The Death Knight didn't just happen to walk into that tavern. He was looking for something. Or someone.

  Me most likely. Probably really pissed them off when I killed those bandits.

  I peer around the corner, watching the black-armored guards questioning people leaving town. They're checking faces, comparing them to something. Shit. Even with Morrigan's glamour dust, I can't risk a direct confrontation.

  My eyes settle on a merchant's wagon being loaded nearby. Canvas-covered, headed out of town judging by the direction it's facing. I casually drift closer, timing my approach to coincide with the merchant's trip into a store for what sounds like "one last delivery manifest."

  The wagon driver, a bored-looking teenager, glances up as I approach.

  "How much to ride along to the edge of town?" I ask, jangling a few silver coins.

  The kid eyes the money, then shrugs. "Pa doesn't like passengers."

  "Pa doesn't need to know," I reply, adding another coin to my palm. "Just to the edge of town. I'm in a hurry."

  Greed wins out over caution. The kid pockets the coins and jerks his thumb toward the back of the wagon. "Stay under the canvas. Don't touch nothing."

  I climb aboard, burrowing beneath crates of what smell like preserved fish. The canvas settles over me, leaving me in stuffy, reeking darkness. Minutes later, the merchant returns, there's a brief exchange I can't quite make out, and then the wagon lurches forward.

  We roll slowly through town, stopping occasionally. At what must be the gate, I hear the guards questioning the merchant.

  "Delivery to the Henderson farm," the merchant explains. "Just goods, check for yourself."

  I hold my breath as someone lifts the canvas slightly. A guard pokes half-heartedly among the crates, the smell apparently discouraging a thorough search.

  The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

  "Smells like shit," the guard complains, dropping the canvas.

  "Fish oil," the merchant corrects. "Good money in it."

  The wagon rolls forward again. We've passed the gate. I wait until the sounds of town fade before carefully extracting myself from between the crates. The road here runs through open farmland, but I can see our forest camp in the distance.

  "Thanks," I tell the driver, hopping down when the wagon slows at a bend. "Your fish oil cargo saved my ass."

  The kid looks confused but doesn't argue as I jog away, cutting across a fallow field toward the tree line.

  By the time I reach our camp, darkness is falling. Nerk meets me at the perimeter, his enhanced senses having picked up my approach.

  "Master returns," he rumbles, relief evident in his voice. "Trouble?"

  "Big trouble," I confirm, striding into camp. "Death Knight in town. Looking for someone. Maybe us."

  Morrigan hisses, her feathers bristling. "Suspected this. We disrupted their plan when we killed bandits."

  Our goblin scouts gather around as I quickly explain what I've learned—both about the Death Knight's presence and about Blackjaw, the orc warlord.

  "Must leave immediately," Nerk insists. "Death Knights track by magic. Will find camp soon."

  "Agreed," I nod. "Pack up. We move east, toward the Thunder Mountains." I turn to Morrigan. "Can you mask our trail somehow? Magical concealment?"

  She clicks her beak thoughtfully. "For short time, yes. Mix potion to hide magical signature. Not perfect, but slow pursuit."

  Within an hour, our entire force is on the move. The ogres lumber along under guard, still docile under Morrigan's influence. Our goblin troops move with impressive discipline, maintaining formation even in the darkness. Their naturally good night vision, enhanced by my power, makes them perfect for nocturnal travel.

  As we march, I explain our new objective to Nerk and Morrigan.

  "This Blackjaw is exactly what we need," I tell them. "An orc warlord with a hundred followers already. If I can bond with him—"

  "Instant army," Nerk finishes, nodding appreciatively. "Very good third bond. Strong fighter, natural leader."

  "But challenge will be approach," Morrigan cautions. "Orcs not easily impressed. Trust no outsiders."

  "We'll figure that out when we get there," I say. "For now, we focus on putting distance between us and whatever's happening in Hillbrook."

  As our strange company moves through the night, I can't help but feel we're on the cusp of something significant. With an orc warlord as my third bond, controlling a hundred seasoned warriors, combined with our enhanced goblin forces, ogre muscle, and magical support—we'd have the beginnings of a truly formidable army.