Hillbrook isn't much of a town—more like an overgrown trading post that got lucky with its location at the crossroads of two moderately important trade routes. Still, after weeks in the wilderness, it looks like a metropolis to my eyes. Wooden buildings, mostly two stories tall, line the muddy main street. A small stone building near the center probably serves as some kind of town hall or merchant guild headquarters.

  "Remember the plan," I tell Nerk and Morrigan as we make camp in a dense copse of trees about half a mile outside town. "I'll go in alone. You two manage things here and keep the ogres under control."

  Nerk nods, his massive form silhouetted against our small campfire. "Goblins stay hidden. Hunt in forest. No trouble."

  "Morrigan has small amount of glamour dust left," the hagraven adds, holding up a tiny pouch. "Enough for master to look less... distinctive. Humans remember too-unusual faces."

  I take the pouch, applying a pinch of the glittering substance. My appearance doesn't change dramatically—I'm still recognizably myself—but my features become just slightly more forgettable, the kind of face that blends into a crowd.

  "Perfect," I say, checking my reflection in a small pool of water. "I'll collect our bounty from the Merchants' Guild, gather information, and be back before nightfall."

  "Be cautious," Morrigan warns. "Death Knight still unaccounted for. May have connections in town."

  "I'll be careful," I promise, checking that my weapons are concealed but accessible. "Just keep everything under control here."

  The walk to Hillbrook takes about twenty minutes. I join the small trickle of farmers and traders entering through the town's modest gates. The guards barely give me a second glance—just another traveler arriving for market day.

  Inside, the town is busier than it appeared from a distance. People haggle at stalls selling everything from vegetables to crude iron tools. Children dart between adults' legs, playing some game involving sticks and a small leather ball. A trio of musicians plays an upbeat tune near what appears to be a tavern, though it's barely noon.

  I make my way to the stone building I spotted earlier. A sign confirms my guess: "Hillbrook Merchants' Guild & Town Authority." Perfect—the place to collect our bounty and, hopefully, pick up information about potential third bonds.

  Inside, a bored-looking clerk sits behind a desk, scribbling figures in a ledger. The room smells of ink, dust, and the faint tang of coins passing through too many hands.

  "Help you?" he asks without looking up.

  "I'm here to collect the bounty on the northern road bandits," I say.

  That gets his attention. He sets down his quill, eyeing me skeptically. "You alone took down Gormak's band?"

  "I had help. My company handled it yesterday. Saved a textile merchant's caravan."

  The clerk snorts. "Haevin's caravan? He already reported in. Said some 'unusual mercenaries' saved his goods." He studies me more carefully. "Didn't mention they'd be coming for the bounty, though."

  "We like to get paid for our work," I reply evenly.

  "Got proof? Can't just hand out gold on say-so."

  I drop a blood-crusted sack on his desk. It lands with a wet thud. "Bandit ears. Count 'em if you want."

  The clerk wrinkles his nose but doesn't open the sack. Instead, he makes a note in his ledger and disappears through a back door. A few minutes later, he returns with a small pouch of coins.

  "Fifty gold," he says, sliding it across the desk. "Five for each bandit. Guild thanks you for your service." He doesn't sound particularly thankful.

  "What about the ogres?" I ask. "There were three working with the bandits."

  The clerk raises an eyebrow. "Ogres? Haevin didn't mention ogres. That'd be... different bounty category." He shuffles through some papers. "Ten gold each for ogres, but need proof they're dead."

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  "I'll remember that for next time," I say, pocketing the silver. No need to mention we've captured two of them alive. "Any other work available for a capable company?"

  "Check the notice board," he jerks his thumb toward a wooden board hung near the door, covered in various parchments. "Or try the Twisted Oak. Merchants gather there. Might have private contracts."

  I thank him and head for the notice board. Most postings are mundane—escorts wanted for merchant caravans, hunters needed for winter meat supplies, rewards for lost livestock. One notice catches my eye: "DANGER - Stay clear of Blackfang Pass. Multiple disappearances reported."

  No bounty offered, just a warning. Interesting. Blackfang Pass might be worth investigating.

  The Twisted Oak tavern is easy to find—just follow the noise. Despite the early hour, it's packed with travelers, merchants, and locals. The air is thick with smoke, body odor, and the smell of whatever's roasting in the kitchen.

  I find a seat at the bar and order ale, then listen. In places like this, information flows as freely as alcohol.

  "...third caravan this month," a portly merchant complains to his companion. "Road taxes increasing, bandits everywhere, and now these damn orc raids in the east."

  My ears perk up. Orcs. Potentially the exact quarry I'm seeking.

  "Blackjaw's getting bolder," his companion agrees. "Used to stay in the mountains, but now his war parties are hitting villages within a day's ride of here."

  "Governor's offering five hundred gold for his head," the first merchant says, taking a deep drink. "Not that anyone's fool enough to try collecting. Bastard's got at least a hundred warriors in his camp, maybe more."

  "Heard he's got a shaman too. Real powerful one. That's how he's united so many tribes."

  My pulse quickens. An orc warlord powerful enough to unite multiple tribes, with a significant following already established—exactly the kind of leader-type monster my third bond slot is waiting for.

  I casually shift closer to their table. "This Blackjaw," I interject, "where exactly are his forces operating?"

  The merchants eye me suspiciously. "Who's asking?" the portly one demands.

  "Someone interested in the bounty," I reply honestly.

  They both laugh. "Then someone's interested in suicide," the second merchant says. "Eastern foothills of the Thunder Mountains. But take my advice—forget you heard anything."

  I order them both fresh ales, which softens their attitude.

  "Seriously, friend," the portly one says, leaning closer, "Blackjaw's not your ordinary orc. Seven feet tall they say, wears armor made from dragon scales. Carries an axe that can cleave a man in half, armor and all."

  "And his warriors worship him like a god," adds his friend. "Some kind of prophecy about an orc who'll unite all the tribes and drive humans from the plains. They think he's the one."

  "Fascinating," I murmur, mentally calculating. An orc warlord with religious significance to his followers, already commanding a substantial force. If I could bond with him, I'd instantly gain control of a hundred orc warriors. Combined with our goblin forces and the ogres, we'd have the makings of a formidable army.

  "How far to the Thunder Mountains?" I ask.

  "Four days' hard ride east," the portly merchant replies. "But I'm telling you, it's not worth—"

  A commotion at the tavern door interrupts him. A tall figure in black armor strides in, the crowd parting before him like water breaking around a rock. My blood runs cold—a Death Knight, exactly like those we saw at the ravine. His armor seems to absorb the light around it, and frost forms on the floorboards with each step he takes.

  The tavern falls silent except for the nervous breathing of two dozen suddenly terrified patrons. The Death Knight scans the room slowly, his helmet turning with mechanical precision. For a moment, I swear his empty eye slits fix directly on me, and a chill runs down my spine.

  Then, without a word, he turns and exits as suddenly as he appeared.

  Conversations resume in hushed tones. The merchants at my table look pale.

  "What the fuck was that about?" I ask, trying to sound merely curious rather than alarmed.

  "Lord Keenan's new 'advisor,'" the portly merchant says, his voice barely above a whisper. "Showed up a month ago. Nobody knows where he came from or what he wants, but Keenan listens to him now."

  I finish my ale quickly, my mind racing. If a Death Knight is here, it can't be coincidence. Maybe he's hunting for me. I need to get back to camp and get my forces moving immediately.

  "Thanks for the information," I tell the merchants, dropping a few coins on their table. "About Blackjaw. It's been... educational."

  I leave the tavern, fighting the urge to run. The streets of Hillbrook suddenly feel like a trap waiting to spring. As I make my way toward the gate, I notice black-armored guards watching the town exits. Not Death Knights, but men wearing similar styled armor—clearly in service to whatever dark power commands the undead warriors.

  Shit. This complicates things.

  I duck into a side alley, considering my options. I need to get back to camp, warn Nerk and Morrigan, and get our forces moving toward the Thunder Mountains. An orc warlord is exactly what we need for my third bond, and now I know where to find one.

  But first, I have to get out of this town without being followed by whatever dark forces are closing in around us.