Innocent Blood

Here's a story I wrote and am currently having it proofread over and over again by friends and teachers... lol. It takes place in the base of a small Orc clan after the Third War. Please be AS CRITICAL AS POSSIBLE, but don't just say "this part sucks." I'm also in need of a title... Innocent Blood was just something I came up with in the last 30 seconds. I also need to rewrite part sof it to give a better description of the surrounding... the clan, the characters, and the surrounding environment. I'll prolly get to that sometime in the next couple weeks.

EDIT: Changed it so you could see beginning sof paragraphs easier.

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A battle cry when up. The massive orc, Thal'rák, grabbed his giant battle-axe, slung it over his broad shoulder, and ran to the chieftain of his clan.
“It is a false alarm, Thal'rák,â€? called NÃÂ*rhod as the younger warrior approached from behind him. “It is just a human convoy a few leagues to the south—villagers going to some distant land.â€?
“He is a powerful shaman indeed,â€? thought Thal'rák as his chieftain, NÃÂ*rhod, turned his sightless eyes towards the brown, dry woods. This was one of the few forested areas in the desert-like Barrens that the orcs now called home after generations of demonic corruption and deceit.
The old chieftain whispered, “Yet, I can't help sensing that something is not right here.� He stretched out one of his gnarled, thick, green fingers. A songbird—tiny, with white and brown feathers—landed on it. The shaman spoke inaudibly to the fearless little creature and let it fly off.
“I asked it to search the area for anything… abnormal in the area,â€? NÃÂ*rhod responded in answer to Thal'rák's unspoken question.
“I too smell something… uncanny… in the air, Chieftain,� said the huge orc warrior as he unshouldered his axe. He rested it on the ground and checked its double blades for sharpness. Too dull. He fumbled through a small pouch, pulling out various trinkets of war—bones and teeth and feathers. At last, he found his quarry—a small whetstone, no bigger than the small blue flowers that grew around oases, marked with the symbol of the disbanded Black Tooth Grin Clan. He was once one of the most feared raiders on wolfback, wielding his giant twin cleavers as both sword and shield. This whetstone was given to him the day before the clan had been disbanded for fear of treachery. He began carefully running the smooth stone along the axe's thin blade.
Finally, he was satisfied. With just the slightest pressure, it sunk deep into his scarred finger, drawing a line of red-black blood. Perfect for battle.
Just then the songbird returned. It alighted on the top of NÃÂ*rhod's head and sat there for but a few seconds before flying off. Thal'rák knew the bird was talking with NÃÂ*rhod, whether it spoke or not. After the bird had flew out of sight over the breeze-shaken trees, Thal'rák could see the concern and surprise on the wrinkled face of his chieftain.
He was about to ask NÃÂ*rhod about the songbird's message when a young warrior walked hastily up to them. His small throwing axes and single wrist blade, combined with his somewhat small stature, told Thal'rák that this one was no was no more than fourteen winters. NÃÂ*rhod, due to his lessons as a shaman and his lack of sight, didn't need appearance—he could look into the soul of another. The young warriors name was Rynthawr, and his father had been one of those killed in the battle to banish the demons from the world. The shaman knew everything about Rynthawr that he wanted to share—including his business here. The shaman's face was immediately softened at his approach. And finally Thal'rák noticed why the young orc had come: something dark and wet was dangling from his shoulders.
As the Rynthawr approached, Thal'rák couldn't help but gasp. “I'm sorry, Chieftain,� started the young orc. “A scout found him three leagues south of here.� He lifted the beast off his shoulders and laid it gently on a nearby rock.
After a moment, the old shaman said, “Thank you,� as he slowly stretched out his hand and ran his fingers through the blood-soaked fur of his wolf companion, Darkfang. Bits of flesh were in the wolf's teeth, along with a bloodstained metal plate that the it had ripped off a piece of armor. Five long arrows pierced the huge animal's hide.
The elder shaman quickly told the young orc to find him some special spices and a few branches. “There is no time to build a proper pyre,â€? he explained quickly as he rubbed the herbs and oils into the skin of the wolf. A few moments passed, and after NÃÂ*rhod mouthed a call to an unseen spirit, a searing flame engulfed the wolf. Then a gust of wind, uncommonly cool for the Barrens, swept Darkfang's ashes across the barren landscape.
NÃÂ*rhod closed his eyes, wetness rolling down his face. Then he then opened them, revealing a new fire burning brilliantly in his spirit. He opened his mouth and a bone-shatteringly-deep call came from deep within his throat. The war cry reverberated off the forests and cliffs.
The whole clan was at their posts in moments with the leaders surrounding NÃÂ*rhod. Grunts, the youngest of orcish warriors, stood with their hand axes drawn. Behind them stood the tall, thin, gray-blue Island trolls. They brandished deadly spears, wickedly barbed and hooked. A single tauren stood at each of the seven posts, their huge, bullish forms wielding giant totems engraved with the spirit each warrior worshipped. Troll witch doctors pulled out the tools of their dark magic: voodoo dolls and tribal wards and ceremonial blades. Shamans readied their potent magics; raw electricity crackled in their hands.
NÃÂ*rhod calmly shared the songbird's warning. A large warband of rogue humans, mostly criminals and outcasts, was approaching rapidly from the south. Also, a caravan of human villagers was moving southeast. It was just over the next rock outcropping and was approaching quickly. NÃÂ*rhod began, “Now the carav—â€?
Thal'rák watched in horror as a green-fletched arrow struck NÃÂ*rhod in the chest and flew clean through the wound to strike, still quivering, in the hard-packed earth. The powerful yet frail old shaman fell over and crumpled on the ground.
Immediately the clan was acting, acting to avenge their chieftain. Axes and spears waved madly as the clan rushed towards the woods.
Four dozen mounted knights, armed with long swords and deadly lances, came crashing out. Another three dozen half-elven archers were revealed from behind the underbrush, longbows pulled to unleash the first volley of the ironwood arrows. They released, and seventeen hardy warriors fell helplessly to the burning-hot sand.
The trolls threw their spears wildly, some hitting their targets with deadly accuracy but many others missing in their rage. The witch doctors called on the powers of their dark gods. A leaf of a rare, deadly plant was wrapped around a voodoo doll, and a grunt began to glow as the physical immunity of the spell was infused into his blood. A loud crack was followed by the sudden decapitation of the lead knight as one of the eldest witch doctors tore the head from a life-like, magical image of the knight. The tauren rushed straight at the archers, their thick hides protecting them from the arrows, and their totems—more like logs than anything else—shattered anything in their path. The nearest shaman cast a sphere of lightning around the lead tauren, which exploded in a shower of white-hot sparks every time an arrow struck. A swath of downed, smashed trees and crushed archers was left in the wake of the mighty bulls. Young shaman let loose bolts of lightning from their fingertips, scorching earth and searing flesh.
Thal'rák just stared. His master, his mentor, was dead. He looked around. His brethren were fighting against his enemies. He caught a glimpse of a wagon over the hill, unknowingly headed towards the fighting. He looked down and saw the dry desert sand clinging to the bloody clothes of his master. His world took on a reddish haze. Instead of fighting the sweet cry of the bloodlust like he knew he should, he embraced it. He grabbed his axe and screamed with all his might.

Soon, it was all over. Orcish warrior and human knight, elven archer and troll spearman. All dead. All but Thal'rák. He alone stood among the carnage. And as he looked around, he saw the burning remains of a wagon and the mutilated body of a small girl. Sweat-stained and weary, Thal'rák cried out in rage and grief as he realized innocent blood was what was dripping, rhythmically, from the dull blade of his axe.