Genrenauts: Season One

by Michael R. Underwood

  He continued. “Your gift is worthy of the Hammer.”

  Hell, yeah! Leah thought, pumping her fist.

  The spirit stepped forward and held the Hammer out toward her, balanced in both hands.

  “The Hammer will shatter any surface, break any shield or armor. But it can only be wielded by the worthy.”

  Whoever wields this Hammer, if she be worthy… Leah heard in her mind.

  She set down her notes and stepped forward to accept the artifact. It dropped into her hands like a ton of bricks, but within a millisecond, it was lighter, no heavier than a baseball bat. She tested the weight, taking a couple of two-handed swings. The weight distribution was different from a longsword, but not too different. And it handled like a dream. It wanted to swing, wanted to cut through the air, but twisted and moved, the haft responding to the smallest torque.

  Leah stepped back and saluted K’gon with the Hammer, then rested it on her shoulders. She turned to the others and said, “Well, how about that.”

  Mallery’s expression was mixed between pride and disappointment. Her blessing had been nothing short of astonishing—thoughtful, poignant, and unforgettable. It should have been her. But in the end, Leah had been the one to take away the prize. This would be a thing.

  Any time only one of them got to win in some solo quest or get the singular spotlight, the other would feel left out. Especially since so much of their background and training put them in the running for the same archetypes and roles in stories.

  She tried to nip that disappointment in the bud. “Your spell was amazing, Mallery. You might not have seen, but I was totally crying when K’gon was talking with his wife. It should have been yours that he chose. I just poured my heart out.”

  Qargon’s smile was somehow wider than his face. “That was no mere outpouring. That was a tapestry. I’d heard it in small bits and pieces, but the way you wove it together was as masterful as any dwarven tale-spinner!”

  I saved the day because it turns out dwarves are an easy mark for stand-up. Who knew? Maybe King did. He was crafty like that.

  Leah would have liked more time just with Mallery. Would have to get around to that later, make sure she felt as good about her offering as she really should. “Thank you! I honestly had no idea that he’d be as moved as he was. I just knew that it was my best opportunity to show him something he’d never seen or heard before.”

  Roman asked, “So, does this mean we don’t have to escape the tomb as it crumbles around us?”

  Qargon gestured toward the exit with his torch. “Let’s not wait around to find out.”

  Even if they’d had to flee the tomb, Leah would still have the Cheshire-cat grin slapped on her face.

  As it was, when they ran into another pack of giant fungus-ridden ants, Leah was ready, McGuffin in tow.

  Chapter Thirteen: For Want of a Thief

  Nolan and Xan’De led King and Shirin all around the capital, through pubs and brothels and black markets and bolt-holes.

  But Alaria, the fellowship’s designated rogue, was nowhere to be seen. Her trail had gone dead weeks earlier, not long after Theyn’s death during the failed siege.

  Which meant that when Mallery/Leah/Roman’s group signaled they’d successfully recovered the Hammer of K’gon and were on their way back to the capital, King knew he’d need to make a choice sooner rather than later.

  They had less than three weeks left on their timer, or risk the world getting its hooks in them. Going over by a day or two wasn’t out of the question, but they still had to get back to the town where they’d landed, even after they’d toppled the Night-Lord.

  He’d considered just giving the Hammer to Theyn’s friends and letting them have at it. But from the team’s report, the weapon was bonded to Leah. And he had little reason to believe the remaining companions could defeat the Night-Lord on their own, even if the Hammer could be transferred.

  Every day, the skies got a bit more purple, even at the sun’s zenith. King gave it another month before it was purple midnight-dark twenty-four hours a day. Not that the Night-Lord seemed to have a plan of how to manage agriculture that way, but Evil Overlords weren’t well known for their agricultural acumen.

  The breach was nearly two months old now and was well on its way to becoming permanent. He could only guess at the level of ripples back on Earth. There’d be a huge resetting of the status quo, assuming they could patch the breach and get home in one piece. It’d been years since a breach lasted this long. This region and a few others operated in longer time spans—days on Earth Prime equating to weeks or years in-world. That would mitigate some of the impact. But they’d started three days behind, and when you combined that with the increased ferocity of the breaches in the past year…

  There’d likely be several more missions to this region and the others in Fantasy World over the next few months, as the ripples played out across a dozen other stories. In the meantime, hundreds, maybe thousands of people would burn out on their jobs, their art, their relationships, unable to imagine brighter alternatives, happier possibilities. The liberating and conciliatory power of Fantasy would be weakened. And given where current events were, the results could be disastrous.

  But for the moment, there was only one mission, one breach, one team. His.

  Spending all this time in taverns and boardinghouses was also eating deep into King’s purse. Stay much longer and he would need to start sharking locals at cards to cover their room and board.

  King decided to head the problem off at the pass and start generating some income. But it was really all a cover for working counterintelligence. Looking for spies or informants for the Night-Lord.

  And for the Tall Woman. He still wasn’t sure Leah’s theory was right, but it hurt little to stay on the look-out.

  After the assassination attempt, he’d kept his eyes peeled every waking moment. And his worry went to overdrive any time they entered a settlement.

  Every day, one or another woman caught his attention. A flash of hair, the confidence of movement. But they were never her. But he still kept his guard up.

  The Tall Woman had moved through criminal circles on the Crime World, and if Leah was right about her being a rouge Genrenaut, maybe she’d do the same again.

  King scratched the polish off his shoes, ruffled up his clothes, and walked several blocks over to find a tavern that had been on Shirin and Xan’De’s list, where no one had seen him in at least a couple of years, the last time the team had come to the capital on a mission.

  Affecting a slight limp, King walked into the Split Purse, the kind of thieves’ bar found in every city and many larger towns.

  King slipped to the side and waited a moment as his vision adjusted to the lower light. Though it was midafternoon, this place forfeited natural light in order to keep the windows closed.

  The tavern was only half-full, down a half-dozen ruffians from its usual crowd.

  The criminal ecology of Fantasy World regions was fascinating. A city like this would have a proper thieves’ guild, maybe even two or three competing factions. They’d have their own cutpurse bureaucracy and pecking order, which meant he had to be careful which lowlifes to swindle and when.

  Thanks to that criminal ecology, there was always a game of cards happening at the Split Purse, any hour of the day or night. And there they were—several regulars, including, a dismayed merchant being fleeced of his jewels, an unshaven roguish type, and an off-duty city guard with a bawdy serving maid on his lap.

  King affected the British-esque accent of Elara, making him present like an out-of-towner totally out of his element.

  “Hello, friends. Can I join your game? It looks very interesting.”

  The unshaven rogue grinned, showing a silver tooth, and pulled over a chair. “Of course, friend. Take a seat. We’re real friendly-like.”

  And so King went to work.

  * * *

  Two hours later and fifty coins richer, King bought his new friends a round to
thank them for the game, then stood and made for the exit.

  And when the roughs caught up to him two blocks later, chasing him into an alley, he did them the favor of not hurting them too much. They didn’t even have the courtesy to fight together.

  One lunged at him with a rusted knife, overhand. True murderers knew to stab for the gut, quickly and repeatedly, like a jackhammer. Going overhand gave him time to step to the side, grab the would-be killer by the wrist, and respond with a jab to the solar plexus. King wrapped the grab into a quick hold and tossed the thief into a pile of refuse in the alley, turning just as the other sore loser came at him with a knife.

  But this one could fight. King dodged back, and the knife-swipe cut into his leather jerkin. Sensing a more dangerous opponent, King danced away again and pulled a knife out of his boot.

  “This will go better if you just walk,” King said, dropping his accent.

  The tough’s answer took the form of a lunge. King rolled to the side, pushing the striking arm away with a backhand block. He countered with his own thrust, low and fast. The tough dodged forward out of the way.

  The men turned and squared off again.

  They circled, changing guards and grips, left hand to right, overhand grip to underhand. King read his opponent, watched the shifting of his weight, the rhythm of his breath.

  The tough got tired of waiting and stepped forward with a slash at King’s wrist. King raised his hand and turned to slash into the man’s blow, scoring a cut along his assailant’s forearm.

  The mugger winced but had the skill to catch the knife in his other hand without missing more than a single beat.

  But one beat was all King needed. He closed on the sore loser and wrapped his free hand around the tough’s other arm and pulled them both down. King turned and laid the tough out on the ground, his unwounded arm pinned beneath him, knife out of play.

  King knelt on the man’s back, knife tip to his assailant’s neck.

  “You could have walked. You’re lucky I’m not the killing type when I don’t have to be.”

  King clocked the man over the head with the pommel of his knife, and the tough dropped unconscious. That move only worked in story worlds, but it was damned effective.

  Taking a spare cloth from his pouches, King tied down his cuts to stem the flow of blood.

  Then the Genrenaut rolled both men, checking their coats and pockets for loose change (to teach them a lesson) and for any spare intel or jobs they might be working (to teach King more about what was going on in the city). His first search turned up a half-dozen spare Vekk, but neither men had any useful intel on hand.

  They’d been too long idle in waiting for the rest of the team. There would be other waylays, complications designed to keep the story interesting, until the team was reunited. It wouldn’t be long. But in the meantime, he shouldn’t go out on his own anymore. It had been reckless to do so already. But the closer to the end of the mission they got, the closer he got to facing the music, to owning up to what he’d done to pursue the mission. He’d used the judgment he’d gained in decades of service and acted according to the spirit of the Genrenauts’ mission, rather than the letter of the Council’s dictate. He’d been telling Leah to follow her instincts for months, to trust in her judgment. It would be hypocritical if he didn’t do the same.

  King walked the remaining block to their tavern, unsurprised that there’d been no city watch response to his altercation. Half the watch had quit town when the Night-Lord had taken over, and what remained were all in the pockets of the rich—they didn’t come downhill anymore except for graft and indulgence. But no guard meant he got to keep his coin and the robbers’ purses to boot.

  Shirin spotted him from the team’s habitual booth in their tavern and nodded. King gestured to the private room, preferring to manage his wounds quietly instead of advertising the fact he’d been in a fight. The Night-Lord was bound to have spies throughout the city, people ruled by fear, pressed into service because of a kidnapped loved one.

  “What have you gotten yourself into in my absence, fearless leader?” Shirin closed the door as King lowered himself down onto one of the beds, wounded arm clutched to his chest. Each room slept two. Xan’De and Nolan’s room was next door, though he hadn’t seen either in the common room coming back in.

  “Went looking for a friendly game,” King said. “When I won too many games, they got a lot less friendly.”

  “It seems like you’ve been looking for a lot of friendly games this week.”

  “Seems like. That ends now. The world’s trying to keep things interesting for us while the others make their way back. That means we need to lay low so we can expedite and force the finale.”

  King unwound the strip of cloth and rolled back his sleeve, biting his lip as the dirty cloth pulled out of the wound. He used a simple healing prayer, then dressed the wound.

  “You and I can stay put, but Xan’De and Nolan are ready to start a tavern brawl at the drop of a hat.”

  “That’s what worries me.”

  “Back to the common room? We can at least try to keep an eye on them.”

  King played along, but worry continued to creep up on him, cutting away at his confidence in their chances of success. And if he brought them there and they stayed for nearly seven weeks only to fail? Well that would look even worse to the Council.

  Hurry up, kids. We need to move into Act Three, and soon.

  * * *

  A magical hammer was an infinitely better weapon for fighting skeletons than an espada ropera, as Leah learned time and time again on the road back from the dwarven lands.

  In the two weeks it took them to get back out of the under-roads and head back toward the capital to meet up with the remaining companions and other Genrenauts, Leah had put the Hammer through its paces, and was already thinking of ways she could take it with her when they went back to Earth Prime. Just hang it up in the ready room or stow it away in her personal gear section for their next trip back to fantasyland.

  She fought with artifact and jest alike, bolstering her allies and crushing all opposition.

  And by night, she continued to practice her songs, keep up her sword (and hammer) play, teach Qargon about human comedy, and carve out precious moments alone with Mallery. They’d been there, in Mission-Dating mode, for over a month. It was amazing getting to see her every day away from the prying eyes of HQ. Roman didn’t care, and Qargon had clued in at some point along the way, and helped give them their privacy.

  Leah had never had this much time with an SO this quickly. She’d always been in school or working, or traveling for comedy competitions or trying to work the open-mic circuit. It was simultaneously almost too much while never being quite enough. It was always still Mission-Dating, not alone time on their own terms.

  “We’re so taking a long weekend after we get back. We can do a spa day, then hit the museums, go to the Eastern Shore…” Mallery had a different plan of what they could do when they got back nearly every day. She painted this whole story of their immediate future, and every version was fabulous. They just had to make it through the end of the mission first.

  And so it was, five and a half weeks after they’d arrived in Fantasy-land, Leah, Roman, Mallery, and Qargon arrived at the capital city, ready to bring the Night-Lord’s dark reign to an end.

  Or die trying.

  Chapter Fourteen: The Council of Heroes

  Two teams reunited in an unassuming cottage at the edge of the royal woods, far from the center of the city. Declan answered the door, and the party filed inside. The cottage had once been a hunting lodge, from the look of it. Roaring fire, empty spots on the wall where game would be displayed.

  But now, the place was one hundred percent wizard-y. Crystals, beakers, bags of components, a great silvered mirror, pillars of marble, and a cauldron large enough to classify as a jacuzzi. The whole place was lit by crystals and oddly colored candle flames.

  They filed into the cottage in several
groups, spacing their arrival out to not attract notice. Mallery, Leah, and Qargon were the last group.

  In total, they numbered five Genrenauts, a dwarf, three of the failed fellowship of Theyn Lighthall, and a chatelaine. It made for a very full room. There were hugs and introductions and heroic stories of battles traded back and forth.

  Leah immediately apologized for her mistake on the road, even though they’d called it in weeks ago.

  “That was incredibly reckless. I expect you made your apologies to the others already?” King asked.

  “Of course. I begged forgiveness, and forgiveness was granted.”

  King looked to Mallery, who nodded. As did Roman.

  “In that case, I trust you’ve learned from that mistake and proven wiser in the meantime?”

  “That I have. To the best of my ability.”

  “Wisdom indeed! She earned the right to bear the Hammer of K’Gon!” Qargon said, busting into Genrenauts business. He raised Leah’s hand holding the Hammer. The artifact shone like it had been professionally lit. Mallery, Leah, and Roman introduced Qargon to the remaining companions, and Nolan asked where Alaria was.

  “She’s not with you, and she never appeared when we were searching. That’s suspicious, isn’t it?”

  Ioseph called the group to a long table. “She’s always kept some things to herself. Perhaps she fled, her spirit broken. Perhaps she betrayed us to the Night-Lord for coin. Or perhaps her real place in this tale is yet to be told.”

  “Well-said, Ioseph,” King said.

  Being the wizard that he was, Ioseph had exactly the right number of chairs around his table. Mallery wasn’t sure if that was a magical talent or a genre-derived one, and she supposed from their perspective, it might as well be the same thing. Just like how Tolkien wizards were never early or late. Except when they were.