A champion shares their patron’s power. A good champion multiplies it.

- The Lore of Above and Below, Verse 99

Chaos bent over the fallen body of Snotgut. He was sprawled on the floor of her throne room floor. He didn’t move, so she prodded him with one of her spider-like feet. He stirred slightly, groaning. Most gods of the pantheon detested goblins, thinking them weak. They would never have wasted a moment on a wounded person like Snotgut, who was in any case so close to dying. Chaos thought they had a point.

“I helped you out, right at the end,” Chaos said. “I think that should invalidate the bet, really.”

Taking a champion meant sharing her meager power, and she didn’t want to do that, yet. Besides, goblins tended to die easily. Snotgut, for example, was bleeding all over her floor. He wouldn’t last long.

Snotgut sat up unsteadily. Blood was spilling down a wide gash on his head. He touched the wound, getting blood on his fingers.

“Didn’t ask… for… help,” he said, slurring.

Chaos sighed. There was no getting out of it. Still, there were traditions to be observed. Chaos liked a good tradition, as long as it didn’t get in her way.

“It takes more than winning a bet to become my champion, goblin. You must present me with gifts.”

“What?”

“A champion must offer an act of service, as you have, but also a treasure, a tool, and a weapon.”

Snotgut reached into his cloak and withdrew a single copper coin. He rolled it towards Chaos’s feet.

“Treasure,” Snotgut gasped.

“And a tool, goblin.”

“I… can draw a map?” Snotgut offered. “There was one… in the… magi’s library… I remember.”

His face was pale. He fell forward, laying before Chaos.

“Fine. Finally, a weapon.”

“This…” Snotgut said, trying to pick up the ainling’s knife. It slipped out of his fingers, falling to the stone.

“We… bet… come on!” Snotgut protested with his last breath.

Chaos sighed. He was right.

“I accept your gifts, goblin. Bind to me as my champion.”

She bit her thumb until it bled, then leaned down and smeared the blood across Snotgut’s forehead, which caught on fire, burning brightly for a second. It left a bright red splodge of a scar, messy, with a ragged border. This was the mark of Chaos, the firstborn. Lesser deities marked their champions with complex, perfect shapes with sharp outlines, but Chaos detested such things. Her marks were simple, unique, and instantly recognizable.

Tendrils of burning magic burst out from Chaos’s body, seeking to connect to the dying goblin, caressing him. They wound around his body, capturing him. He didn’t struggle as the tendrils poured into his mouth, filling his lungs. They raised him into the air and held him there, spinning him slowly in the darkness.

“Snotgut,” Chaos said. “Weak, tiny goblin. I like it when mortals surprise me. You will be my first Champion. We will rise together, you and I. But keep the knife. It’s no good to me.”

The tendrils of mana disappeared, and Snotgut slumped forward, overwhelmed. Chaos felt exhausted, too. But she was not done. A dead champion was no good to her. She bit the tip of her finger until a single drop of blood formed, which she flicked onto Snotgut’s face. The drops hissed and evaporated as they hit his skin.

“As the first of my seven gifts to you, I grant you the power of reformed flesh. Now stop bleeding on my throne room floor,” she said.

Snotgut winced as his blood flowed in reverse, off his face and hands and back into his head, the wound closed over, the skin regaining its natural color (a sort of bluey-brown color, like rotting seaweed. Goblins are gross).

“My queen,” he said. “I feel amazing.”

“You should. By pouring my magic into you, I’ve helped you ascend to a whole new level of power. All your abilities have improved, goblin. You are stronger, smarter, more agile. Even your senses are better.”

Snotgut sniffed the air and gagged.

“What’s that awful smell?” he asked.

“You, goblin. You’ll get used to it, eventually.”

“Huh. I do feel stronger, too!”

The goblin did a little jig. He had ascended through the second level of power, which Chaos thought of as lame and to the third level, weak. It was impressive, by a goblin’s standards, but not by Chaos’s. Her previous champions had never started as anything worse than the sixth level, mighty. Still, it was a start.

“I’m healing now, too, mistress. Will my missing arm ever—”

“No. But you have a decision to make, goblin. A champion may serve for seven years, or the length of your life Below. I would suggest—”

“Until death.”

“But I think—”

“Until I die, mistress. For as long as you need me.”

Chaos gazed at the little goblin, who was vibrating with new mana and new confidence. Many champions had offered themselves to Chaos for seven years, or several terms of several years. While many had died in her service, as might be expected, none had ever offered to serve her for their whole lives, come what may. She was touched by his faith (On the other hand, seven years was a lifetime, for a regular goblin. Could Snotgut even count to seven?).

“Until you die, then,” Chaos said. “Which had better not be soon, goblin. I’ve invested too much into you. Now, tell me about these intruders.”

“They’re ainling, mistress.”

“Obviously. But look more deeply goblin. Think about what you see, and what it might mean.”

Snotgut frowned. His ascension through the levels of power had granted him a level of intelligence that exceeded any goblin in the history of Above and Below. He stared at the bodies.

“They’re…”

“Yes?” Chaos encouraged.

“I mean, I think they’re…”

“Yes? Go on!”

“They’re… dead, mistress?”

Chaos signed.

“Well, you’re not wrong, I suppose. But do you see the barbed wire collars and bangles?”

“Yes, mistress. Nasty things.”

“A clear sign that these ainling worship the god Cruelty, ,” Chaos said. “That’s a pity. Cruelty’s a turd, but he never forgets a minion.”

“You know Cruelty then, mistress? Is he an enemy?”

“Yes. We have… history.”

(This history included several loud arguments and, on one occasion, a broken arm. Chaos would have gone further, too, if Essence hadn’t dragged Cruelty to safety).

Cruelty was the youngest of the Attributes, the fourteen gods and goddesses of the second tier, but Cruelty was more powerful than his position in the pantheon might suggest. Almost every mortal worshipped Cruelty from time to time, causing suffering in another for their own pleasure. It didn’t have to be much. A nasty word, a harsh contract, a kick in the guts of the fallen, the infliction of pain as a way of showing the victim who was boss. Serving Cruelty was an easy path to power. Those who followed it to the end often found themselves as kikely to be victim as victor.

“But you can do a lot better,” Chaos said, addressing the empty cave. “In your next lives.”

“Uh… Mistress? Who are you talking to?”

Chaos rolled her many eyes, but said nothing. It was not Snotgut’s fault he knew so little.

“Try moving some of the magic I gave you into your sight, goblin.”

Snotgut focussed until flames burst from his eyes. Time slowed. The flaming torches on the walls froze. A drop of snot hanging from Snotgut’s nose fell an inch, then remained in mid-air. He eyed it in surprise.

“What’s going on, mistress?”

Chaos had become a spirit again, little more than a floating head above her tahnago body.

“This is a moment of divinity, goblin, the eternity between seconds. It is a time that belongs to gods and souls.”

“And… those are the souls, right?”

White spectres were hovering over the ainling bodies, still hoping for a last-minute revival by miracle or other form. The souls were wispy and translucent, vaguely humanoid. One was larger than the others, a sure sign that it was older, more powerful. This was the ainling leader. It pointed a long finger at the other souls, as if to command them, but death had freed them. Chaos held her hand out, beckoning. Thin lines of magic left the soul, flowing into Chaos. The soul tried to grab the magic back, but Chaos shook her head.

“There is a price to dying on my territory,” she told it sternly. “Now get out of here, loser.” She had no time for true believers in Cruelty.

The leader’s soul used its ethereal fingers to make a rude gesture at Chaos, then fled upwards through stone and dirt, heading to the courts of Life and Death Above. The other souls watched it go with evident relief. They paid the cost of magic without complaint, letting it flow into Chaos.

“Pick a better patron next time,” Chaos told the spirits. “Cruelty is a jerk.”

The souls nodded in agreement. They faded away, except for two that remained in the throne room. The first, small and faint, hovered over its body, unwilling to leave what existence it knew.

“First time dying?” Chaos asked it.

The soul shrugged apologetically.

“I’ll let you keep your magic, then. You’ll need it when selecting your next life. Do you know the way to the courts of Death?”

The little soul indicated, by quivering, that it had no idea of the way and was terrified of going alone.

“Well… let’s find you a guide, then. You, soul, come here.”

The final soul belonged to the ainling that died first, from the rat attack. It was floating slowly around the throne room like a tourist in a museum. It did not turn towards Chaos as she pointed at it.

“Wait, I know you,” Chaos said. “Frodron?”

The soul spun, surprised to be called by name. It had died in Chaos’s dungeons many times, sometimes as an intruder, occasionally as one of her minions, and once by accident when it fell down a well it was supposed to be cleaning and landed on an orc.

“You always pick the worse sides,” Chaos told the soul. “Don’t you ever learn?”

Frodron indicated that no, it did not and had no intention of starting. Learning was hard work. Chaos sighed.

“Well, fine. Lead this young soul to the Courts Above, so that it can be judged and reincarnated. You can keep your magic, too, as a payment. Go on, now, and don’t dilly-dally.”

The soul of Frodron gave a little shrug that suggested it intended to both dilly and dally when the opportunity arose but floated to the scared young soul and encouraged it upwards.

“And stay away from Cruelty!” Chaos yelled after them.

She returned to her body. Time unfroze, the drop of snot fell from her champion’s nose. She realized that Snotgut was staring at her.

“Uh… boss?”

“What, goblin?”

“Where did you send them?”

“They’re on their way Above, to be judged and reborn.”

“Oh. Is that really what happens?”

“Yes. Those who live well will be given a choice of of their next life. This is why mortals seek to do great deeds… such as becoming a goddess’s champion. So says the Lore.”

“The what, mistress?”

“The Lore, goblin. The Lore Of Above And Below? Surely you’ve heard of it?”

“No,” Snotgut said.

“No?”

“Yes.”

“Yes, you know it?”

“No, mistress. I was just agreeing with you.”

Chaos frowned.

“It’s the most important book ever written. Have you been living under a rock your whole life?”

“I wish, mistress! In my family we dreamed of living under a rock. It would have been much better than my cage.”

He had a point, Chaos conceded. He was only a goblin, after all, young and inexperienced. The Lore would be known by other mortals. It had to be.

“You owe me a map, goblin,” Chaos said. “Scratch it into the wall beside my thrown.”