Without even the ashes of the village behind them, the desert had been robbed of its luster.  The wind ached, trailing dust across the dunes and flapping at the standard.  The horizon shimmered warningly even in the pallid dawn, and the sand beneath their feet seemed to run like water as they trudged, soiled and exhausted from the ordeal of that harrowing night.

The Captain was talking, guarding against the silence.  Understandable.  Good that he cared for the fates of their brothers.  But most like they were gone, and would not be seen again until it was their turn to walk undaunted into the Underworld, and meet what judgement awaited them.  Time was an enemy they could grant no advantage.

They had left a long trail of footprints over the sands behind them when the Captain asked his question.  Kolbe's ruined head raised to the cloudless sky, drawing in a long, hissing breath.  Contemplating.  It was some time before he spoke.

"Vespers XIX: Canticle of Unyielding." he rasped in that deathlike voice. "Strange 'twas not familiar to you.  Great upheaval, 'pon that hour.  Difficult to hear.  No doubt why."

Still. 

"A chant of resolve, for the servants of God.  Strength to stand against the unholy, against Djinn and witchcraft.  To hold fast to courage in darkest hour when one knows dawn may not come.  I have cried it before.  Will as like do so again." 

Kolbe slowed his pace, coming to a halt.  The mail of his gauntlet clinked as he tightened his grip on the battered standard, looking out toward the north. As though seeing something that wasn't there.

"Because evil must be opposed," he exhaled, firmly. "Even if odds are overwhelming.  Even if the battle is hopeless.  Evil.  Must be opposed."
  
His head turned slightly, as though regarding the other man out of the corner of his blinded eye.

"You understand." he hissed, softly.

It was a statement.  But the echo of a question hung about it, unvoiced.  [i]Do you?[/i]

In the absence of words and trudging footfalls, a faint sound carried to them on the warm wind.  A distant whisper of white noise, and another sound, one instinctively familiar to the two knights.  The whickering of horses.

"There." Kolbe pointed, increasing his pace.  The river sparkled before them, a long flowing stream of white-capped water, skirted with long reeds and shaded by thriving, leathery green trees.  The mounts idled at its muddy banks, tails flicking, drinking their fill.  One for each of them.  The others could make their way home.  It was, at least, some small blessing.

But Kolbe didn't smile.

Perhaps he couldn't.