Later into the night fell the rain and thunder. Artorius held vigil with Iorhaneb, the scion took a grindstone to the edge of his saber. Occasionally, his mind would wander– as if listening to something distant or quiet. Aia realized at some point t'was always when the east wind blew that this happened.
"'Tis a fine saber you carry sir Artorius," said Aia as she brought to them a morning soup.
"I'm no maiden of warfare, yet even I can see its quality. 'Tis an heirloom perchance?"
"Of sorts. T'was my mother's side. The late lord's mistress Frësírn bore me to term, and this became my inheritance. 'Tis called 'Skel Ezelag' in her native tongue, which means: Blue-Bronze Blade. My mother was from Arcticus. She died at twenty–an honor in their custom."
Aia winced at the bluntness. She turned with a furrowed brow to face him.
"An honor you say…?"
"Yes. 'Tis also in Arcticus they follow the orthodox scriptures, but they still have their own ways."
Artorius suppressed a shudder as a cold breeze blew over his back. The rain was heavy beyond the old roof of Asur's temple.
"In Arcticus, they believe that earthly life is not a matter of natural course, but a cruelty wrought by Az. That He desires our suffering on the Terra, and so withholds us our deaths to prolong our pain. Only by a "Noble Death"—one that is wrought by struggle and suffering to the last breath—can we find ourselves in Heaven. Thus, a young death is a sign of virtue, while an old, prolonged death often indicates iniquity in their custom."
Aia pondered for a moment. Then she said, "A 'Noble Death,' you say… 'Tis because of Alassochisma's intervention?"
"A logical deduction my lady. Yes, Alassochisma– wife of Az whom they call Osírkiir–shall take up the pain of those who struggle nobly and with fortitude."
"So the Goddess of Pain intercedes between man and Death to bring about a path for us to enter Heaven. How terrible. Though I see how they arrived at that conclusion, surely there is more to life than struggle and suffering."
Artorius brought the saber from his side into his lap, he gently passed the grindstone over its edge, examining the cold silvery gleam of the metal. As he spied a pale dragonfly resting on the cracks of the temple entrance, his mind lingered.
"Sir Artorius?"
He flinched; the dragonfly flew off into the dark end of the temple.
With a sigh he said, "I am of the same mind as you, my lady. 'Tis also for this reason that despite not having any laws on slavery, Arcticus employs it so often. For them, 'tis a matter of course that people should suffer. Interference would bring about divine wrath. But in my heart, I find that hard to believe."
As the thunder boomed once more, Aia pressed a finger to her lips and pondered.
"The Goddess of Pain… I always found her followers enigmatic. I admire them, and yet I am also unsettled by them.
"'Tis natural to feel as such I assume. There are precious few who know the world truly as it is. For my part, I follow the path my eyes can see. Osírkiir's sacrifice may be noble, but His pain gives me pain as well."
With a raised brow the priestess interjected, "his?"
"Yes, the Arcticonians often depict Pain not as a woman, but as a man. 'Tis among their most contentious changes to the orthodoxy. Tensions between Arcticus and Helios have always been high. Arcticus believes that these changes preserve their customs and identity without submitting to imperial supremacy. Something that I am told my mother held quite firmly."
A gust from the east stole the young Drakkennide's attention. Aia observed this and commented.
"Strange, you seem to be listening to something?"
"'Tis the wind, but we shall suspend this conversation. We must move."
He turned to Iorhaneb and said, "get the men up. We shall cross the chasm before the day breaks."
The Drake Knight pursed his lips and frowned.
"My lord, a quick march in this rain to the chasm's end is too much for the servants."
The scion whistled a stallion to his side, "here Isthillias! To me."
The horse trotted over, broad and bearing a fine saddle at his back.
"Have the servants take the horses, they shall carry two or three per stallion."
"Even then, the baggage would be too heavy and there are not enough horses.
"Then we shall have the men endure on foot. Leave what can be spared. We must hurry."
At once a great neon shattering broke the sky, accompanied by a cacophony of crackling booms. A strong gale blew in from the south with a cold that reached the bones. Artorius gripped his saber to keep it, and Aia held a brace of the temple ceiling to stay steady. All of this awoke the sleeping servants with a scare and caused the knights to grasp their swords.
Artorius turned to Iorhaneb, "'Tis too late now. Gather the knights and have them armed and ready."
He then turned to Aia, "I need you my lady, to guide the servants through the temple passages and across the chasm."
Artorius took the reins of his horse and handed them to Aia, "take Isthillias and the other horses with you. They can help you to pass swiftly."
Aia was prepared to question, yet at the corner of her gaze she saw a flake of snow fall. T'was such a queer and unnatural sight that her mind paused. Then, there came another— and another. Artorius bore witness as his breath fogged. He poised his saber towards the entrance of the temple.
For a moment, the cold froze its encroachment. An eastern draft seemed to settle things, though the Drakkennide scion's gaze grew steely. He kept his eyes firmly settled on the temple entrance.
"Hurry Aia, there's no time."
Aia felt her hands tremble. T'was the cold surely. She gently nodded her head and rushed to gather the servants.
The Drake Knights assembled, each held a cross-spear in hand, Manéd brought forth Artorius' own spear. He took it in hand and let his saber return to its sheath, setting aside the blade for the time being.
The cold returned more ferocious than before. Seven destriers– black as charcoal, bore atop their worn backs a set of riders in silver and black.
"Hold the gap," uttered Artorius, "two lines, six and five. Beware to touch them, something unholy hides behind those masks. It would be folly to let it spread."
Breath fogged among the men, and the riders in black galloped forward fearlessly. Only two could be accommodated at once within the threshold. When the horses struck the spearwall, there was no relent. T'was quickly that the knights and Artorius understood their attacks would not harm the horses. For there was no blood drawn– no beat in their breasts.
Releasing their spears before the break, the first wall scattered. But the second struck truly– to the riders, not the ridden. Two spears struck at the first rider, piercing the midsection and shoulder. Three struck the second rider, at the leg, shoulder, and grazing the helm. The wraith cocked aside its visage before the weapon landed, though the cross still bent the metal visor.
It appeared easy enough to break the first charge– partly due to the knights' skill. But as handily dispatched as the initial adversaries were, they did not die. Perhaps they simply could not die.
The disciplined knights held firm until a laugh deeper and darker than a widow's eye pierced their hearts and alit a primal terror. Several gave pause, Iorhaneb took his spear low into the limbs of the lead rider's gallop, toppling the horse and rider with prodigious might. Artorius pierced the chest of the laughing wraith and tossed it against a pillar of the temple with a grunt.
The men seemed stiff as a melee began to break out. The riders that followed after the laughing wraith each drew silver swords and clashed with the Drake Knight's spears.
The knights were well trained and steady. But the cold had gripped them each in tandem with fear. It seeped into their weapons and siphoned the warmth from their bodies. Artorius gazed beyond the breach to the horizon, where a silhouette of crows perched in the sleet unbothered.