About

When Oswin the Unworthy draws on the favor of the gods to cast spells like the rest of the commonfolk, what happens is far from ordinary. Each spell becomes a curse, backfiring on Oswin with often painful and humiliating results.   

Why do the gods curse him? Oswin has no idea, but the more they do, the more determined he is to earn their favor. Traveling from town to town to defeat the champions of each god seems like a good idea at first—surely this will gain Oswin the gods’ attention?  

But as Oswin discovers the limitless disdain of the gods, he’s no closer to understanding their hatred or gaining their favor. With the help of Hannah the Blessed, a champion gone rogue against the pushy desires of her own goddess, Oswin must face his nemesis, favored by all the gods, Thaddeus the Invincible, to finally rid himself of the title unworthy.

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First Chapter Sample

“How hard could it be to be favored by the god of wine, alcohol, partying—or whatever this place is?” mocked a black-haired man as he challenged the drunken swordsman and his entourage to come forward. “You get drunk, then get a little more drunk. Why, even I could do it! And probably better!” He spread his arms, leaving himself vulnerable—mages weren’t well known for their close combat defenses—and began muttering an incantation under his breath as one of his opponents closed the gap.

Taunted by the mage, the drunken swordsman took a gulp from his divine cup of wine and swallowed it dramatically. With cup still grasped in one hand, the wine god’s champion took the bait and stumbled forward, sword in his other hand.

The champions were mortals able to borrow a gods’ magic and manifest it in the realm of men, and it was rumored the wine god’s favored were given enhanced skills while drunk. Without dropping the cup, the drunk leaped toward the black-haired mage with surprising accuracy and agility. Just as he was about to land a killing blow on his challenger, there was an ominous hiss of electricity.

Zzzz KA-KRACK.

Thunder clapped, and the darkened sky lit up with a frightening flash. Metal clattered as the wine god’s warrior collapsed, his weapon tumbling to the ground. Unfortunately, the mage who’d attempted to cast the spell was caught in the lightning blast as well, leaving behind little more than a smoldered bundle of robes.

Scorned by the gods, the mage was never able to finish his spell. The gods did not favor him. Not this day, or ever, really. They would not grant him their blessing nor their magic. Oswin the Unworthy, as he was known, was unworthy of the gods and their favor.

Displeased, the god of thunder himself watched the fight from above. Perched in darkened clouds, he had tossed a bolt at the impertinent mage and given him a proper smiting. How dare this mortal steal his thunder without the god’s permission? What nerve to start a fight within the shrine of his dear cousin, the god of wine, too! Did this Oswin have no sense of respect?

Soon enough, back on the ground, a man emerged from the blackened pile of clothes—it was Oswin. The black-haired mage had survived the god of thunder’s curse! Dizzy, Oswin put his hand to his face as he tried to balance, leaving a streak of soot across his forehead as he withdrew his hand. He looked around him at the wine god’s temple, observing the aftermath of the thunder god’s rage.

“Well, looks like I managed to catch one of you at least,” Oswin remarked. “Alright then. Who’s next?” He gestured toward the two remaining drunks and urged them toward him.

“You’re crazy!” the shorter of the two guardsmen replied. “What are you doing casting thunder magic? You’re not Thaddeus. You can’t just go around borrowing spells from whatever god you please!”

“Yeah,” the taller one agreed, but a hiccup interrupted him as he was about to continue speaking. “Hic—and would you mind putting some clothes on? Maybe pray to the god of tailoring or something?”

Oswin looked down and only just realized he’d been standing there in the nude. The thunder god’s fury had left Oswin’s already worn and ragged robes in ashes. “Ah well, that really sucks.” He laughed as he ran his hand through his disheveled hair. “Well, I would if I could, gentlemen, but I can’t even muster up favor with a god as lame as the god of tailoring.”

Both the other men winced. The shorter of the two spoke again, “Oi, maybe if you didn’t go insulting them, they wouldn’t mind a quick favor, you know?”

Oswin rolled his eyes. “Oh gee, I never thought of that. Sucking up to the gods. Please mister tailor god, may I have a new set of clothes?” Oswin dropped to his knees and raised his arms in feigned worship. “Please grant me a new set of robes,” he recited as a new spell began.

“What, he’s still here?” The god of thunder peered down from the heavens as he spotted the tiny spec that was Oswin on his knees. “Well, whatever. As long as he doesn’t use my magic again, what do I care?”

He shrugged and sat down on a couch made of cloud. His bolt-shaped beard jiggled as he clapped his hands in joy at the image of a muscular man wrestling lions displayed in front of him. “Ah yes, my favorite show is on! I wonder what great feat the hero Thaddeus will do next?”

Sounds of prayer from below echoed in the heavens around him, loud enough to drown out the lions’ roars. “Ugh, would you take care of that racket already?” The thunder god glared at his cousin’s nephew, the god of tailoring. “And make me a new set of sandals when you get back. Make them match Thaddeus’! It’s the newest fashion—I’ve got to have it.”

“Yeah, alright.” The tailor god was rather meek in comparison to the almighty god of thunder. “Who’s calling me this time?” He peered down from the heavens and spotted the completely nude Oswin. “Oh great, this guy.” With a sigh, he snapped his fingers to handle the prayer then turned his attention to making sandals.

Back in the realm of men, Oswin had just recited his spell as the two drunken guardsmen looked on with little clue as to what was actually happening. As devotees of the god of wine in particular, they likely wouldn’t have any idea what was going on even if Oswin hadn’t visited this day. Nevertheless, he had, and they were stuck facing him in both a drunken stupor and utter confusion.

Oswin used what he knew to his advantage. All spells were derived from a relationship between the caster and the god they called on. Oswin’s spells, his incantations, were simply prayers to a specific god, and then that god answered back with a favor, a boon granted in the form of a completed spell aimed at the intended target.

For someone other than Oswin, a prayer to the thunder god might yield a lightning bolt hurled at an enemy. A standard prayer to the god of tailoring would create cloth—a spiffy new robe and a wizard’s hat, perhaps.

However, in Oswin’s case, the gods hated him so much that his prayers were answered not with a boon but a curse. They were the gods’ attempts to smite him. Any offensive spell meant to target an enemy generally blew up on Oswin instead. But he asked himself, what was the worst a prayer for creating cloth could do if it too was cursed?

The mage unleashed his spell on himself as new rags began to form around his body. So far, so good. For a second, it seemed just like a standard favor from the god of tailoring. Then came the sound of fingers snapping, heard from the heavens above, and the clothes began to tighten and harden, binding Oswin to the point he could barely breathe. Cursed by the gods again! Even that stupid tailoring god wouldn’t cut him a break.

“A little help here,” Oswin gasped.

The drunken guardsmen looked at each other then back at Oswin. “But you’re like, the enemy, man.”

“Yeah,” the taller one agreed, interrupted by a hiccup yet again. “Hic—you’re the one coming here—hic—challenging the champion of the wine god.”

He looked pointedly at the pile of ashes topped by a metal sword where the god’s favored had once stood. Nearby was a spilled cup of wine that had once been clasped in the fallen warrior’s hand.

The shorter one tapped his chin, pondering. “Well, you beat him alright. But I don’t know, does that make us the wine god champions now?” He looked to his comrade and scratched the top of his head. “The old one is kind of dead and all.”

“I beat him, so I’m the new wine champion or whatever stupid shrine this is, so help me!” gasped Oswin as he desperately pulled at the clothes strangling him.

“Yeah, I don’t know. Can you even turn water into wine? Even the lowliest devotee of the wine god can handle a miracle like that.”

“Hic—yeah, he always loves a party—hic—and what’s a party without good wine?”

“You bumbling oafs—” Oswin turned purple as he fell to the ground, unable to speak anymore. His eyes glazed over as his hand stretched out in a desperate plea for life. What a stupid way to die.

CRASH.

A vase had fallen off one of the shrine’s pedestals and shattered on the ground. Shards flew in every direction, but all it took was one piece striking at Oswin’s neck to tear the cloth that was consuming him.

Panting with relief, Oswin sat up and clutched at his neck where the shard had nicked him. A little cut was nothing. He was still alive. But who or what had saved him? Surely it was not divine intervention from the gods. Did the god of wine truly recognize Oswin as his new favorite and champion? Had he proven his worth to the gods after all? Oswin looked toward the heavens, expecting to find his savior; instead, he found only a furry creature sitting on the pedestal where the vase had once sat.

A black cat lifted its paw and licked it casually as Oswin gazed at it in disbelief. His savior was a cat? A cat who paid him no mind, who just wanted to sit somewhere high up so it could survey the room with disinterest. Was it only a fluke then? A stroke of luck? Did Oswin still have no favor from the gods?

At least he had clothes now. But at what cost? He’d almost died. And he’d certainly lost some dignity in that whole ordeal. No god came to his rescue. Truly, Oswin was alone, without any friends among the gods. Tears welled up in his grey eyes as he tightened his fist on the ground. “I beat the champion. How am I still not worthy?”

Apparently the two drunks were still there because they thought he was talking to them. “Well, if you can turn some water into wine, then you’ll know you’re favored.”

“Hic—but if you ask me, you didn’t beat the champion—hic—the god of thunder did. That wasn’t your spell, was it?”

Why were the drunk always so wise? Oswin sighed. He knew they were right. Any magic he cast was always without the favor of the gods, and so the spells were cursed, twisted, and backfired on him. In truth, these were not his own spells he cast, but the gods’ attempts to punish him for calling on them without their favor.

Oswin had entered the shrine with a purpose. He’d challenged the god of wine’s favored so that he might gain that favor upon victory in combat. It would have proven his worth, would it not?

So Oswin had challenged him. There isn’t much value in wine in a fight, really, so it was no surprise that the champion just pulled out a sword after sipping some alcohol. Although it appeared the wine gave him heightened strength and speed, it wasn’t enough to overcome his eventual fate. Oswin had called on the thunder god’s magic fully expecting he would be smote. The champion had gotten too close and became a casualty of the curse.

But why was it that Oswin could take a direct hit from the lightning and remain unharmed? Sure, it hurt, but he'd survived while those around him suffered or even died. Was he even too unfavored by the god of death to die? Yet a mere piece of clothing had nearly choked him to death.

Meow.

The black cat stared at Oswin from atop the pedestal. What the heck was with that cat? Did it even care it knocked down a priceless vase? Well, it was probably priceless. Although who would keep valuables in a shrine dedicated to the god of wine? It was destined to break at the next alcohol-fueled party anyway.

Oswin shook his head. He was letting himself get distracted. The two drunks seemed to have lost interest in him as he mused to himself. It seemed they’d also lost all desire to fight in all the chaos. No matter. Oswin wasn’t out to hurt anyone intentionally, all he wanted was the favor of the gods. This was between him, the gods, and their champions.

Oswin had tried all his life to gain the gods’ affections but was always met with disdain. They had forsaken him; so he had no choice but to speak with them through their champions—even if it meant their death.

The mage dusted himself off as he gathered his composure and refocused on the task at hand. “Alright, well, let’s see if this worked. Worse that happens is this becomes poison or something, right?” Oswin walked over to a table with cups and picked one up. “Well, one holy water coming right up.” Luckily, there was a fountain nearby as well so he filled the cup to the brim.

With a deep breath and closed eyes, Oswin waved his hand over the cup and muttered a prayer to the wine god.

“Alright, probably best I don’t taste this in case its neither wine nor water.” He glanced over at the cat. “Nah, too cruel. Don’t want it drinking this piss water either.” Oswin brought the cup to his face for a closer inspection. Well, it didn’t look horrible. It was red wine colored, so at the very least the spell had done something. The beverage was apparently no longer water. It was now either truly wine or corrupted into some malicious liquid.

What about a smell test? Oswin waved his hand over the cup, trying to give himself a good whiff. Interesting. It smelled like, perhaps, burning? Everything did actually. He rubbed his nose and left an imprint of black soot on the back of his hand. “Oh, right, the smiting.” He wrinkled his nose at that horrible feeling of a sneeze that wouldn’t come. “Well, guess I’m not going to be smelling roses anytime soon.”

Oswin set the cup down on the corner of the fountain. “Well, what now? Maybe I can ask one of those oafs to drink this for me? But if it’s poisoned, they may die. Then again, those idiots did just stand there and watched while I was choking on those stupid robes. Why am I talking to myself anyway? Nobody here but me and—”

Right on cue, the cat hopped up to the fountain and tilted its head at Oswin.

“Right, the cat.” Oswin patted it on the head. “Thanks for saving me back there.”

Curiously, the cat sniffed at the cup of ‘holy water’ and retreated in disgust with a hiss.

Oswin quickly withdrew his hand to avoid the cat scratching him in its ire. “That bad, huh?”

With a growl, the cat smacked its paw against the cup and it shattered on the floor with a venomous hiss. The pool of so-called wine steamed and boiled until the flooring melted away.

“Uh, I am not cleaning that up.” Oswin looked at the ever-growing hole being eaten away by the acid. “Let’s get out of here. Looks like I got my answer.”

He left the hallowed halls of the wine god behind, ruined by the various curses against him. Even the wine god’s own curse defiled the shrine. Was Oswin so unworthy that the gods would desecrate their own sacred halls to spite him?

He walked some distance away from the shrine and glanced up at the heavens. “I have defeated your champion,” he boasted. “And still, I am not worthy?” He laughed bitterly. “Fine, then. I’ll just beat the next one, and the next, until there are no more champions. And so the only possible man left to favor would be myself— Oswin the Worthy! What say you to that, gods?” He was met with only silence.

“So be it,” he muttered as he walked down the road. Behind him, the familiar black cat followed in a casual trot.

Copyright © 2023 Joel Dawn
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