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was hard to say what moved her and why her whims fluctuated so wildly. There were those who said Hella had gone mad, her mind crazed by the many things she could see and feel unfolding in the world. From all the choices she had to make every day that could save a person or bring about their demise or worse.
    But fate could be changed or altered under the right conditions. One just needed to know all the elements at play.

CHAPTER
THREE

     
    None of this was any concern of Dethan’s. He had much more important things to tackle and trying to comprehend the whims of fate was a waste of his energies. He had to stay focused on his goal. Get a horse. Get to his cache. Get an army. It was as simple as that, and yet in his present circumstances it was also hard.
    He and Tonkin moved into the fair and Dethan found himself feeling on edge. He didn’t know why at first, because there was nothing at all threatening about the happy people milling about, enjoying the vendors’ wares and eating the large quantities of foods available. Everyone was relaxed and having a good time.
    After a while he realized it was the crowd itself that was the problem. He had spent an untold amount of time chained up alone in the hells, with no one but himself for company. Here he was thrust into the mix of hundreds of people, packed end to end in some places where the crowd bottlenecked between two vendors or where there was an attraction, such as the dancing gossels presently taking place. The six-legged beastie was better served up broiled and salted, in his opinion, but to each his own.
    Dethan’s best bet was to get out of there as soon aspossible. But there was one other thing he needed before he could go, and this crowd might help him to get it. There were clothing vendors all about and possibly he could nick a shirt to go with his pants. Once he did that he would be able to wear his armor. Without underpadding it could be painful … but he would suffer the pain and chafing if it meant getting on with his journey.
    He was keeping his eyes open when he saw an opportunity. But before he could move toward taking advantage of it, his companion grabbed him around one of his arms and dragged him toward a raucous uproar of shouting.
    “Shivov fights!” his companion said with no little amount of glee.
    The more things changed, the more they didn’t. How many centuries had it been since he had been dragged into the hells? And yet shivov fighting still existed. He had won four shivov matches in his time. He could not have afforded to lose. No one could, for it was a death match. There were winners and then there were corpses. There was no ground given, only ground that was taken.
    Unable to help himself, he was drawn toward the arena. The crowd was even thicker here and his apprehension ratcheted up to a new level. He struggled with himself. Forced himself to shove down all the anxiety clawing through him. He tried to remind himself that he had once been one of the most renowned and most feared warlords of his time. But with a body still burned and barely healed, he was hardly more than a shadow of who he had once been.
    Tonkin, for all his slight build and undernourished state, had surprising strength in him as he dragged Dethan to a place right at ringside, shoving into the space for all he was worth and receiving some angry epithets in the process. Right away Dethan could see the twofighters, seeming at first glance unevenly matched. One was burly, no more than three straps tall, by the look of him, but carrying a good two hundred rocks if he carried one. His opponent was closer to four straps tall, the same as Dethan, and also like Dethan—when healthy—was about a hundred and seventy-five rocks, give or take. It would be a fairer match if Dethan were in the ring rather than the stockier man. But it was obvious right away that each had their strengths.
    And as soon as the first blow connected, something else was very obvious as well.
    The