“They sure gave Kopf the stink-eye there,” Rogar muttered, his eyes off to the woods on the side, doing his job. “What was with that? Don’t like shields?”

“It were said that the first gurog were made from mattekars horribly abused an’ mistreated by shadow lugians, traitors who gave themselves to dark powers, although whether it were the virindi, the shadows, or the undead who were truly behind it all became really muddled in time. The hostility t’ lugians be bred inta their bones. I were half-expecting ‘em to charge Kopf in a frenzy t’ avenge their forebears. Pleasant surprise!” the Mick explained smoothly.

“They are wearing Protection from Evil Amulets.” Everyone glanced sharply at me. “Yes, every single one of them.”

“That… would protect them from the mind control that was programmed into them,” Kristie said softly. “They’ve been released from bondage to the undead!”

“And they’ve weapons o’ Fire,” the Mick agreed. “I never saw aught but Frost and normal Weapons among ‘em. The only way they’d have Firephasing is ta use on the other creatures of the Frozen Valley…”

“And especially the Gellidite undead who dwelled there,” Kris finished for him. “Simple things to make, churn one out every day or two, if you’ve the goldweight.”

“And that’s a lugian-design Bugswatter Staff-mace. I imagine he’s just carrying it for the Captain to use if they run into bugs,” Kopf told us pointedly in his deep voice. “So they aren’t above using what works.”

“If’n yer Master Briggs is behind this, he’s a bloody miracle worker!” the Mick exclaimed strongly.

I laughed at the same time Kris did. “Oh, he’s better than that!” she replied happily. “He’s a damn Source, and changing the game is what they do best!”

“There a story behind that claim?” the Mick asked, as everyone listened in eagerly.

“Welllll,” she started, glancing at me, and I just shrugged. “You all know I’m a Null, right? Can’t Cast magic, can’t wield any kind of magic that’s not tied to items which can also be used by Forsaken, right?”

They all responded in the affirmative. Her ability to lock down no-flight zones to magical fliers had been Hell on any zefirs we ran across, and the Interdiction side of her power had been experienced by those of my students who had learned the simplest variants of dimensional magic. Of course everyone had seen her Null field turning all the incoming War Magic from the very powerful Shaded into raindrops falling into a lake, splash and gone.

“Well, there’s two other kinds of Forsaken. Nulls are by far the most common, mind, at least twenty to one more common than Sources, and Sources are at least that many times more common than Voids, and probably much, much more.

“Sources can do the same thing that a Null Field can do, but a Source Field operates differently. Instead of holding the magic steady and not allowing it to be molded or moved, a Source Field is more like a slow burn of the truest, most fundamental and primordial magic just blowing past you. Higher forms of magic hitting it don’t vanish into stillness, they are burned away and destabilize as they are undone at their most basic level, like throwing matches into a bonfire.

“Sources aren’t dead to magic, they emanate the most simple and basic form of magic, instead, and as a result normal magic doesn’t work for them any more than it does for us. They can’t grab it or wield it, because their Sourceness just burns away any lesser power for them.”

“They generate magic all the time?” Hundig asked in disbelief. “Like… a magical furnace, or something?”

“Yes, exactly. And that magic goes out into the world and… Makes Fate.”

They all looked at one another as we traipsed along. “That… be sounding ominous an’ powerful?” the Mick asked, fate being one of those things warriors in general and the powerful in particular obsessed over. Some held that those who held to combat were immune to fate, and made their own. Others claimed that destiny was woven from the moment of birth and none could escape it, only choose how to confront it.

I knew that Fate and Luck were tools of Law and Chaos, and the only way to be free of either was to cut yourself free, an action neither force particularly liked. Hunting for the Fateless was a fine and upstanding job among Axiomatics, and going after the Luckless considered an easy way to gain some good luck of your own among Anarchs.

Heaven didn’t care one way or the other about being Beyond Law and Chaos, just one more personal choice that didn’t affect your moral destiny.

“It is very subtle, and very powerful, operating off the Oaths that a Source swears. When a Source makes a sincere Oath with iron will and fiery determination, the magic that they emanate starts acting on the world to change things to move to that promise. It starts as a stream, or a small rockfall, moving pebble by pebble. And then pebbles bump into stones, which bump into rocks, which crash into boulders, and suddenly Fate is being hit blindsided by this rampaging force coming in from the side that it hasn’t made any compensation for, and the destiny it tries to bring into being is being fought and overpowered by this random element that even Chance didn’t put into action.

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“Which is how Dad conquered all of Ispar, of course. He made two Oaths! The first was that the Viamontians would get what they had coming to them. The second was that he wasn’t going to let the world devolve to shit just because the Viamontians were out of the picture. So, the one Oath being fulfilled cost the Viamontians everything, and the second set him on the throne.”

A few whistles broke out all around us. “One footstep, one sound to trigger an avalanche, aye?” the Mick offered up. “How does that relate to the likes o’ us non-Sources?”

“We’re the pebbles and stones that get put into motion. The Oath making Fate means that we are ever-so-slightly more likely to succeed at things that further the cause of a Source’s Oath. It’s small, but it means the odds that were in an opponent’s favor, now might just be even, and odds that were even are now in our favor.

“Take that across dozens, scores, then hundreds, thousands, and then tens or hundreds of thousands of people, and the cumulative effect is seriously strong, taking on a life of its own and barreling towards fulfillment,” Kris finished.

“A poetic term for Sources are Kings Among Men and Queens Among Women. Their nature means they tend to get into leadership positions without even trying to, as those who follow them prosper, and those who oppose them fall to the side,” I added.

“Are, uh, they good-looking?” Milee asked cheekily.

At that I had to laugh, while Princess Kristie looked slightly wounded. “Most Sources? Yes. Even if they aren’t paragons of physical beauty, they have strength and charisma.

“But if he’s like his fellows, Briggs is an Ancient, what would be called a cave-man back on Ispar. He’ll likely be about seven feet tall, built as big as an ape, and look like something from the old days… an Ancient.

“He should also radiate command like a born King and Warlord, and even if you find him ugly, he’s going to be a little overwhelming to talk to.

“Oh, and don’t ever ask him to sing. Ever. Absolutely.”

Before they could ask me why, Kristie cut them off. “Because then he might just do it, and you’ll regret it for the rest of your life.” She blanched, and on her face, that was a truly gruesome expression. “Gods, don’t let him sing. Especially a song I know. I only heard Dad do it one time, some mocking thing a bard whipped up talking about our family and especially his looks.

“He belted the whole thing out to the Imperial Court, and every noble and half the capital heard him sing it SO enthusiastically.

“That minstrel who made that song barely got out of the capital with his life, no bard will ever touch it for fear of being lynched by those who heard Dad sing it, and there were people having twitchy nightmares about it for months. There were a lot of people who signed up for hypnosis sessions just to try and erase the memory of him singing.”

They all looked a bit incredulous. “That bad?” the Mick had to ask for everyone, appalled.

“Dad has a very, very powerful Talent called Natural Smith. It applies to any and all kinds of smithwork, making him one of the most talented workers of metals there is. It comes with a downside, a Flaw called Can’t Sing,” Kristie went on calmly.

“He and my brothers are all master musicians, especially with drums. They can and do love listening to opera and all the performing arts. Their skills at Oratory will get your heart pumping.

“When they Sing, picture the most masterful singer and musician of your life singing your favorite song, a performance the gods might admire.” She looked around at all of them, and they nodded slowly, hesitantly.

“Now, flip that performance completely on its head.

“They think they are singing a grand and moving, powerful performance. What comes out is the exact and complete opposite.”

“A performance that you will remember forever for stirring your heart and soul, making your blood pump and thoughts swell and soar… is instead an absolute horror you will also remember forever, making your heart and soul rebel, your blood curdle and your thoughts just want to gutter and stop trying to digest it.” I had only inherited memories of the effect, and that was enough. “Do not have Briggs sing.”

The Mick suddenly looked thoughtful. “Ye know, Oswald didn’t mention anything about that…” he remarked.

“He’s just the sort that would like us to find out for ourselves,” Kris smirked. “I am warning you now, and if you think I’m lying or exaggerating, well, you’ll regret it the rest of your life.”

“Meaning everyone should be exposed to it just once, just to realize how absolutely awful some singing can be.” I shuddered despite myself.

“You heard him Singing?” Kris asked, a bit surprised.

“If you’ll recall the time of year, it was just before the end of formal classes at the university, that was the Knight’s Gala, and I,” meaning Shamira/Mira, “was at the end of my first year, about to take exams.”

“Oh, right. They had to postpone them all for a week. The examiners were all at the gala and couldn’t get any sleep, while I understand half the students had urgent cases of the stomach flu via auditory transmission.” Her expression was grim and heartless. “I puked my guts out for two goddamn hours. Dad really didn’t like that song, catchy little thing that it was.”

“Only two hours? Bloody Ranthas.”

“Yeah, well, even Mom was out of it for an hour, and the gala rather ended on the spot, if you remember. She laughed her goddamn ass off about it afterwards, and that minstrel won’t put a finger to a string for the rest of his life if he has any brains, either.

“Kinda stopped the ‘mock the imperial family’ movement right in its tracks, too.”

“Is it true that your father rounded up a bunch of fanatic Roulean loyalists and sang their Anthem to them?” I had to ask.

“Heard about that, did you?” She smiled ever so slightly. “Yep, he did just that. Mom identified who they were, they were getting together in one of their hunting parties at the estate of Grand Arborean Duke Heiztizoni, and he popped in on their grandly patriotic ancient group of grandly racist morons. He sang that old grand Roulean Anthem to them, and basically shattered their entire grand organization. They can’t speak to or see one another, or adhere to the grand Calligrizon Call, without the Anthem coming to mind, and it tortures all of them. Looking at the old grand Roulean flag gives most of them instant grand migraines, I’ve heard.”

Even Kopf, a lugian, looked impressed at that bit of news. “Can he use that power in war?” he had to ask gravely.