Gerra took the blow on his shield and felt the reverberation up through his forearm. Glancing to the side for but a heartbeat, he saw the ruin that had become of his warband. Only a handful remained amidst the carnage. Enough waste. Shield held before him to ward off the towering knight's blows, Gerra called out in a voice like thunder. "To me. Orcs of the Blight. Rally to me." One by one, the remainder of his force fell in beside him. Too few to make a reckoning with these Templars, not with the village teeming with ghouls. Even should he find the Necromancer now, his forces would be too few to bring him to the bargaining table. No, against this magic he needed mages of his own. Sparhawk, I've need of you now. Last he'd heard the sorcerer was out chasing horses. A frustrated rumbling sounded in the half-blood's throat. They would regroup. Later, they would regroup. He pointed his hammer at the giantess, once again. "Come with us now and let us reason together," he shouted. Or there will be an accounting. And with that, the paltry few of the former forty retreated from the village, shields locked, back the way they'd come.