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The Orc's Tale
    The old orcish shaman cut the sheep’s throat. 
    Blood sprayed across the altar, the animal thrashing as its life drained away. The shaman flipped the sheep onto its back, opened its belly, and began to sift through the entrails, murmuring incantations as he did so.
    Kharlacht gripped his spear and watched, taking care to conceal his distaste. He disliked omens, he disliked consulting the spirits, and he hated Narrakhan, the old shaman. 
    But the customs of the orcs of Vhaluusk were clear, even if Kharlacht had chosen to follow his mother’s religion instead, and so he stood in silence with the tribe's elders as Narrakhan rooted through the sheep’s entrails. 
    He refused to shame himself in front of Lujena, Narrakhan's daughter. 
    "Behold!" said Narrakhan, brandishing the sheep's liver. "I have spoken with the blood gods, and they have answered!"
    The old orc hobbled closer, bloodshot eyes narrowed, his sallow, green-skinned face scored with countless lines. Kharlacht did his very best to keep the disgust from his face. Narrakhan stank of congealed blood and rotting meat and strange herbs. And Kharlacht did not care for the cunning glint in the old shaman's eyes.
    He suspected that the blood gods often said what Narrakhan wished them to say. 
    "You go now upon your blood quest," said Narrakhan, his foul breath washing over Kharlacht's face. "Succeed in your quest, and you shall have the right to bear a warrior's sword, to stand proud in the assembly of our people, and to take a wife. Fail, and you shall be banished and outcast forevermore." His thin lips twitched in a smile. "If you survive."
    Kharlacht did not look away. "I am ready. Tell me what the blood gods would have me do." 
    Narrakhan turned away, thrust his hands skyward, and began to shout. "Long ago, the princes of the dark elves ruled these lands and enslaved our people with cruel blades and crueler sorcery. Yet our fathers were valiant and true, and drove the dark elves from our homeland. But the ruins and tombs of the dark elves remain, scattered like bones across our land."
    Kharlacht's heart sank, and he realized what Narrakhan intended.
    "A day's journey south of here, in the mountains," said the old shaman, pointing at the peaks, "stands the Tower of Bones. It was once the home of a terrible sorcerer-lord of the dark elves. Now it is empty, save for the urvuuls and the bones of their victims." 
    Narrakhan smirked, and Kharlacht saw the pleasure in the old wretch's face. 
    "And to you, young Kharlacht, to you the blood gods have given this honor," said Narrakhan. "This is your quest. Go to the Tower of Bones, claim a sword of the dark elves from its depths, and return to the village." His smirk widened. "And then you shall be accounted a man of Vhaluusk, and take your place among the assembly of warriors!"
    Kharlacht took a deep breath. In the past five years, Narrakhan had sent a dozen young orcish men to the Tower of Bones. 
    None of them had returned. 
    He wanted to plunge his spear into the old shaman's chest. But the eyes of the elders and the warriors were upon him, as were Lujena's. His gaze strayed to her, and she shook her head in denial, face tight with fear.
    "Or," purred Narrakhan, "refuse, and forever be a landless exile, doomed to wander far from home and hearth. Choose." 
    Kharlacht looked the shaman in the eye. "I will go to the Tower of Bones, and I will return with a blade of the dark elves."
    "Of course you will," said Narrakhan. 
     
    ###
     
    Later Kharlacht met the shaman's daughter in the woods outside the village. 
    Lujena looked nothing like the old man, with her long dark hair and flashing dark eyes, her skin the color of a forest in summer. Nor did she share Narrakhan's capricious nature and devotion to the cruel blood gods of the orcs. Like Kharlacht, she had been baptized, turning from the blood gods. She had embraced the Dominus Christus's teachings about the weak, and she had kept many widows and