket. He opened the other. They were safe. The basket wasn’t falling anymore. It was hovering just inches from the ground and, with the gentlest of bumps, touched down.

  “Skylanders, this is your captain speaking. You may unbuckle your safety straps as we have reached our destination.”

  “Safety straps,” Eruptor spluttered. “You never told us there were safety straps.”

  “Nah,” said Flynn, who was contentedly powering down the furnace. “Never use ’em.”

  “But we didn’t crash!” blurted out Boomer, actually sounding disappointed.

  “Of course we didn’t. I don’t always crash,” insisted Flynn, ignoring the look that every one of the Skylander’s flashed him. “Besides, I’d never noticed this before.”

  “Noticed what?” asked Gill, finally letting go of the basket.

  “This little control here.” He peered closer to read the label. “‘Flip this lever to land without crashing.’ Who knew?”

  Spyro shook his head and leaped out of the basket. “Come on, guys. We’ve got work to do.”

  “Personally, I’ll just be happy if I never set foot in that basket again,” said Eruptor as he clambered out.

  “We’ve got to get home yet,” pointed out Gill, pulling out the map.

  “Maybe I’ll just stay here.”

  “I wouldn’t want to,” admitted Boomer as he gazed into the thick overgrowth that stood before them. Gnarled trees twisted into the sky, craggy bark covered by open sores that oozed sap the color of moldy cheese. High above, a canopy of dry, dead leaves blocked what little there was left of the sun, casting a gloomy shadow across the forest floor. All around them, strange cries filled the air. Spyro couldn’t shake the feeling that he was being watched from every jagged branch.

  “Okay, Gill,” Spyro said, trying to sound more confident than he felt. “Where do we find this key?”

  “Straight on,” replied Gill, consulting the map. “Into the forest.”

  “Perhaps Flynn’s balloon isn’t so bad after all.”

  The Skylanders were keeping close together as they pushed their way through the undergrowth. The path ahead, if that’s what you could call the carpet of vicious-looking brambles and painful nettles, was lit by Eruptor’s flame, but even the lava monster’s glare seemed dull and weak. It was as if the forest was absorbing every last scrap of light.

  “Are you sure we’re still going in the right direction?” Spyro asked, jumping slightly as something long, slimy, and with too many legs crawled over his foot.

  “I think so.” Gill peered at the old parchment. “Not that I can really see anything in this gloom. We just need to keep pushing forward.”

  “I could always clear
the way ahead,” offered Boomer. “All it would take is a few bombs. Twenty-three at the most.”

  “No.” Spyro cut off the troll before he could start lighting fuses. “If Kaos is after the key, we don’t want him to know we’re here.”

  Wrinkling his nose, Gill lowered the map.

  “What’s that terrible smell?”

  “Sorry,” said Eruptor. “My stomach’s still not right since that journey.”

  “No, that’s not it,” continued Gill. “It’s musty, like damp earth. The closer we get to the clearing, the more moisture is in the air. I can feel it in my gills.”

  “Wow! Look at these,” cried out Boomer, stopping to study the forest floor.

  “It’s quite pretty, whatever it is,” said Gill, turning back to join his molten comrade. “Look’s like some kind of fungus.”

  “They’re all over the place,” pointed out Eruptor. The lava monster was right. Brightly colored fungi were popping up all over the forest floor. Each was a different color—vibrant reds, greens, and yellows—and all were inflating as if filling with gas.

  “Hey, I’ve just noticed something,” said Gill, looking back at the map. “If I’m right, we’re standing in an area called ‘The Fungus Rings of Despair.’ Is it just me, or does that not sound good to you?”

  Spyro didn’t have a chance to answer. Without warning, the scarlet fungus he was examining burst, sending a plume of mist into his face. The world went dark.

  Chapter Seven

  The Stuff of Nightmares

  Gill’s stomach rumbled as he started to wake up. “Mmmmm,” he thought to himself as he struggled to open his eyes. “Something smells good. I wonder what’s for breakfast?”

  He tried to stretch, but found he couldn’t move his arms. He must have been tucked into bed tightly last night. Odd. There was something else. His bedroom was roasting. Perhaps he’d gone to sleep with the heat on. It didn’t matter. He’d turn it off again when he’d polished off that delicious-smelling breakfast. What was that smell? Bacon? No. Sausages. Yes, that was it . . .

  Sausages? Gill’s eyes sprung open and he remembered. He wasn’t in bed, and the heat wasn’t on. Worst of all, it wasn’t sausages sizzling away for breakfast. It was him!

  The troll giggled in anticipation as he turned the spit over the open campfire. Gill struggled against his bonds, but the ropes were too tight. The heat was unbearable.

  A second troll appeared and started to shake something over Gill. The Gillman choked as the seasoning went in his eyes and mouth. Salt and pepper. This could only mean one thing . . .

  Gill Grunt was being barbecued alive!

  The Skylander threw back his head and screamed for help.

  Eruptor shivered. It was absolutely freezing. His teeth chattering, he forced his eyes open. The forest floor was covered in a blanket of crisp white snow, with more falling all the time.

  Eruptor looked all around him. Where were the others? Then he spotted the three lumps in the snow. They’d been buried alive! With a grunt, he tried to walk toward the first, smaller heap. That had to be Boomer. If he could get to the troll, he could dig him out and then rescue the others. But he couldn’t move. The snow was up to his waist, and his short stubby legs weren’t suited to traipsing through snowdrifts.

  “Don’t panic,” the Skylander told himself. “You can just melt your way through.” All he needed to do was cough up a red-hot magma ball. That would clear the snow. Eruptor hacked, but nothing happened. That wasn’t right. He tried again, but still nothing.

  “Must be getting a cold,” Eruptor reasoned. “I’ll try a lava blast from my hands. That’ll do it.”

  Eruptor clapped his fists together, expecting lava to gush forward, but nothing came. He tried again, and again, his heart racing despite the icy chill that cut through to his bones. In disbelief, he looked at his shaking hands and his face fell even further. No, this couldn’t be happening. It wasn’t possible. As he watched, their glow was visibly fading, his skin hardening, cracking—cooling. He tried to lift his hands but found he could hardly move. His arms felt like solid rock and he was so, so cold.

  A single tear escaped from Eruptor’s eye and froze on his cheek. His worst fear had come true. His internal flame had gone out. The Skylander threw back his head and cried for help.

  Boomer heard music. Pretty music. Girly music. With a slight moan, he opened his eyes. What had happened? Had he been standing too near one of his own explosions? The troll shook his head to clear his vision and the world lurched back into view.

  No, not this.

  Boomer was sitting crossed legged on a picnic blanket. Beside him, a basket was brimming with sandwiches, macaroons, and fairy cakes.

  All around him sat overstuffed teddy bears and dolls with blue eyes, rosebud mouths, and cascading blond ringlets. As nursery rhymes played in the background, his hostess skipped up, a teapot clutched in one podgy little hand.

  “Would you like more tea, Mr. Troll?” the little angel asked as she twirled frizzy, ginger hair around a finger. To his horror, Boomer felt himself nodding and watched in terror as the girl poured liquid into the tiny china cup that lay at his feet.

  Boomer tried to stop himself, but couldn’t. He watched his own hand reach out and pick up the bright pink cup. Then, worst of all, his little finger sprung out as he daintily brought the cup to his lips.

  He was trapped in a doll’s tea party—the greatest nightmare of any troll brought to life.

  Screaming with the effort, Boomer managed to throw the teacup away from his lips and watched as it smashed into tiny pieces on a tree trunk. There was no way he was being kept here among all this . . . cuteness.

  “Mr. Troll,” the little girl exclaimed, her pug nose creasing into a frown. “That was very naughty. Now I’m going to have to tidy up.” With that, she clapped her hand and the tiny shards of china leaped back into the air, where they reformed into the cup. Seconds later it was back on the saucer in front of Boomer.

  “I expect you’ll want a top up,” the girl asked, leaning forward with the teapot.

  “No, I do not!” Boomer reached to where he kept his emergency explosives. “Let’s see if you can tidy up from this, missy!”

  With a cry of triumph, he whipped out a hand that should have been brandishing a fizzing stick of dynamite. The cry turned into a whimper. He wasn’t clutching a primed explosive in his hand. Oh no. He was holding a beautiful yellow carnation.

  The little girl clapped delightedly. “Oh yes, Mr. Troll, what a wonderful idea. Let’s practice flower arranging.”

  The Skylander threw back his head and yelled for help.

  Spyro could hear his friends screaming but couldn’t help. He couldn’t even move. It was as if he’d been frozen, only able to move his eyes.

  In front of him, Master Eon knelt on the forest floor, his long, slender fingers desperately clutching at the iron collar he wore around his neck. Spyro could see the rusty metal cutting into Eon’s throat, hear his mentor’s strangled cries, but could do nothing to help.

  The chain connected to the iron collar was yanked back and Eon tumbled onto his back to lay motionless in the brambles. Spyro’s frustrated gaze followed the chain link by link until it reached the hand of the person who had done this.

  Kaos.

  This was Kaos as he really was—short, ugly, and cruel. The strange little man gave another tug of the chain and Spyro heard Eon choke, a sound that only seemed to amuse the vile runt of a villain, who placed a foot on the fallen Portal Master’s chest.

  “It’s all mine,” Kaos cackled. “Skylands. The universe. Mine to do with as I will. The universe is doomed, I tell you, DOOOOOOMED!”

  Spyro tried to shout out, but his jaw wouldn’t move.

  “Oh, is the little dragonfly trying to say something?” Kaos jeered. �
�Has he lost his voice? What a pity.”

  That was it. Spyro wasn’t going to sit here and be insulted by Kaos, not while Eon lay helpless on the floor. Summoning all his energy, Spyro closed his eyes and forced his mouth to move.

  “Get . . . away . . . from . . . Eon,” he hissed through gritted fangs.

  “What? This pathetic old man?” Kaos cocked a quizzical eyebrow while continuing to grind his foot into the Portal Master’s chest. “And what exactly are you going to do if I don’t? Stare me to death? You are NOTHING, little dragon, and I am EVERYTHING!”

  Spyro could feel his anger burning deep in his belly. He let it grow, feeding it with thoughts of what he would do if he got to Kaos, until it burst out of his mouth in a huge ball of fire. The pain in his jaw was immense, but he didn’t care. He needed to save Eon.

  Kaos’s eyes stretched in panic as the flames roared toward him. The little wizard threw his hands in front of his face and then vanished as the fireball passed through him. Spyro blinked and realized Eon was gone, too. Now all he could see was the brightly colored fungi on the forest floor, each furiously pumping spores into the air.

  The fungus. That was it. This nightmare had started when Spyro had been blasted in the face. What had Gill said they were called: ‘The Fungus Rings of Despair’? The spores must have affected his brain and made him believe his worst nightmares had come true. Ever since he’d met Eon, he’d been afraid that one day the old man would fall to Kaos.

  But that’s all it was, an irrational fear. Spyro realized that he could move again and turned to see all three of his friends trapped in their own nightmares. Eruptor was curled up in a shivering ball, Gill was rolling over and over on the ground, and Boomer was yelling “No, not the daisies! Anything but the daisies!”

  Springing forward, Spyro cut a path through the fungi with his flaming breath, reducing the hallucinogenic plants to a crisp. Eruptor, Gill, and Boomer blinked and looked around.