Artorius lodged his spear through the abdomen of the wraith standing before him. T'was shallow, and brushed aside as a silver blade lashed back. Two paces backward and another thrust followed from the spear, yet then his hands slipped as a chill that felt like fire struck him. Each time the weapon made contact with the wraith's body or blade, a pulse colder than the northern winter passed into him.
Inhaling through his teeth, Artorius moved towards his saber and drew it to guard. T'was as his grip settled upon the handle when a draft passed over and the chilly air eased.
A voice intoned with a grandeur undercut by its flatness:
"You should aim for the masks… they're afraid to show their faces to the light."
Another slash from the wraith and Artorius parried. The saber did not freeze as his spear had. Two Drake Knights moved in and struck the wraith's sides, pinning it at the kneecaps.
As Artorius moved to approach it, the wraith swung wildly with its sword. The young Drakkennide parried the blow and closed in. Its' arm jolted out to grasp at his throat. Yet as it closed its icy grip on his neck– leaving a rime on the skin, Artorius reached for the mask and plucked it from the wraith's head.
As quickly as the silver gauntlet had reached for his throat, Artorius watched the wraith's hands sink back onto the black hole where ought be its face. Wails surpassing the shrill of death echoed.
Artorius winced and Manéd–near the fire–threw a torch at the wraith's head. Set aflame, the creature crawled back into the rain. It fled the temple and into the night– craving the dark to spare its face from the light.
Grasping tightly to his saber, Artorius felt the wind beside him whisper in his ear again.
"There is a mage commanding these wraiths… If you drive them back, it will be but briefly. For they shall return at dusk."
Quietly Artorius uttered, "then we must be quick."
The wraiths commanded something dark in their blades. The twin abyss of their masks– where ought be their eyes, roiled and lashed with shadows. T'was their silver swords–the only among their metal not yet marred by tarnish. Each blade spread rime and frostbite upon clashing with Drakkennide iron. Iorhaneb shattered one of the silver swords before striking directly into the throat of the black-robed creature. Yet its ill laughter continued unabated and the old knight felt his body shudder against himself.
The wraith set down its broken sword and grasped the upper neck of the spear, spreading a layer of frost across its length. The Drake Knight hastily released his grip before the frost could infiltrate through his fingers. Yet now the wraith was unbound, and it plucked the spear from its neck as one would a twig.
It prepared to lay a scourge upon the old Drake Knight, but sir Evanin intervened and struck at the wraith's side– jolting it and sending the icy spear off course. Iorhaneb took the chance to draw his sword and cleaved into what passed for the creature's face.
T'was then Artorius shouted across the temple atrium, "aim for their heads– break or remove the masks, that shall drive them off!"
At that moment Evanin's grip slipped from his spear. A fiery chill had struck his palms and caused a groan to escape him. Iorhaneb swiftly drew his blade across the wraith's marred visage, tearing off the mask and splitting it asunder. A deep and mortal howl bellowed from the pit of the creature's head. It rang with a fury like the bells of Sinistral, and roared like a volcano's fire! Even the oldest of the Drake Knights who had seen terrors in all shapes, felt sick as the wraith cried. He was scared.
But t'was not only the men who were afeared. The wraith without its mask was a raving beast. It grew mad with it– as if a dam had burst in the creature's heart and released a torrent of terror. It fled into the rain– uncaring as it trampled the corpses of the former destriers; unbothered as it passed blades and spears which cut into its figure. The wraith ran.
This ordeal gave pause to the men. T'was such a queer and frightening experience that even they struggled to process.
Yet soon the menace of the other wraiths awoke them from their frightened stupor. Following Artorius' advice, the men changed their tactics. Aiming to unmask the wraiths rather than to kill them. The Drake Knights moved with mechanical discipline. One-by-one, the wraiths were unmasked and sent back into the thunder and rain, which began to ease over time.
Artorius placed his fingers upon the surface and peeled off the third wraith's mask. He felt his purpled hands freeze over and listened to the wind.
"Your hands are too cold…" said the intoned voice.
"You cannot sustain this method… Your neck and fingers are already freezing…"
Artorius rubbed the purple bruise on his neck, the voice was right. It paused for several minutes as the melee continued to rage. For a moment, it seemed as if the voice was all a figment of a wild imagination. Then, as Artorius slashed at another wraith with his saber, it returned:
"Use the wind… I can drive off the cold… I was made for it."
With a pale breath, his mind steeled. Putting high his saber, he bore witness as an eastern gale formed. It blew over the men and the wraiths, knocking them to their sides. The cold fled from the wind, and something melancholy settled over the land. The knights did not understand why, but they felt something squeeze in their hearts– as if grieving. Artorius, at the center of this sudden conflux between eastern and southern gales, gazed onto the wraiths with a pity that arose in his heart for them.
What sad, scared little creatures they were– a shell of themselves.
The winds churned and tore off the wraiths' masks, leaving them exposed and frightened. They wailed, raved, and jolted with terror.
In a voice beyond himself, Artorius proclaimed:
"Go. Begone from this temple and diminish from these mountains. Face your fears like men– not ghosts. If you should return to me again undaunted, then I shall spare you no mercy."
Then, as quickly as it had come, the gale passed, and each of the wraiths fled. The rain abated too, driven off by the sudden conflux. Thunder boomed one last time, and a pale seam formed over the horizon. The dark sky turned blue where it met the light. Dawn would rise soon.
Only when the wraiths had left far into the horizon did Artorius relax his shoulders. With difficulty, he moved his body towards the sheath and put away his saber. Then he turned to the knights, who were all awaiting orders with pale faces.
"I know you are all exhausted. The battle has taken more than blood or stamina from us. Yet we must press on. They shall return come dusk."
Fastening his saber via a strap on his shoulder, he took it to his side and said, "leave the spears. Travel lightly, those with armor should leave it behind as well. This shall be a loss I lament, but not more than the loss of your lives. You are all my comrades– more precious than silver and gold. Certainly more than a few pounds of iron."
Turning toward the dark side of the temple– beyond which awaited the chasm, Artorius stepped forth.
"Come," he said, "and follow me."