The ghostblade is cold to the touch when its scabbaded weight settles in your hands, as if it had just been dug out of a snowdrift. Ethereal smoke with that clean otherworldly non-smell wisps up from where your skin presses against the echo of ancient leather wrapped about wood. The spectre offers no communication to you as regards his expectation with this. He merely gazes ambigiously at you, then through you, then turns to gaze back idly across the river as if you weren't there at all anymore.

Then come the orcs.

"WaaAAAAaaghhh!"

You hear the growling, whooping chorus of them; echoing hollow through the air as they charge. Gazing from the balcony down, you see them coming - not from the river where the sentinent mutely gazes, but from the south; from behind, from the southern mountains, from the way you came. And not orcs, either; but shades thereof in the same smoky, glassy guise as the spectral tower and the knight and the sword. Orcs that rampaged once across this land rampaging in recursion now, folding together out of fog rising from the snow and barreling north toward the tower, and the river.. and before either of those, toward your camp. You can see Briant and Bella scrambling from rest for the saddle and a chance to flee. Even from here, you can see Bella struggling in her waking confusion to find you and make sure you are safe. Briant, wakeful since your warning, throws her over his shoulder rather than negotiate with her in that condition. It may be just as well that he does, with the spectral orcs rapidly closing on the camp.

The ghost-knight gives no indication that he notices this, or intends to help, or could possibly do so. His interaction with you seems to be all the deviation from his vigil that he can muster.