The next few hours are a masterclass in careful planning and execution. I establish a command position on a rocky outcropping with good visibility of the valley approach, while my three lieutenants prepare our forces for the confrontation ahead.

  Morrigan returns from her aerial reconnaissance, landing silently beside me. Her feathers are ruffled from the flight, but her eyes gleam with satisfaction.

  "Main camp exactly where Gorthal described," she reports. "Three hundred warriors, roughly. Many still sleeping. No signs they know of Blackjaw's death yet."

  Perfect. The element of surprise remains ours.

  Our force has grown with the addition of the eight orc warriors who surrendered at Blackjaw's forward camp. They march alongside our goblin archers, initially wary but increasingly confident as Gorthal performs minor blood rituals to enhance their strength and stamina. The demonstration of power is persuasive—these orcs can physically feel themselves growing stronger through their connection to our network.

  Nerk approaches, his enhanced form moving with deadly grace despite its bulk. "Forces ready," he reports. "Goblins in archer formations. Ogres as shock troops. New orcs as vanguard with Gorthal."

  "And our messenger?" I ask.

  "Ready. Understands mission."

  The plan is straightforward but psychologically effective. We'll send one of the converted orc warriors ahead to announce Blackjaw's death and Gorthal's ascension. The messenger will carry Blackjaw's severed head as proof, along with an offer: join us willingly or face destruction. While this message is delivered, our forces will take hidden positions surrounding the camp.

  Gorthal joins us, the blood-bound axe glowing faintly on his back. Through our bond, I can sense his battle hunger, carefully controlled beneath strategic thinking.

  "Many will join immediately," he predicts. "Blood-priests respected, feared. Some will resist—Blackjaw's most loyal warriors, perhaps thirty or forty."

  "And the rest will follow whoever wins," I finish. "Can your blood magic give us an edge against the loyalists?"

  Gorthal's tusked mouth spreads in a grim smile. "New ritual prepared. With master's power enhancing it..." He flexes his hand, the ritual scars pulsing with barely contained energy. "Their own blood will fight against them."

  I nod, satisfied. "Send the messenger. Then take your positions. No one moves until I give the signal."

  As our forces deploy, I remain at my observation post with Morrigan. Through our bonds, I maintain awareness of both Nerk and Gorthal as they lead their respective units into position. The connection feels different now, with three bonds active—more complex but also more powerful, like a network of energy flowing in multiple directions simultaneously.

  The messenger enters the valley camp alone, Blackjaw's head held high on a spear. Even from my distant position, I can see the ripple of shock that passes through the orc encampment as warriors emerge from tents to witness this declaration. The messenger speaks, gesturing occasionally toward the surrounding hillsides where our forces lie hidden.

  Through my bond with Gorthal, I sense a shift in the camp's energy—confusion, anger, but also calculation as warriors assess this new reality. Most orcs are pragmatic; they follow strength. If Gorthal has defeated Blackjaw and claimed his axe, many will accept him as the new warchief without question.

  "Movement in camp," Morrigan warns, her sharp eyes catching what I cannot. "Warriors arguing. Dividing into factions."

  I extend my perception through Gorthal's senses, connecting more directly to the unfolding situation. A large orc with elaborate facial scars has stepped forward, challenging our messenger. This must be one of Blackjaw's loyalists—possibly his second-in-command.

  "Now," I command through the bond, and our forces spring the trap.

  Goblin archers rise from concealment on the surrounding ridges, arrows nocked. Nerk leads our ogres down one slope while Gorthal and his converted orc warriors emerge from another. The valley camp is effectively surrounded, caught in a perfect ambush.

  Rather than ordering an immediate attack, I have Gorthal stride confidently into the camp, Blackjaw's axe prominently displayed. He looks transformed from the orc who approached our camp just hours ago—his ritual scars glow with power, his physique enhanced by our bond, his presence commanding respect and fear in equal measure.

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  "Warriors of the Broken Fang!" he calls out, his voice carrying across the entire camp. "Blackjaw is dead! I, Gorthal, blood-priest and chosen of the true prophecy, have claimed his axe and his power!"

  He raises the black metal weapon, its surface drinking in the morning sunlight. At his command, the blade begins to glow with crimson energy—the blood binding he performed earlier manifesting visibly.

  "The prophecy speaks not of a warrior with a magic axe," he continues, "but of one who commands the spirits of beast and shadow! One who transforms his followers into greater versions of themselves!"

  At this, he gestures to our forces on the ridgelines—the enhanced goblin archers, the massive ogres, Nerk's impressive hobgoblin form, and Morrigan's hagraven silhouette beside me.

  The large orc who challenged our messenger steps forward, hand on his weapon. "You were Blackjaw's servant, Gorthal! His advisor! You betrayed him!"

  "I fulfilled the true prophecy," Gorthal counters. "Blackjaw was a stepping stone, nothing more. Look around you, Kurgak. You are surrounded. Those who join us will grow stronger than you can imagine. Those who resist will feed our power with their deaths."

  To demonstrate, Gorthal performs a quick blood ritual—slicing his palm and casting the blood toward one of the converted orc warriors from Blackjaw's forward camp. The blood traces glowing patterns in the air before sinking into the warrior's skin. The effect is immediate and dramatic—the orc's muscles visibly expand, his tusks lengthen slightly, his eyes take on the same reddish glow as Gorthal's ritual scars.

  The display creates the intended effect. Numerous warriors in the camp drop to one knee, recognizing power when they see it. Pragmatism wins over loyalty for most—if Gorthal can make them stronger, why resist?

  Kurgak, however, isn't convinced. "Traitors!" he roars, drawing his blade. "True warriors of the Broken Fang, to me!"

  About thirty orcs rally to his call, forming a defensive circle. It's exactly as Gorthal predicted—most accepting the new reality, with only the most loyal forming resistance.

  I send the command through our bond network: "Archers, target the loyalists. Nerk, ogres, flank them. Gorthal, show them your new power."

  What follows is less a battle than a demonstration. Goblin arrows rain down with deadly precision, enhanced by my power flowing through Nerk to his subordinates. The ogres charge from one side while Nerk leads a strike team from another. And at the center, Gorthal performs his promised ritual.

  Lifting Blackjaw's axe high, he slices both palms deeply against its edge. The black metal drinks his blood eagerly as he chants in the ancient orc language. The blood doesn't drip to the ground but rises, forming a crimson mist that spreads toward Kurgak and his loyalists.

  As the mist envelops them, the loyalists begin to scream—not in pain but in terror. Through Gorthal's senses, I see what's happening: the blood mist is entering their bodies through their nostrils, mouths, even the pores of their skin. Once inside, it turns their own blood against them, slowing their movements, weakening their strikes.

  Kurgak fights through the effect better than most, his massive frame pushing forward through the mist toward Gorthal. "I'll take your head, blood-priest!" he roars.

  The confrontation is brief but decisive. As Kurgak swings his heavy blade, Gorthal sidesteps with enhanced speed, bringing Blackjaw's axe around in a perfect arc. The black metal blade cleaves through Kurgak's weapon, shattering the steel as if it were glass, before continuing into the orc's chest.

  I feel the moment of impact through our bond—the axe doesn't just cut, it consumes, drawing Kurgak's essence into itself and, through the blood binding, into Gorthal. The orc commander drops to his knees, his life force visibly draining as the axe glows brighter.

  "Your strength serves me now," Gorthal intones, placing his bloody hand on Kurgak's forehead in a perversion of a blessing. "Your warriors serve the true prophecy."

  With their leader fallen and Gorthal's blood magic immobilizing them, the remaining loyalists quickly surrender. The battle ends almost as quickly as it began, with minimal casualties on either side—exactly as I planned.

  By mid-day, the integration is underway. Gorthal, now recognized as warchief, performs a mass ritual using blood from both himself and the fallen Kurgak. The orc warriors kneel in concentric circles around him as he invokes ancient powers, channeling my tamer energy through his blood magic to create a rudimentary connection to all three hundred warriors simultaneously.

  It's not as strong as my direct bonds with Nerk, Morrigan, and Gorthal, nor even as strong as the secondary connections to our goblin forces through Nerk. But it establishes a foundation—a network that will strengthen over time as the orcs accept their new hierarchy and purpose.

  From my observation post, I watch with satisfaction as my monster army takes shape. In less than twenty-four hours, we've eliminated a powerful rival, added a blood-priest as my third direct bond, and absorbed three hundred orc warriors into our force. Combined with our fifty-plus goblins and two ogres, we now command a significant military presence in the region.

  "Next steps, master?" Morrigan asks, her feathers rustling in the mountain breeze.

  I consider our position carefully. "We consolidate, train, and enhance. The orcs need time to integrate with our existing forces and adapt to the power flowing through Gorthal. We establish a mobile base here in the valley—defensible but not permanent. We keep moving, keep growing stronger."

  Through our bond, I can sense Gorthal's ambition stirring as he completes his ritual. He seeks more power, more followers—ambitions that align perfectly with my own for now. Nerk remains steadfast and loyal, his practical military mind already calculating how to organize our expanded forces for maximum effectiveness.