A Night of Dragon Wings by Daniel Arenson

them away, smiling thinly.  His hair had once been dark and thick; now it was white and wispy, nearly all gone from his scalp.
    "I live again," the old man said.  "I died; it is true.  He brought me back to life.  Lord Legion.  The prophet of the Fallen.  He breathed new life into my lungs, and filled my heart with blood to pump, and placed me here.  For you, Nemes.  For you.  To give you the key so you may free him."
    Nemes shook as he held his father.  The man felt so frail in his arms, his bones so brittle, likely to snap in an embrace.
    "I will take you out of here, Father," he said.  "I promise.  Once we give the queen the key, she will reward us.  We will be powerful, no longer servants.  You will never serve again, I promise you."  He let out a sob.  "You will live in a palace of gold, and King Elethor will serve you, a slave in irons."
    Nemes snarled, imagining it.  With the gold Solina gave him, he would build a great hall, a palace larger than the fallen court of Requiem.  He would build a throne for his father and force cruel Elethor to kneel before it, to clean the floors, to beg for mercy from the whips.  He would build a dungeon for Lyana, chain her underground, and invade her body whenever he pleased.  He would hurt her—like she had hurt him—and make her beg.  The key would give him that.
    "Where is it, Father?" he whispered.  "Where is the key?"
    The old man struggled to speak.  Only a hoarse gasp left his throat.  His body trembled and his veins pulsed.  Nemes could feel the man's heart fluttering like a trapped bird.  His father's skeletal hand rose, then pointed down at his belly.  He tried to speak again, but only coughed and trembled.
    "What is it, Father?" Nemes whispered.
    His father pulled open the cloak, revealing his pale torso.  He grabbed Nemes's hand, pulled it down, and placed it against his stomach.
    Nemes sucked in his breath.  His eyes stung.
    "Please, Nemes," his father whispered.  "Take it out.  Cut it from me.  Take the key."
    Beneath his father's skin, hard inside his belly, Nemes felt the outline of the key.
    "No," Nemes whispered.  Tears blurred his eyes.  "I cannot."
    "You must."  His father clutched his wrist.  "Lord Legion will bless you.  Cut the key out.  Let me die again.  My death will free me from this prison; I will die in your arms, knowing that you will rise to glory."  Tears streamed down his wrinkled cheeks.  "My son—the first of our family to rise to greatness."
    Nemes clenched his jaw.  His breath shook.  No.  No!   He could not.  How could he?  To kill his father?  The vile court of Requiem had killed his father!  The man lived again; how could Nemes kill him for his vainglory?
    He howled to the ceiling.  His roar shook the tower.
    "No!  I cannot.  I will not!"  He shook his fists.  "Do not ask me this!  Please, Lord Legion.  I beg you.  I serve you.  Anything but this!  Do not ask me to prove my loyalty this way."
    A low, rumbling laugh rose from the floor, bubbling up from the depths like tar.  The walls trembled and dust rained.  The tower itself was laughing, Nemes realized; it was a living thing, a demon of stone and dark magic and blood.
    "Please," Nemes whispered.
    A rumble shook the floor.  The bricks creaked.  A screech ran through the walls, rising as a voice, a shriek, a cry of endless darkness and wonder.
    "You will prove your loyalty, Nemes of Requiem!" rose the cry of the tower, a sound like steam from a kettle.  The walls pulsed.  Blood dripped between the bricks.  "You will slice him open.  You will dissect him.  Why do you think, Nemes, that you spent years in the forest, spent years cutting open your animals?  For this!  For this day.  To free me.  To free Lord Legion and his Fallen Horde.  Slice him!  Dissect him!  Cut the key from his innards and raise it in glory!"
    Nemes's breath shook.  His hands trembled.  His eyes burned with tears.  He reached to his belt and drew