We push our small force to its limits through the night, descending the treacherous mountain paths with desperate speed. The hagravens prove invaluable, guiding us through shortcuts and hidden trails that no mundane map would reveal. By dawn, we've put significant distance between ourselves and Skull Peak, but I take no chances.

  "Keep moving," I order during a brief rest to tend wounds. "We don't stop until we reach the valley."

  Nerk, still bleeding from several wounds despite his enhanced healing, studies the eastern horizon with his evolved vision. "No pursuit visible. But Death Knights track differently. Through magic, through essence."

  "He's right," Morrigan confirms, her exhaustion evident in her drooping feathers. "They follow the resonance of the axe. That's how they found us in the chamber."

  I look to Gorthal, who has wrapped the weapon in layers of specially prepared hides. The blood-priest's ritual scars pulse with subdued energy, his expression grim.

  "Containment helps," he explains, "but temporary solution only. Need permanent way to mask its signature."

  This complicates everything. If the Death Knights can track us through the axe's energy, our entire army might be at risk. The mountain valley stronghold we've established suddenly seems less secure—a fixed position that determined enemies could besiege at their leisure.

  "We need to relocate," I decide as we resume our journey. "Abandon the valley base. Transition to something more mobile."

  Nerk nods in agreement. "Wise strategy. Fixed fortifications create vulnerability against superior force. Movement provides tactical flexibility."

  "But where?" one of the hagravens asks. "Death Knights control human territories through puppet lords like Keenan. Orc lands contested by empire. Where can monster army hide?"

  That's the critical question. We need a territory large enough to support our forces but defensible enough to provide security. And ideally, somewhere beyond the immediate reach of the Death Knights and their human proxies.

  "The eastern swamps," Gorthal suggests after a period of thoughtful silence. "Beyond Merchant Confederation borders. Difficult terrain for conventional forces. Many hiding places. Resources available."

  "Trolls control those swamps," Morrigan counters. "Territorial. Aggressive."

  A slow smile spreads across my face. "Perfect. Exactly what we need."

  My three lieutenants exchange glances, then understand simultaneously. Nerk grins, showing sharpened teeth. "New recruits. And potential fourth bond."

  "Trolls would provide melee strength we need," Gorthal acknowledges, ritual scars pulsing faster with excitement. "Regenerative capabilities. Difficult to kill."

  "And their knowledge of swamplands would give us a defensive advantage in that terrain," I add. "Not quite what I was looking for in a fourth bond, but what we need right now to deal with those Death Knights."

  By late afternoon, we reunite with the goblin scouts who had created our diversion. Most survived, though three were lost to Death Knight patrols. The combined force continues eastward, pushing through exhaustion, motivated by the very real threat of pursuit.

  We reach our valley stronghold on the second day, finding it undisturbed but now feeling exposed and vulnerable. I waste no time in ordering full evacuation.

  "Abandon everything that cannot be carried efficiently," I instruct my sub-lieutenants. "Weapons, supplies, valuable intelligence take priority. Everything else can be replaced."

  The monster army mobilizes with impressive efficiency—a testament to the training and enhancements we've implemented. Goblins dismantle important structures and pack essential supplies. Orcs organize into protective formations around our more vulnerable units. The hagravens that accompanied Morrigan integrate with our reconnaissance teams, providing aerial surveillance.

  "Three days to reach eastern swamp borders," Nerk estimates, studying our maps. "Longer with full army, supply train."

  "Death Knights may not wait," Gorthal warns, his connection to the axe making him particularly sensitive to the threat. "Feel their attention turned this way already. Searching."

  I consider our options, weighing speed against security. "We divide our forces," I decide. "Main army moves as quickly as possible toward eastern territories. Strong rear guard creates false trails, diversions."

  "Risky," Nerk observes, but his tactical mind immediately grasps the strategy. "But necessary. I will command rear guard. Most experienced with delaying tactics."

  I shake my head. "I need you with the main force. Your connection to the goblin troops is essential for maintaining discipline during a difficult march." I turn to Gorthal. "You'll lead the rear guard. Take your best orc warriors. The axe will draw Death Knight attention—use that. Lead them away from our main column, then circle back to rejoin us."

  The blood-priest pounds his chest in acknowledgment, ritual scars pulsing with anticipation. "Good strategy. Hunt becomes bait."

  By nightfall, our evacuation is complete. The valley stronghold lies empty, strategic supplies either packed for transport or deliberately left as misleading evidence of our intentions. Gorthal's rear guard—fifty elite orc warriors and twenty goblin scouts—prepares to move north, creating an obvious trail for any pursuers to follow.

  "Three days," I tell him as his force readies to depart. "Lead them away, then break contact and rejoin us at the eastern marshlands."

  Gorthal nods, the wrapped axe secured across his back. "Will succeed, master. Blood and shadow."

  "Blood and shadow," I reply, clasping his arm in a warrior's grip.

  As Gorthal's diversionary force moves north, our main army—over seven hundred strong now—begins the eastward trek toward the marshlands. Hugging the southern borders of the Thunder Mountains, we skirt around the Merchant Confederation. Traveling with such numbers presents challenges, but the hierarchy established through our bond network maintains impressive discipline. Nerk's goblin scouts range ahead, securing our path and identifying potential threats. Morrigan and her hagravens provide aerial reconnaissance, their enhanced senses detecting dangers beyond normal perception.

  On the fourth day of our journey, as we approach the borders of what our maps identify as troll territory, I gather my remaining lieutenants for council.

  Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

  "What do we know about these swamp trolls?" I ask Morrigan, who has the most knowledge of the various monster species in this region.

  "Three main tribes," she explains, talons sketching territorial boundaries in the dirt. "Mossback trolls in northern swamps—largest, strongest. Fenclaw trolls in central marshes—more numerous, less individually powerful. Blackmire trolls to south—smallest but most magically adept."

  "Leadership structure?" Nerk inquires, his evolved mind immediately focused on the political dynamics.

  "Each tribe follows strongest. Mossbacks ruled by ancient troll called Grukk the Undying—survived countless battles, regenerated from wounds that would kill lesser trolls. Fenclaws split between multiple sub-chiefs, constantly fighting for position. Blackmires follow shaman council, unusual for trolls."

  I consider this information carefully. "Which would make the best potential fourth bond?"

  Morrigan and Nerk exchange thoughtful glances before the hagraven speaks. "Grukk has power, reputation. Many trolls follow already. But old, set in ways. Difficult to convince."

  "Fenclaw leadership too fractured," Nerk adds. "Would require subduing multiple chiefs to unify."

  "Blackmire shaman then?" I suggest.

  "Possibility," Morrigan nods. "More intelligent than typical trolls. Understand magic, including binding magic similar to tamer bonds. Might comprehend benefits more readily."

  Our discussion is interrupted by the return of a goblin scout, moving with urgent speed. "Master! Trolls ahead! Large war party approaching from swamp edge!"

  Perfect timing. I signal our forces to establish defensive positions—not an aggressive formation, but one that demonstrates readiness while leaving room for diplomacy.

  "Morrigan, with me," I order. "Nerk, maintain command of the army. Be prepared for any outcome."

  The goblin king nods, immediately issuing orders that ripple through our forces with practiced efficiency. Within minutes, our seven hundred monsters have arranged themselves in a disciplined formation that would impress any military commander—archers on elevated positions, infantry in protected positions, communication lines established.

  Accompanied by Morrigan and two hagraven advisors, I move to a small rise overlooking the eastern approach. From here, we soon spot the approaching troll war party—perhaps sixty strong, massive green-skinned figures standing eight to ten feet tall, their bulky bodies covered in crude armor fashioned from swamp detritus and the bones of large creatures.

  "Blackmire tribe," Morrigan identifies immediately. "See the mud patterns painted on their skin? Tribal markings."

  As the trolls draw nearer, I can make out more details. They move with a shambling gait that belies surprising speed, carrying clubs, spears, and primitive mauls large enough to crush a horse with a single blow. Their skin varies from mossy green to muddy brown, with patches of what appear to be actual swamp growth integrated into their flesh.

  "They've seen us," one hagraven warns unnecessarily. The troll war party has stopped, forming a crude line as they assess our much larger force.

  After a brief consultation among themselves, three trolls separate from the main group and approach. These are distinguished from their brethren by elaborate headdresses fashioned from swamp flora, bones, and glittering objects that might be precious stones or magical focuses.

  "Shaman council," Morrigan confirms. "Three who lead as one. Unusual for trolls, who typically follow strength alone."

  I step forward to meet them, Morrigan at my side. As we approach each other on the neutral ground between our forces, I get my first close look at these potential allies or enemies.

  The trolls are even more impressive up close—not just their size, but the strange symbiosis they've developed with their swamp environment. Fungi grow from their shoulders and backs, apparently deliberately cultivated. Their skin bears patterns that can't be simple paint; the markings seem to shift slightly, almost alive. Their eyes glow with a murky yellow-green light that suggests magical enhancement.

  The central shaman, slightly taller than his companions, speaks first. His voice is a deep rumble like distant thunder, speaking heavily accented but understandable common speech.

  "Monster army comes to swamp edge. Why?"

  Direct and to the point. I can work with that.

  "I am the Monster Lord," I reply with equal directness. "My army seeks new territory. Somewhere defensible. Somewhere we can move freely."

  The trolls exchange glances, communicating silently through subtle shifts in posture and expression.

  "Swamps belong to trolls," the central shaman states. "Many generations. Many battles to keep."

  "I don't come to take your territory," I clarify. "I come to offer alliance. Partnership. Strength together against common enemies."

  This gets their attention. The leftmost shaman, his headdress adorned with what appear to be Death Knight armor fragments, leans forward.

  "What enemies Monster Lord fight?"

  "Death Knights," I reply, watching their reactions carefully. "The black-armored warriors who serve a darker power. They hunt magical artifacts, ancient sites. They control human lords like puppets."

  The reaction is immediate and revealing—all three shamans straighten, their yellow-green eyes flaring brighter. The central one speaks a rapid sequence in their own language, too quick for me to catch even a syllable.

  Morrigan leans closer to me, whispering, "They know Death Knights. Have fought them before."

  I seize this opportunity. "The Death Knights pursue us now. They fear what we're building—an army of monsters united under one banner, strong enough to challenge their plans."

  The rightmost shaman, smaller than his companions but bearing more elaborate magical symbols embedded in his flesh, speaks for the first time. "Why trolls join? What Monster Lord offer?"

  This is the critical moment—the pitch that could secure our fourth bond and our new territory in one stroke.

  "I'm a tamer, but not an ordinary one. I can enhance those bonded to me, make them evolve beyond their natural limitations." I gesture to Morrigan. "She was a typical hagraven before our bond. Look at her now."

  The shamans study Morrigan with newfound interest, noting her enlarged wings, her more powerful build, the magical energy that practically radiates from her transformed form.

  "I offer power," I continue. "Evolution. Enhancement that extends to all who follow you. And more importantly—purpose. Not just surviving in your swamps, but expanding your influence. Becoming a power that even Death Knights must respect."

  The central shaman considers this, huge hands gripping his staff tighter. "Show. Prove power."

  I nod to Morrigan, who steps forward. Drawing on our bond, I channel energy through her, deliberately making the process visible. Her form shimmers with power, wings extending to their full impressive span, the air around her crackling with magical potential. She lifts one taloned hand, and a sphere of swirling energy forms above it—a spell that would normally require extensive preparation condensed into seconds through our enhanced connection.

  The trolls murmur among themselves, clearly impressed but not yet convinced.

  "One more demonstration," I offer. Focusing on our distant bond with Gorthal, I reach for the connection to the newest hagravens under Morrigan's command. Selecting one who stands at the edge of our formation, I channel a fraction of my power through the nested connections—Morrigan to hagraven to target.

  The effect is less dramatic than Morrigan's display but more relevant to the trolls' interests. The recipient hagraven straightens, her form growing slightly more powerful, her magical capabilities visibly enhancing even at this tertiary connection level.

  "This is what I offer," I explain. "Not just to you, but to all who follow you. The stronger our bond, the greater the enhancement. And it grows over time, with each victory, each new follower."

  The shamans confer among themselves, their deep voices rumbling in their native tongue. Finally, the central one thumps his staff against the ground decisively.

  "Monster Lord come to Blackmire. Meet Elder Council. Discuss alliance." He gestures toward the distant swamp. "Bring small group only. Too many monsters frighten swamp spirits."

  It's an invitation, not yet an alliance, but it's progress. And potentially the path to both securing our fourth bond and establishing a new, more defensible territory for our growing army.

  "Agreed," I reply. "My army will make camp here, at the swamp's edge. I'll accompany you with a small delegation to meet your Elder Council."

  As we finalize arrangements, I can't help but feel we're approaching another crucial turning point. A fourth bond with the Blackmire shamans would add magical troll forces to our growing army, providing both the melee strength and environmental adaptation we need. And the swamplands offer exactly the kind of defensible territory that would protect us from Death Knight pursuit.