Talisman – The Dervish's Tale
Chapter 7
The land along one edge of the dessicated path rose above the height of a traveller, and then feel away. Below the long fringe of bladed grass, the Dervish observed the soils change as he walked. He ran his fingers along a grey clay at his hip.
As he rounded the curve of the overhang, from the ground a face stared at him – unmoving, resolute, and laid upon its side, resting on the round of the skull between the spine and the ear. The woman's gaze did not follow his. Her arm was mailed, and before her fist, still clutching her curved sword, came into view, her torso ended and a dark coke lay. Following her were several similar masses – all blackened stuff, except for a single brawny arm.
The Dervish recognised the scale-mail tunic and helm she wore. They, and the scimitar (which was two handed), were from his own country, and he noted her similar colouring to his own. The lone arm was lighter.
Was she the leader of this band? He backed away so as to look at the face again. It was a proud expression. The mouth was firmly closed, without stress, and the eyes looked unsurprised, glassy as they were. Whether they led, they took their death without panic.
There was a boulder, cut like a footstool, near to the descending section through the earth. He sat upon it, his hands on his crossed legs for quite a while. His brow shifted with furrows. At length, he stood. Walking to the corpse, he took the familiar helmet, and placed it upon his head. Trudging off, he passed a pile of the boulder's brethern, and rounded the opposing hill.
Hours passed. A grating of stone on stone broke the silence of the grassless waste ground beneath the rise. Chips and pebbles leapt from the pile of rocks. Dust puffed out, and larger stones tumbled. One smooth, round, sandy stone continued to rise in the centre of the mass. It acquired brows, a nose and a moustache, and it was the head of a man with a egg-shaven pate. His eyes swivelled, the irises cracked coals. He raised his eyebrows above a toothy grin, that did not move. "He he Ho!" Swatting the dust from his splendidly bright robes, he clambered forth. Pulling forth a jar, wax was reapplied to his moustache.