Genrenauts: Season One

by Michael R. Underwood

  “There was once a year where I never saw the sunrise,” Mallery said. “The theater life.”

  “I didn’t know Felur had theater.”

  Mallery recovered with practiced ease. “I wasn’t always a priestess.”

  “Aye, I suppose. And I can understand yer impulse. Too long aboveground and I get twitchy, like I’m liable to step outside and fall into the sky. It won’t be much further before the Hammer. Keep on.”

  * * *

  Sure enough, after two more long hallways and a “fill the bucket” puzzle straight out of a computer RPG, they reached the burial chamber of K’gon the Mighty.

  The room was tall, three dwarven stories or so, and every inch of it was carved and painted, perfectly preserved. A dozen arts and crafts filled the room—earthenware, weapons, textiles, scrolls of poetry, and more. A great king of craftsmen, honored in every dwarven discipline.

  In the center of the room, resting in the hands of a life-size golden statue of K’gon carved into the sarcophagus, was the Hammer of K’gon. It looked like the love child of the Weta workshop and something out of Jack Kirby’s Thor. It was ornately carved steel, runes and fractal designs on every inch. The Hammer had a flat, square head bigger than Leah’s face, sloping back into a curved point on the other end. The head was mounted on a leather-wrapped handle, two feet long, with a spiked metal cap on the bottom.

  “Cool.”

  “This is the final rest of K’gon the Mighty. It is venerable, it is sacred, it is far more than a place of mild temperature. Next we decipher how to call forth the spirit of K’gon to seek his blessing and receive the Hammer.”

  Mallery spoke a few quick words, then scanned the room. “This entire room is glowing with magic. And the Hammer is noon-day-sun levels of powerful.” She shook her head and looked again, not strained this time. “All I can tell is that this is the Hammer. Or a decoy so good that no one could tell the difference until the artifact was used.”

  Qargon approached the sarcophagus with reverence. “Aye, this is the Hammer. I can feel it in my fingers, down to my gut. On my beard, this is the Hammer.” Qargon continued to speak, his voice low, even. He spoke in dwarven, but it sounded different from what she’d heard before. Maybe Old Dwarven, or a high speech dialect.

  “What’s he saying?” Leah asked.

  “It’s what you’d expect,” Roman said. “He introduced himself, his craft, and his lineage. Then some stuff I can’t follow.”

  “So, what do we do?”

  Mallery set her shield down. “For now, we wait.”

  Qargon continued, then waved the group forward. They came up and stood beside him.

  “What now?” asked Leah.

  “Patience, tale-weaver. Dwarves are not hasty people.”

  So, they waited. Leah focused on the sarcophagus, the craftsman’s hammer, which looked for all the world like Mjolnir did in Marvel comics.

  What felt like an hour later but was probably only a couple of minutes, a gong rang out from everywhere and nowhere, and white wispy smoke began to seep out from the sarcophagus. The smoke gathered atop the sarcophagus, taking the form of a dwarf. Of K’gon. The ghostly K’gon stood atop its mortal remains, a spiritual hammer held in its hands. He wore beautifully-crafted scale armor, and a geometrically-pattered helm over intricately-braided hair and beard.

  “You come for the Hammer. For the power to destroy and remake. But to earn my masterpiece, you must present me with a work of equal magnificence. What works have you to earn the Hammer of K’gon?”

  And here we go.

  Chapter Twelve: The Hammer of K’gon

  The spirit of K’gon looked down at them from atop the sarcophagus.

  The group huddled up.

  Qargon said, “As suspected. We’ll each get one chance to present our greatest display of skill. If none of our displays are deemed worthy…well, it’ll be bad. I’ll go first. And if none of our offerings satisfy the old man, then be ready to run.”

  That’s not ominous or anything, Leah thought, looking up at the spirit, its face neutral with a hint of disapproval. But that was basically resting face for dwarves.

  Something clicked in her brain. Leah smiled and dropped to the floor, sitting cross-legged. She assembled her writing materials, parchment, pen, and ink.

  “I’m going last,” she said, writing shorthand (or as best as she could with quill and ink). She produced the notebook she’d been using to record her observations and notes about Qargon and dwarven culture, the bits and pieces of material she’d been assembling since they hired the dwarf.

  Qargon stepped forward, presenting his axe. It was a work of beauty, functional and elegant. Leather straps in different colors held emblems and badges, which he’d described and identified over their days of travel together. Each represented an accomplishment, an alliance, or a memory of a failure become a lesson. His whole life was in that axe, its construction and the tale it told since it was forged.

  “Mighty K’gon, I present you my greatest accomplishment, my axe, Fear-crusher, forged by my own two hands and adorned with a living memory of my deeds.”

  The spirit took the axe from Qargon’s hands and appraised it. K’gon tested the balance of the haft, spinning it slowly through several cuts and spins. It thumbed the edge of the blade, then raised the axe and looked down the haft.

  Leah stopped paying attention after that, focusing on her display. She liked working on her feet, but with improv, you had people to work off of. But going into an untested stand-up routine only a week in the making? That was a whole other level of trouble.

  * * *

  Mallery pondered her approach while K’gon evaluated Qargon’s axe. They had four chances, total. What would impress the spirit of a dwarven hero? A soliloquy? Some divine blessing? Leah was scribbling away, clearly already on some track. Roman had years of heroic adventures to draw from, or a sales catalog’s worth of weapon demonstrations with his overloaded kit.

  What could she do that was different enough, distinct enough? From what she knew about dwarves, it would need to come from the heart but also display skill.

  K’gon took a deep breath, and then handed the axe back to Qargon.

  “This is a marvelous work, cousin. I applaud you for the skill and care it took to forge, and congratulate you for the accolades you have earned with it by your side.”

  Qargon perked up, eyes gleaming.

  “But it is not worthy of the Hammer.”

  Their companion folded in on himself, heartbroken. He accepted the axe and slumped backward. The dwarf needed consolation, but they didn’t have time to waste.

  Roman stepped forward and offered up a tale of his heroics, the dune buggies and motorcycles of his home replaced by chariots and horses. But still, it was a classic tale—a noble hero, people in need, a journey across harsh conditions with would-be slavers nipping at their heels the entire way. It was a Max tale, from not long before he left his home and came to Earth Prime. He’d said many times that it was the story from his past he was most proud of, that had almost made him want to stay despite the endless repetition and desperate conditions.

  And he told it fabulously.

  When he finished and stepped back, Qargon said “A fine tale. Your accolades should be remembered and celebrated. But I am a legend of my people. I drove away the Fungal Lords, led a host of thousands. You were a hero to dozens, and their lives have meaning. But your story is not worthy of the Hammer.”

  Roman tensed for a moment, and Mallery raised a hand to calm him again. It was a hard move, trying to compare heroism to a legendary figure in Epic Fantasy World. Post-Apocalyptic just operated at a different scale. In a world where ninety percent of humanity was gone, saving a few dozen was like saving thousands. But Roman couldn’t exactly make that clear. Not without revealing the reality of where he’d come from. “I’m from another plane” would take even more explaining. Draw attention and scrutiny that they didn’t need.

  Roman squeezed Mallery’s
hand and stepped back, accepting the dwarven spirit’s judgment.

  I’m up, Mallery thought, and stepped forward.

  She spread her arms and spoke a spell that she’d only used once before, channeling Felur’s power to speak to the spirit world.

  Wind stirred from nowhere and everywhere to rustle her tabard. Her holy symbol glowed white, then became as a prism, every color in the rainbow shining out and illuminating the tomb.

  But that was just the special effects.

  Mallery reached out to the spirits of the dwarves buried with K’gon. She felt them with a sixth sense—not quite touch, not quite hearing, but somewhere between the two. It was the same sense she got when she was really nailing a bit or fully in character. Call it flow, call it the zone, or call it the touch of God’s love, it was all one and the same.

  She reached out to them one by one, tugging on the threads to draw forth the spirits.

  She reached out to K’gon’s shield-bearer, his lifelong servant and friend.

  One.

  She reached out to his sister, his loyal critic, master craftswoman, builder of his great machines of war.

  Two.

  And she reached out to his wife, a legendary smith, who had crafted him armor so fine that it could not be penetrated by spell or blade.

  Mallery reached up with her holy symbol, and the light filled the room, going full whiteout. She felt the air crack. The spirits strode forth from behind her.

  She turned and saw the dwarven ghosts, each a different shade—the shield-bearer blue, his sister grey, his wife red.

  “My liege,” said the shield-bearer.

  “Brother,” said his sister.

  “My love,” said his wife.

  K’gon’s eyes went wide, but only for a moment.

  “Mere parlor tricks. Spirits are mere echoes. Were you to truly bring my loved ones back to me in the flesh, hale and whole, then the Hammer would be yours.”

  “They’re every bit as real as you, great craftsman,” Mallery said. “Talk with them yourself if you still doubt.”

  The three stepped forward, rising onto the sarcophagus. The four began to speak, and Mallery could tell just from their body language that their conversation was a private one, words left unsaid.

  She stepped back, bringing the others with her. “Let them have their moment. Divided three ways, the spell will not last long.”

  “Good,” Leah said. “Give me a few more minutes, and I think I’ve got something that will knock him dead.” She cocked her head, looking back at the ghost. “It’ll kill. Nope, not that, either. The comedy sayings, they do nothing! Good thing I didn’t try to use them against the skellies. But yeah, close to done. Stall for me.”

  The ghostly companions did the stalling for them for ten minutes solid. Mallery tried not to pry, only glancing back on occasion. She saw hugging, arguments, tears, and finally, reconciliation.

  “Priestess, you have my thanks,” K’gon said, his ghostly companions standing at his side. Mallery released the spell, and one by one, the spirits dissipated, flowing back to their earthly remains.

  “That was a great gift you have given me. Too many words left unsaid, grudges I was too stubborn to set aside.”

  Mallery beamed, neglecting to hold in her pride. She’d hoped this would work. They were a team, but there was little wrong with wanting to succeed, to be the one to pull it out in a clutch situation. You put in the work in the chorus, but it wasn’t wrong to want applause for your solo.

  “But this art is known to me. It is mighty, but it is the blessing of a god, not the prowess of a mortal. It is not worthy of the Hammer.”

  What? Mallery bit the word back before she spoke, shouting only in her mind. She had to keep her cool. An angry dwarf spirit was way worse than an unimpressed dwarf spirit.

  “I am very sorry to hear that, mighty K’gon. But I am glad to have done you a service.”

  “A boon you will have. Should your final companion’s display fail to prove worthy of the Hammer, I will repay your kindness in giving me ten minutes of my life again by summing those spirits by giving you a ten-minute head start before releasing the tomb’s wrath upon you.”

  That’s dwarven mercy for you, Mallery thought.

  “Child,” K’gon said, regarding Leah. “Your turn has come.”

  Leah said, in classic fashion, “Gulp.”

  * * *

  Leah stood, her notes in hand. At least this time, she didn’t have to wear heels.

  She walked forward, finding her light at the middle of the room, standing between the two torches at her sides.

  “Good evening! Or is it morning? I can never tell down here. Silly me, I forgot to bring a clock.”

  K’gon did not respond. Okay, so, not the best opening. Leah stopped and cocked her head. “Which makes me wonder—before clocks, how did dwarves tell time? Was it just dead reckoning, or do the bioluminescent plants and rocks have their own time cycle? All these years living on the surface and I never learned how things worked for dwarves. Read countless epics about parties of heroes, always including a dwarf, but all the scribes were human. So, of course, I never got more than a stereotypical view of your people.”

  Leah started pacing, working the room, turning so Qargon, Mallery, and Roman were in view. She was more comfortable with an audience. Or, more specifically, with more of an audience than the Ghost of Judgy Dwarves Past staring her down from his eminently lootable but probably-trapped-as-hell sarcophagus.

  “But now I’ve traveled the under-roads, seen the beauty of dwarven cities. Proper dwarven cities, mind you. I mean, Ag’ra is nice and all, but that’s like saying that Hammett is a human city when Fallran City is right there, just fifty leagues away.”

  “Anyway. Something I wondered about dwarves is whether the incredible patience is an inborn thing, or whether it’s cultural. And I’ve always been afraid to ask—it’s kind of insensitive, and it’s always hard to ask awkward questions. I remember kids asking me about my eyes, and gods bless them, they weren’t being mean, they’d just never seen anyone like me before, and they had more curiosity than courtesy. And it seems like dwarves have it even worse. You hang out in your amazing castles and kingdoms, keep the surface lands safe from the terrifying monsters from the underneath, and most surfacers never even bother to find out what dwarven people have really contributed.”

  The spirit started nodding along with her. Building rapport, good. Keep it up, she told herself.

  “And speaking of monsters—those fungal ants? Terrifying. I wish there were more dwarves around, because I bet if they were, I’d have never seen those things. Zombies are one thing, but fungal zombie giant ants? I may never sleep again. Not without a stack of charms and walls taller than an elf standing on a giant’s shoulder.”

  Leah snuck a peek at K’gon, as she’d mostly been avoiding direct eye contact. One, because he was dead and kind of creepy, and two, because now that she had started, she was going to get through her material, failure or not. And then she was going to be ready to run. Not too different from her comedy career back on Earth Prime, actually. Just replace drunken “fans” making sloppy passes with dwarven death traps, and they were practically the same.

  Okay. Not that similar, she admitted to herself. But still dangerous.

  “So, anyway, the thing about dwarven cities I like best is that they’re beautiful at every distance, from every angle. On the horizon, the skyline is magnificent; it tells the story of the city like a beautiful silhouette painted against the backdrop of darkness.

  “You get closer and see the larger designs, the thoughtfulness that went into the municipal design—everything has its place; it’s planned, not like human cities that sprout up which-what-ever way like an untended field.”

  Leah paused and risked looking K’gon right in the eyes.

  “And then you walk into the city and you find yourself surrounded by brilliance. Countless lives’ work in every single inch of the city. Fractal designs carved
into walls, murals on every surface, weapons with histories and names, clothes so brilliantly constructed and tailored that no two are alike. Every block is a fashion show and an art gallery, and a gladiatorial arena. Dwarves pursue excellence like it was water and breathable air. They yearn for it, always striving, never settling.

  “I’ve only just recently seen dwarves and dwarven construction with my own two eyes, but damned if I haven’t been waiting my whole life for it. And for that, all I can say is thank you.

  “And while you’re at it, can you tell me how those awesome braids work? I’m thinking of growing a beard.”

  K’gon looked down at Leah, his face impassive.

  Her racing heartbeat switched from “performer’s high” to “ready to run”.

  The dwarven spirit took a breath, Which is weird because it’s not like he was breathing, right? and laughed.

  He laughed. From dour to delighted, the laughter changed all of the lines of his face, making him look like a kindly uncle.

  “That was not any art or skill known to me. It fits no established aesthetic traditions, no recognizable crafts.”

  K’gon the Mighty, master builder, warrior, leader, smiled. “Brilliant. Singular. Real experience, shared with honesty and humility, and yet confidence.”

  “Wait, you liked it?” Leah asked before she could stop herself.

  Did I do it? Did I really pull this off? she thought.

  “I was perplexed at first, but then both flattered and honored. What do you call this art?”

  Emotional whiplash brought her back from panic and confusion to pride. “It’s an obscure form of bardic performance. Standing speech.” It was barely comedy, more like the autobiographical portions of a comic’s larger set. But it worked. Holy crap, it worked. The thought echoed in her mind.

  “Entirely distinct, yes. Unlike tall tales, limerick, or shaggy Jek stories. Quite impressive.”

  K’Gon continued. “What is your name, child?”

  “Leah. Of the Tang clan.”

  “Leah of the Tang, you have shown your prowess, shared with me an art style unknown to my people, and opened my eyes to a new way of understanding my world. Your gift was yours alone to give, not granted, and not a mere display of prowess.”