We establish a temporary camp in a defensible position—a rocky outcropping surrounded by sparse trees that gives us good visibility in all directions. The Thunder Mountains loom closer now, their jagged peaks occasionally hidden by dark clouds that crackle with distant lightning.

  "Need better position before orcs come," Nerk says, surveying our surroundings with the tactical eye he's developed through our enhancement sessions. "Too exposed here."

  He's right. We're in a decent spot for a day or two, but not for a longer stay. And with three hundred orcs potentially bearing down on us if things go wrong, we need better options.

  "Morrigan, scout the area," I order. "Find any local goblin tribes or other potential recruits. We need to bolster our numbers while we wait for Blackjaw's response."

  The hagraven nods, her wings unfurling to their impressive new span. She can't quite achieve sustained flight yet, but she can glide considerable distances, making her an excellent aerial scout.

  "Any signs of suitable creatures, report back immediately," I add. "Don't engage alone."

  As Morrigan takes to the air, I turn to Nerk. "Set rotating watches. Train the archers in volleys, they need to work as coordinated units, not individuals."

  "Already planning," he confirms. His transformation continues to impress me—where once stood a simple goblin driven by basic instincts, now stands a genuine military commander, capable of complex strategic thinking.

  The next day passes in tense preparation. Our goblin forces drill repeatedly, their movements becoming more coordinated with each practice session. The ogres, while still relatively simple-minded, have been taught basic signals to follow in battle. They may not understand complex tactics, but they know "smash that" when Nerk points at a target.

  By midday, Morrigan returns with promising news.

  "Small goblin warren two miles north," she reports, landing gracefully beside me. "Maybe twenty warriors, plus females and young. Hiding from orc patrols in caves."

  "Perfect," I reply. "Potential recruits who already have reason to dislike the orcs. Let's pay them a visit."

  I select a small force—myself, Nerk, Morrigan, and six of our most improved goblin warriors. The rest remain at camp, continuing their training and maintaining vigilance for any orc response.

  The goblin warren proves easy to find with Morrigan's guidance. It's a series of natural caves in a limestone formation, cleverly hidden by brush and deliberately planted vegetation. We would have walked right past it without her reconnaissance.

  Our approach triggers an immediate response—small, dark shapes scrambling for cover, the glint of crude weapons visible in the cave entrances.

  "Hold position," I command our troops. "Nerk, tell them we come to talk, not fight."

  Nerk calls out in the goblin language, his deep voice echoing against the rocks. There's a pause, then a response from within the caves—suspicious but not immediately hostile.

  A wizened goblin eventually emerges, leaning on a gnarled staff. His skin is a paler green than our forest goblins, adapted to the underground life these hill goblins prefer.

  "Why hobgoblin bring human to our home?" he demands in broken common speech. "Why bring strange bird-witch?"

  "I'm a tamer," I reply directly. "These are my bonded monsters and their followers. We seek allies against the orcs."

  The old goblin's eyes narrow. "Many tamers pass through hills. Most with one beast, maybe two. None with army." He studies Nerk carefully. "None make hobgoblin from goblin."

  So tamers aren't uncommon, but ones of my caliber are rare. Good to know—it means I won't attract attention simply for being a tamer, but my particular abilities still set me apart.

  "The orcs threaten your territory," I continue. "They've already absorbed smaller tribes into their horde. You could be next, or you could join us and become stronger."

  I nod to Nerk, who steps forward and demonstrates his enhanced abilities—leaping to a rock ledge twenty feet up, then punching through a small boulder with his bare fist. The hill goblins murmur amongst themselves, clearly impressed.

  "All who follow me grow stronger," I explain. "Not as much as my directly bonded monsters, but significantly stronger than they'd be alone."

  The old goblin confers with others who have gradually emerged from the caves. After several minutes of heated discussion, he turns back to me.

  "Show proof," he challenges. "Make one of us stronger. Then maybe believe."

  I consider this request. It's reasonable, but I can't actually directly enhance a goblin without bonding—the power flows through Nerk to his subordinates. Still, there might be a way to demonstrate.

  "Bring your strongest warrior," I say. "Let him fight one of mine. Then I'll show what my connection can do."

  They produce a burly goblin with a jagged scar across his face. He's impressively muscled for a goblin, carrying a crude but effective stone axe. I select one of our six—a goblin named Skrik who's been with us since the beginning and shows remarkable improvement.

  The two circle each other while both tribes watch. The hill goblin strikes first, swinging his axe in a powerful arc. Skrik dodges with enhanced reflexes, then counterattacks with precision that no ordinary goblin could manage. The fight is brief but decisive—Skrik disarms his opponent within moments, demonstrating superior speed, strength, and technique.

  "Your warrior fought well," I tell the hill goblin chief. "Now imagine him fighting like Skrik. Imagine all your warriors improved similarly."

  I can see the calculations happening behind the old goblin's eyes. Twenty more warriors would be a valuable addition to our force, especially with Blackjaw's response still uncertain.

  "We talk among ourselves," he finally says. "Return tomorrow for answer."

  It's not ideal, but it's not a rejection either. As we leave, Morrigan murmurs, "They join. Saw fear in their eyes when orcs mentioned. Need protection more than independence."

  Back at our camp, we find heightened alertness among our troops. A goblin scout reports orc sign nearby—a small patrol passed within a mile of our position but didn't detect us.

  "They searching," Nerk observes. "Message either not delivered or not believed."

  That night, I enhance Nerk and Morrigan again, focusing on their core strengths—tactical leadership for Nerk, magical versatility for Morrigan. The process leaves me drained but satisfied. Whatever comes next, my two primary bonds are approaching their peak potential.

  Morning brings two significant developments. First, the hill goblins arrive at our camp en masse—all twenty warriors plus their chief. They've decided to throw in their lot with us, recognizing the protection we offer against the encroaching orcs.

  "Smart choice," I tell their chief as Nerk begins integrating them with our existing forces. I can already feel the network expanding to encompass these new additions, power flowing through the connections.

  The second development arrives an hour later—an orc messenger, alone and carrying a white flag made from a wolf pelt. Our scouts escort him to me, his expression a mixture of wariness and grudging respect.

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

  "Blackjaw receives your message," he announces without preamble. "Accepts meeting. You and two others only. Come to Split Rock at noon tomorrow." He points to a distinctive formation visible on a nearby hillside. "No tricks or all die."

  I maintain a neutral expression. "Tell Blackjaw I accept his terms. Three of us will come. No tricks."

  After the messenger departs, Nerk and Morrigan join me to plan our approach.

  "Could be trap," Nerk warns.

  "Of course it could," I agree. "But it's also our best chance to get close to Blackjaw. You two will accompany me. The rest of our forces will remain hidden but ready to intervene if things go badly."

  Morrigan clicks her beak. "Dangerous game, master. Blackjaw no fool. Will bring guards, hidden watchers."

  "Undoubtedly," I nod. "Which is why we'll be prepared for trouble while genuinely seeking alliance. The direct approach might actually work here—Blackjaw wants to expand his power. We offer a unique advantage."

  As our newly enlarged force continues preparations, I can't help but feel we're approaching a critical juncture. Tomorrow's meeting could secure us a powerful third bond, or it could plunge us into open warfare with a superior force.

  ---

  Night falls over our camp, bringing with it a bone-deep chill that rolls down from the Thunder Mountains. The goblin sentries huddle near small, carefully shielded fires, their yellow eyes scanning the darkness. I sit alone near the edge of camp, weighing tomorrow's meeting with Blackjaw. The risks are obvious—walking into what could easily be an ambush, facing a warlord with a reputation for ruthlessness. But the potential reward of binding such a powerful third monster is too significant to ignore.

  My thoughts are interrupted by Morrigan's silent approach. The hagraven moves like a shadow, her talons somehow making no sound against the rocky ground.

  "Master should rest," she croaks, her beady eyes reflecting the distant firelight. "Tomorrow requires clear mind."

  "Too much to think about," I admit. "This meeting could—"

  Morrigan suddenly stiffens, her head jerking toward the darkness beyond our perimeter. "Someone comes," she hisses. "Not goblin. Not human."

  I'm instantly alert, hand moving to my weapon. "Orc?"

  She nods, feathers bristling. "Single. Moving carefully. Trying to avoid sentries."

  "Wake Nerk," I whisper. "Quietly. Have him bring two warriors, but keep the rest of the camp undisturbed. If this is Blackjaw testing our defenses, I don't want him to know we detected his scout."

  As Morrigan slips away, I remain motionless, eyes straining against the darkness. Minutes later, Nerk materializes beside me, two of our best goblin warriors flanking him. They move with impressive stealth—another benefit of my enhancement.

  "There," Nerk murmurs, pointing to a barely perceptible movement among the rocks thirty yards out. "Using cover well. Professional."

  "Surround but don't engage," I order. "I want to know why he's here before we decide what to do with him."

  Nerk and the goblins fade into the darkness with practiced ease. I remain visible, appearing oblivious to our nocturnal visitor. The trap is set.

  Ten minutes pass before I hear the brief scuffle—so quick and quiet that the rest of the camp doesn't stir. Nerk emerges from the darkness, physically dragging a massive orc warrior. Despite the intruder's impressive size—easily seven feet tall and heavily muscled—Nerk handles him like a child's doll, enhanced strength making the difference.

  The orc doesn't struggle. There's a calculating intelligence in his eyes that immediately sets him apart from the typical warrior. His tusks are impressive, jutting from his lower jaw in curved arcs that end in sharpened points. Elaborate ritual scars cover his green skin, telling stories I can't read. He wears surprisingly little armor—just leather pauldrons and greaves, relying on natural toughness rather than protection.

  "Found him watching camp," Nerk reports, forcing the orc to his knees before me. "Had this." He holds up an ornate dagger with a blade of unusual black metal. "Didn't try to use it."

  "Because I didn't come to kill," the orc says in surprisingly good common speech. "I came to talk. Alone."

  I study him carefully. "You're taking a significant risk, approaching a tamer's camp at night."

  The orc's face twists in what might be a smile. "Less risk than what I propose."

  "Which is?"

  "Alliance against Blackjaw." The words hang in the night air, heavy with implication. "I am Gorthal, blood-priest of the Broken Skull clan. Once advisor to three warchiefs, now forced to bend knee to Blackjaw's madness."

  My interest sharpens. This is unexpected—and potentially valuable. "Why come to me?"

  Gorthal's yellow eyes gleam with ambition barely concealed. "Blackjaw meets you tomorrow. Not for alliance. For execution. He fears tamers—especially one who commands a transformed hobgoblin and a hagraven."

  "And you're telling me this out of concern for my wellbeing?" I ask skeptically.

  The orc barks a laugh. "I tell you because dead tamers are useless to me. I need you alive. And victorious."

  I gesture for Nerk to release him. The hobgoblin does so reluctantly, still looming behind the orc as a deterrent against sudden movements.

  "Explain," I demand.

  "Blackjaw grows powerful through conquest and fear," Gorthal says, rubbing his wrists where Nerk had gripped them. "Three hundred warriors follow him now. More join each moon. His shaman, Gul'Thak, speaks of prophecy—Blackjaw as the chosen one who will unite all orc tribes."

  "And you dispute this prophecy?"

  Gorthal spits on the ground. "Gul'Thak is a fraud. The true prophecy speaks of one who commands the spirits of beast and shadow. One who transforms his followers into greater versions of themselves." His eyes fix on Nerk meaningfully. "One who would bond with a blood-priest to unleash the old magics."

  The implications sink in. Gorthal isn't just offering information about a trap—he's offering himself as my third bond. A blood-priest, whatever that is, evidently possessing magical abilities that complement his warrior nature.

  "You want to replace Blackjaw," I state flatly.

  "I want to fulfill the true prophecy," he corrects. "Blackjaw is a brute with a magic axe. I am keeper of rituals forgotten by most orcs. Together, we could command not just three hundred warriors, but thousands."

  Morrigan, who has been silently observing, steps forward. "Blood-priest. Old magic. Dangerous." She studies Gorthal with professional interest. "But powerful. Very powerful."

  "What exactly does a blood-priest do?" I ask.

  Gorthal's expression becomes almost reverent. "We channel the strength of fallen warriors into the living. We speak with ancestors. We bind spirits to flesh." He pulls down his leather vest to reveal more elaborate scarification across his chest—patterns that seem to pulse slightly in the darkness. "With your tamer magic enhancing my blood rituals, we could create warriors unlike any seen in generations."

  It's a tempting proposition, but caution is warranted. "Why should I trust you? For all I know, this could be Blackjaw's trap—sending you to lure me into making a move against him."

  Gorthal reaches slowly into a pouch at his belt, withdrawing a small object wrapped in leather. Unwrapping it, he reveals a shard of black metal similar to his dagger.

  "A piece of Blackjaw's axe, broken in our last... disagreement." His finger traces a fresh scar across his abdomen. "I barely survived. Take it. Your witch can verify its connection to him. Use it to track him, to sense his power."

  Morrigan accepts the shard cautiously, her talons clicking against the strange metal. After a moment of examination, her eyes widen. "Truth. Strong magic. Same signature as Death Knight weapons."

  That's an unexpected connection. "Blackjaw's axe is related to Death Knight weapons?"

  "Same source," Gorthal confirms. "Star metal. Falls from sky. Death Knights seek it. Blackjaw found a large piece, forged his axe from it. They hunt him for it, though he doesn't know why."

  The pieces start falling into place. The Death Knight in Hillbrook, the planned orc attacks—there's a larger game being played, with resources like this "star metal" as a key piece.

  "Tomorrow's meeting is definitely a trap?" I press.

  Gorthal nods. "Blackjaw brings twenty elite warriors, hidden in rocks. Plans to kill you, take your monsters for himself. Believes he can control them once you're dead."

  "He's wrong about that," I say with absolute certainty. My bond with Nerk and Morrigan doesn't transfer—it dies with me.

  "What do you propose instead?" I ask Gorthal.

  "Don't go to meeting. Strike at Blackjaw's camp tonight. He expects you tomorrow at Split Rock—his main force remains at the valley camp. Only his personal guard stays with him tonight at his forward camp." Gorthal's eyes gleam with bloodlust. "With your monsters and my knowledge of their defenses, we could kill him before dawn."

  "And then you expect to take his place, with me as your ally?"

  "With you as my master," Gorthal corrects, surprising me. "A blood-priest understands power. Yours is greater than mine. I offer myself as your third bond. My knowledge, my magic, my followers—all yours to command. In return, you make me more than I am, as you did with the hobgoblin."

  It's exactly what I've been seeking—a powerful third monster with leadership capabilities and a unique skill set. Yet this is happening faster and differently than I anticipated. Rushing into an attack tonight carries significant risks.

  Nerk growls softly, "Could be double-trap. Lure us to wrong location while Blackjaw attacks our camp."

  A valid concern. Gorthal seems to read my thoughts.

  "You don't need to commit your entire force," he says. "Take your two bonds and your best warriors. Leave the rest here in defensive position. If I betray you, you lose some fighters but preserve your army's core. If I speak truth, you gain a warchief's head and a blood-priest's loyalty."

  I study him carefully, weighing options. Should I attack tonight based on Gorthal's information, or proceed with tomorrow's meeting knowing it's likely a trap? Or maybe there’s another option…