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MJ Alishah / The Tale of the Traitor and the Wyrm / 1

Nights of the Crusades, the 1st night

The Tale of the Traitor and the Wyrm

Darkness lives. It is chaos. Time twists within it.

I know not when I dream; I cannot wake from agony.

Dreams of light and land are the worst of nightmares.

Darkness teaches that tragedy is the greatest horror.

Lost moments. Murdered laughter. Joyous occasions forever

out of grasp.

I live in memory. Dreaming of my past. Sipping them;

for I fear if I drink too deeply, my mind will empty. Or

worse – my memories could transmute beyond anything that

resembles true history. If ever there was such a thing.

And like chained Prometheus; dark, warped time has

given me the span of an immortal to soak in misery. Men

learned well from the cruelty of the gods.

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A shuffling. A scratching. A distant moan. Creatures

of shadow make their homes with mine. The timid light

scares them away. I never see them. I sense them. I once

thought of my fingers like a cat’s whiskers. But there

are no animals with warm blood here. Fingers are jointed.

Insectile. Like the rest of me. A hunter in darkness;

feeding on the grit and the hard-shelled life lurking

between the cracks of my cell.

My mind is fading to red and black. I felt it once

before. I have suffered hunger. Even when shared with the

sun and good friends; starvation made us monsters.

Squeal of rusting metal. An echo of iron. Lonely

footsteps on stonework. I would see the torchlight soon.

And speak to my one beloved friend.

He is seems slower today than in times past. He

pauses at each of the other cells. I think they are

empty. I have not heard a human sound from my neighbours

during my time here. I wonder then; what use is there to

inspect an empty cell?

He is near now. The torchlight starts to burn. I

close my eyes.

“Are you asleep, friend?” The guard’s voice is low,

concerned, but tinged with cruel mirth.

Through a squint, I see him pass a roll of bread

through the bars. I thrust through the gates of past

etiquette and honourable traditions, devouring the bread

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like an savage. I hear a cup being filled over my

chewing. The shame of my behaviour seeps in.

“Have some of this to wash it down. The king wouldn’t

want you to choke.”

I don’t really hear what was said. I see only the

cup. The taste is cool, but sour and burning at the same

time.

“Do you have time to talk? It is quiet today so I

thought I would visit you. How have you been?”

I rasp, “I feel like that old traitor. Ensnared by a

great wyrm.”

“Now that sounds like an interesting tale.” His smile

had stopped shining his words, “But I’m afraid even

though the executioner only has one task today, it

involves you.”

I savoured the stale bread. I sipped from the cup.

“Well?”

“Well? I’m here to take you to him.” He filled my cup

again. “But, tell me, who is this traitor you spoke of?”

So my fate was due. I had played it out during the

endless age of my imprisonment. Chained and broken, being

led up to either the hangman or the executioner’s blade.

The jeering crowd. My death wouldn’t be as exciting for

them as a real villain’s or a hated enemy’s. But it would

still be a nice distraction from a labourer’s toil.

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This guard was kind when he had no reason to be. It

is easy to treat those with power well. Truly, the worth

of a soul is how it treats those who can offer it

nothing.

The guard pulled a stool to the cell door and

whispered. “Was the traitor you? I will not judge. It is

a brute of man who doesn’t question his loyalties.

Especially during hardship.”

He seemed so far away as my mind drifted. I wondered

how it would feel to have my neck broken in a noose, or

have my head rolling away from my body.

The guard said, “You must be a nobleman to have been

kept alive so long. The king does not wait nearly so long

for enemy soldiers or rebellious peasants.”

I replied, “noble, merchant, thief. Even a soldier

once or twice. But at heart I am a traveller and a

scholar.”

“And a traitor? Tell me, what is this tale of the

traitor and the wyrm?”

“It may be a long story,” I said

“We have plenty of time. Here, have another cup,

friend.”

I sipped the wine. And took a long draught from the

memories I had of this tale…

… Listen now, to how Firuz, the accursed traitor of

Antioch, met his comrade Abdullah, and escaped from the

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Wyrm that fed on the enemies of the Keepers of the

Enchanted Queen.

As the wind and dust howled over the barren ground,

the traitors walked. Their leader thought only of

increasing the distance between him and the ravaged city

of Antioch, and forgetting the past. The rain that often

cloaked the walled city reached far into the surrounding

lands, and dark clouds approached that threatened to

obscure the morning sun.

As they descended from a barren mountain range, the

stones of a ruined wall came into view, looking like the

spine of a disfigured serpent. The refugees edged closer,

seeing it coiled around the corpse of a small city.

Behind the wall were orchards of skeletal fruit trees,

and a great slum of houses and stables. As they

approached they weren’t greeted with the usual sounds of

a large town, it was empty of life – though it would do

for shelter until they decided where to go.

The previous dwellers of the village would have

sought safety within Antioch’s walls after hearing of the

arrival of the vast army from the west. The besiegers of

Antioch, in their hunt for food and plunder, would have

then laid waste to their town and whatever else was left

behind. Antioch would have no protection for them now.

After the once-proud city was stormed, its inhabitants

would have received only death or slavery. They would now

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rightly condemn Firuz, the leader of the traitors, for

what was left of their lives.

He was an armourer and the Captain of the Tower of

Flies. It was he who had forged a deal with Bohemund.

Bohemund I; Prince of Taranto, now Prince of Antioch, one

of the three commanders of the Western armies who Firuz’s

comrades had thought were mercenaries of the Byzantines,

but were discovered to be much more; much worse; too

late.

When Firuz let Bohemund’s knights into his tower he

was allowed safe passage with those he had chosen. The

sound of that night’s slaughter now waited for him in

every silence. The scribe’s would come to know him only

as Firuz, the accursed maker of armour.

And so he led the refugees to the abandoned town.

They came under attack by raiders; men who had lost

everything in the sacking of Antioch, including their

mercy.

He escaped death, but his left arm was severed,

remaining with the corpses of his friends and son.

Through the agony of losing those closest to him, Firuz

fought madness and crawled into a cavern. He did not know

that it was claimed by a bizarre cult that called

themselves the Keepers of the Enchanted Queen. He could

not hide from them, and with the blow of a mace, he fell

into their hands, unconscious.

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He felt himself being carried as the guards’

unintelligible words floated through the ringing in his

ears.

Regaining consciousness, he saw he was being carried

under a demon-encrusted arch. It was the threshold to a

vast hallway, the roof so high that it was lost in

shadow. Tapestries covered the walls. They depicted

scenes of an obese queen and a man, armoured like an

insectile pharaoh, conquering the globe.

As he faded in and out of reality, he passed caverns

where slaves toiled under the glare of silent guards.

Pain flared every time he was dragged over rough ground.

His ankle was swollen, his head throbbed, and his severed

arm was likely yellow with infection. Pain was the only

thing that jarred his thoughts into the light. Even

though he was surely being led to his death, a fatalistic

calm washed over him. He knew his fate was sealed; he

could do nothing to prevent the near future. The fatigue

of keeping his thoughts above the pain lulled Firuz into

a troubled slumber.

He awoke to a sound like that of an old man eating

apples. It was followed by an insane scream. Firuz was

paralyzed – his limbs were frozen in crusted, hardened

threads. Shudders wracked his body from the

disorientation of being half asleep and the adrenaline

coursing through him.

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He strained his head to look towards the sound. His

body was held with a substance that looked like shards

from a glass blower’s waste-bin, but it was sticky and

thick – and malleable to an extent. The only thing in

front of his eyes was a dark, natural tunnel that delved

far into the bowels of the mountain. The air was thick

with moisture and strange gases. He forced his head to

move. A moist crackling preceded the loosening of his

bonds and he managed to shift his eyes to the screams and

crunching noises.

A giant worm-like creature chewed on the shoulder of

a trapped prisoner. It was the size of a tiger and moved

on a hundred delicate bulbs that protruded from a

rounded, frosted body. Long feelers probed the darkness

and caressed its victim who sobbed a cacophony of

screams.

Its feelers suddenly stiffened. The wyrm sensed

something from the dark tunnel. Its legs danced in a

complex pattern and carried the creature up into the

webbing, out of Firuz’s sight.

The scuttling sound of claws on rock echoed from the

depths of the caves. Firuz tried to see more of his

surroundings. The flickers of a low flame lit the glassy

prison he shared with many others. Some squirmed, some

were mere bulges in the webs, and others were dead still.

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The blood-soaked prisoner next to him shook and moaned,

overcome with madness. The scrabbling sounds approached.

The soft light caught something at the edges of

Firuz’s sight. Whatever it was seemed to hesitate, not

wanting itself to be uncloaked by the flames. Firuz could

make out a pale, multi-segmented body – longer than a

camel train – curling into the blackness. It seemed to be

a great millipede, bloated beyond anything Firuz would

have thought possible. As its head caught the torchlight,

Firuz saw one of its eyes was dead and shattered, a

broken arrow shaft wedged deep within it. Thin antennae

felt vibrations throughout the stones, honing in on the

writhing man beside Firuz.

Like a striking cobra, it hurled itself at the

wounded prisoner. Firuz felt the webbing shudder under

its bulk. The victim was shocked silent. The millipede

began to tear him away from his bonds. The prisoner

regained his voice as his limbs were sliced away from his

body by the frenzied beast. It carried him away into the

shadows, the echo of its claws drowned out by screams,

which where stilled abruptly when the millipede escaped

from the light.

Silence consumed the caverns.

Time was dragged into the darkness.

Sometimes, low voices or footsteps grew then faded

from a point beyond Firuz’s vision, in the direction of

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the light source. A rasping sound from overhead kept the

carnivorous wyrm in Firuz’s thoughts. He was careful not

to test his bonds too severely, should he gain its

attention. He wondered at the conditions in these caves.

What alien environment could create such creatures? An

involuntary shudder took over his body as hunger mixed

with the fatigue and trauma of the past days. He knew

that his death could be mere moments away if he remained

trapped in the glassy bonds.

He caught a movement at the corners of his eyes. He

looked past the dried and bloody flesh that dangled as

evidence of the millipede’s attack. Violent thrusts

issued from a cocooned figure, stabbing upwards from

within its prison. Firuz saw that the relentless attacks

against the webbing didn’t seem to have much effect. It

stopped after a while. Firuz heard the muffled gasps of

the prisoner trapped within, but that was all. The wyrm

did not come. Firuz wondered if his neighbour could sense

something he could not.

Ages past. Firuz began to feel aware of his barren

insides; he hadn’t eaten for days. But how could he know

what a day was in this darkness? Small, biting insects

infested his body, but he still slept. The creature that

waited above plagued Firuz’s waking thoughts and his

dreams were visited by djinn who wore the faces of his

lost wife and dead child. The thought of being reunited

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with her was the only thing that brought him out of his

despair. But he had exhausted all ideas for escape. The

bonds were too strong; he would be working on them for

years before they broke. He suspected the wyrm’s stink

was an intoxicant that made him drowsy. Horrors,

creatures of nightmare came from the depths of the

caverns and shook him awake with their ferocious attacks.

It seemed some of the victims were dead anyway, though

some clawing beasts went for the most alive, feeling for

the most frenzied vibrations from the struggling

prisoners. Firuz saw a new captive brought here. The wyrm

carried her upwards, far beyond his sight. How vast was

this creature’s nest, he wondered?

At one point, a number of guards passed, unmolested

by the creatures. They headed towards the halls of the

cult, marching with a number of skinny sheep and an

unfortunate shepherd. Firuz’s dusty mind was made clear

for a moment. He realised there must be exit from this

hell, further along the path they came from. This whole

chamber must be a natural protection to the dark city,

filled with all manner of vile sentinels that are fed

well enough so they don’t harass their owners, but still

territorial enough to be effective guardians.

And so he remained – hungry, thirsty, fatigued,

trapped and powerless. His thoughts and memories were his

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only companions during this time, and they only sunk him

deeper into madness…

Firuz awoke. The rasping of the wyrm’s body signaled

its movement. Firuz saw its long, fleshy feelers search

close by and caress the prisoner next to him – the one

who made constant attempts of escape but was completely

immersed in webs. The feelers had a light touch, but the

prisoner must have felt it. The captive began a savage

spasm. Thrusts from within the webbing broke the bonds

and Firuz was surprised to see a glint of metal under the

threads. The wyrm’s delicate movement was slow, and by

the time it reached the prisoner a hand holding a blade

had freed itself. The dagger began to gain momentum. It

twirled and slashed at the webs. Bits of the translucent

stuff flew from the prisoner. A feverish rasping came

from the creature’s direction. A vicious, tortured, growl

replied to it as the man ripped free from his bonds.

He panted, his dark eyes following the creature’s

movement. Firuz gasped at him for help. The wiry man

ignored him. The wyrm issued a slurping noise. Two jets

of slime gushed from bulbous glands beside the wyrm’s

mouth. With nimbleness that Firuz would have thought

beyond human, the man managed to dodge each one. During

the twirling acrobatics, his blade flashed at the

creature’s feelers, severing one. The worm recoiled in a

frenzied retreat. Firuz lost sight of it, but could tell

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it was above him, somewhere, as it’s thick blood began to

drip upon him.

The free man hefted his blade, held his long hair

from his face, and assessed his surroundings. Firuz tried

to gain his attention. “Please, you must help me.” Groans

from other prisoners tried to speak too, but Firuz’s

voice was stronger and more alive.

The man took his time in answering Firuz. They

observed each other. “And why should I?”

A sound of approaching footsteps reached their ears.

Firuz thought it a valid question, but would have to

be quick to answer. He would have to be careful too; he

wasn’t sure if he could completely trust this obvious

killer.

“You will need my help also. I am Captain Firuz al-

Zarad Ibn Sahib, a warrior from Antioch, and I have led

men in many battles. A soldier like myself could help you

with the coming guards. Free me, brother, and I will

defend you with my life.”

The man looked towards a place Firuz could not see,

the place where the footsteps came from. “I could handle

these guards myself, but you speak some truth. I would

much prefer someone to catch a blade meant for me than

not.”

He laughed and glid toward Firuz. Firuz could make

out the scars that trailed across his face. The man sawed

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through the webs with his blade, blowing away ringlets of

hair that fell into his eyes with puffs of breath. It

smelled like how Firuz imagined Hell would.

As he worked with his jagged dagger, Firuz asked his

name.

“My name is Abdullah, but be quiet.”

When the bonds were loose enough, Firuz began to

wriggle out. Abdullah paused.

“You only have one arm? You tricked me?” Abdullah was

shocked, but smiled at the same time. “What use is a one-

armed warrior to me?”

A pair of guards thundered into the cavern tunnel

then. They carried a bound prisoner and hadn’t realised

Firuz and Abdullah had freed themselves. Firuz could see

the halls they entered from, but one of his legs was

still trapped within his bonds. A vast arch opened into

the stone metropolis of the insectile pharoah and his

queen. It was defaced with webbing. Two torches flickered

at its entry, casting the nest of the wyrm into an orange

hue. The translucent prison, filled with writhing

captives stretched from the cavern walls to high up into

the darkness. Firuz saw the wyrm that nested in this

chaotic horror; it perched just above him, observing

Abdullah with its eyeless face.

The guards dropped the prisoner when they saw

Abdullah standing before them, playing with his dagger.

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They roared, lowering their short-spears to charge.

Firuz’s attention was soon divided between the dervish of

steel that had become Abdullah, and the prisoner who

waited in meek silence for the guards to retrieve him. He

looked like the captured shepherd.

Abdullah wielded his blade, along with a spear he had

taken from a now-dead guard. He danced around the

remaining one, waiting for an opening to attack. The

guard lunged first. Abdullah flexed his arm. Like a

ballista. Before the guard’s first step had touched the

ground he was lifted up and back, clutching the shaft of

the spear that protruded from his stomach.

Throughout all of this, Firuz struggled with the

webbing that still held his foot to the cavern wall.

Abdullah twirled away from the guards as a greater

threat had crept upon them. A giant segmented insect

reared its body up like a cobra. Its mandibles clicked in

anticipation of a resistant meal. A broken arrow-shaft

protruded from its eye.

With a sharp crack, Firuz pulled his remaining leg

from the webbing. The giant millipede’s attention was

diverted from Abdullah to Firuz, and Abdullah took

advantage of it. He slid and rolled around the

millepede’s clawing legs, and fled into the shadows.

Firuz took up a spear from the first guard who Abdullah

had slain.

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Firuz looked towards the cavernous tunnel, and the

millipede that blocked it. Torchlight reflected in the

mosaic its one large eye. Abdullah had disappeared. Firuz

knew he could not defeat this thing – he couldn’t even

outrun it. The caverns would have been silent, but for

the clattering of the millipede’s claws as it positioned

itself to attack – and the rasping of the wyrm above him.

The wyrm!

Keeping both predators in his peripheral vision, he

spun and hurled the spear at the wyrm. His aim was almost

true; it hit the wyrm’s fleshy rear. Had his strength not

been so drained, he could have pinned the bloated

creature to the cavern wall, but the spear had only sunk

into its surface muscle. It hung like a porcupine’s

quill. However, Firuz’s plan worked. The wyrm recoiled in

pain and lost its hold on the wall. It thumped to the

ground, but arose quickly, scraping its body against the

cavern floor in a vain attempt to expel the spear from

its bulbous segment. These violent movements drew the

millipede’s attention. Firuz crept backwards, ignoring

the rock cutting into his bare feet. He tried to be slow

and silent. The millipede brushed the wyrm with its

antennae and then seemed to pause. Its body tightened,

like a cheetah about to pounce. Hesitating for only a

second, it launched itself upon the wyrm. The beasts

entered an embrace of death. Chitinous claws and

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mandibles pierced crusted armour and drove into the soft

flesh beneath.

Firuz stooped to draw out one of the daggers of the

dead guard. The other one moaned, the spear still within

his body, as he tried to avoid the crush of the insects

and escape the nest. Firuz saw the shepherd, still at the

threshold, standing above the wounded man.

The dagger would have slipped from the guard’s

scabbard with a ringing of steel, but the rolling battle

of the creatures drowned out any sound. He noticed a

gourd of some liquid tied around the guard’s neck. He

took it. Firuz hoped it was water. His dry throat

compelled him to try to open it, but he would wait until

he was a safe distance from the battle at the archway. He

put it around his neck and ventured into the darkness…

… I finished the tale by saying “and so the traitor

of Antioch lived for a time after that.”

The guard rubbed at the side of his face in thought.

“That was a strange tale.” His eyes met mine, “is it

true?”

I shrugged, “the slaughter in Antioch happened

hundreds of years ago. So it could be. There are many

beasts underground, lurking in the shadows. And this

Firuz was a mysterious man,” I said.

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The guard clenched his fists, “do you know more about

him? I would like to hear how this wicked man meets his

end.”

“I know his whole story. He does not rest. The

wretched among us cannot rest. The wicked do not. He was

both, but he was better than some.” I met the guard’s

eyes, “If you meet a wicked man at peace then flee. There

is nothing more dangerous than those at peace with evil,

or who consider it natural.”

The guard said, “I must do something.” He then left.

I sat back in the cell. Focusing, I tried to store

this memory of having a full belly of bread and wine so

that I could remember it as I faced the executioner. My

last moment of happiness.

The guard returned after some time. I made to rise,

but he held out his hand.

He said, “You have received another night, my friend.

I managed to find someone to take your place.” He smiled,

“I must return to the city now; but tomorrow, before you

are given the mercy of death, you will tell me the rest

of the tale of this Firuz, the accursed.”

He walked away. The guard looked like a man who would

sleep peacefully this night. Or any night.

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