A Kingdom for a Stage

by Heidi Heilig

  All but one.

  Where had it come from? The metal creature circles wide in the sky, bronze wings gleaming. The dragon banks again, returning to the village. The pop of gunfire makes me startle. Le Trépas is not impervious to bullets. The dragon pulls up higher, and the avion behind it closes in, like an arrow toward the creature’s missing heart.

  My own heart starts to pound. Can the old bones withstand the flame, or will Le Trépas drop out of the sky in a cloud of embers and ash? The beast turns, jaws opening, but the warbird dips like a swallow as the great teeth snap at empty air. Then the avion spirals upward in a gout of gold and scarlet.

  The dragon screams as the avion shoots past, but most of the accelerant drips through the hollows between the bones. Still, there are patches of flame charring the creature’s ribs, and spots burning brightly on the tail. And that was only the first volley from a single bird. I look back at the rows of avions, still inert on the ground. None of them are moving, not even a little. No rustle of wings, no shake of a head.

  “Something happened to Xavier,” I mutter as realization dawns, but the next thought strikes like lightning. Wide-eyed, I stare at the single avion still chasing Le Trépas. It is impossible to make out the pilot’s face, but I recognize the color of his dark hair—the curve of his jaw. “Leo,” I say softly. “That’s Leo!”

  As fast as my heart rises, it sinks again. Why is he attacking the monk? I turn to ask my brother, only to find him halfway down the path. “Where are you going?” I call after him.

  “I’m supposed to guard Le Trépas, aren’t I?” There is a threat in his voice, and his hand is on his gun. My breath falters in my throat.

  “You can’t hurt Leo.”

  “We can’t lose Le Trépas, either,” he says grimly. “It’s hard enough watching over him when he’s alive. What happens if his soul escapes?”

  I blink at him. I don’t want to find out. “I’m coming with you!”

  Together, my brother and I race down the path to the valley. It switches back and forth down the steep hillside; I plunge through the knotted overgrowth of roots, tripping over tangles of vines, plowing through stands of elephant ears. My goal is the avions; I’ll need one to get Leo and Le Trépas both to safety. But all of them are deep inside the armée perimeter.

  Then the opening to the next mine looms down the path, and I slow to a halt. Hadn’t Raik said there were more skeletons being assembled? “Akra, wait!”

  “No time!”

  “This will be faster!” I duck into the mine. The dragon bones gleam in the low light. This set is smaller than the first, and less complete. But it will have to serve.

  On a nearby branch, the soul of an owl has settled in after a night playing at hunting; I mark the bones and draw the spirit inside. As the creature shudders to life, a string of curses drifts up from the back of the tunnel. I recognize the voice. “Cheeky?”

  “Get that thing out of here!”

  I don’t bother to argue as I climb atop the bony shoulders; with a shake of her horned head, the dragon clambers out into the dim dawn. When we emerge, Akra stumbles back, and for a brief second the fear in his eyes breaks my heart.

  But he grits his teeth and holds out his hand. Reaching down, I swing him up behind me. Together, we vault into the sky.

  “Not this again.” Did he speak aloud, or only in my head? Akra presses against me as we rise above the treetops, but I don’t have the time to comfort him. There is Le Trépas’s dragon, her blue soul flickering against the clouds. Leo is right behind her, the gold flame of his avion licking the dragon’s tail.

  Clinging to the bony vertebrae, I urge my mount faster. The trees pass by below us, the leaves shivering in the night breeze. I can see souls on the path beneath the canopy, heading toward the temple—some gold, some blue.

  As we soar closer, smoke tickles my nostrils—the fire from the grounded avions is spreading in the village. Panic rises to my ears, like the songs of strange birds. In the haze, a group of armée men waves a white flag. Does Le Trépas see them? Yes . . . but he doesn’t slow. My heart clenches as the dragon dives, shearing a man in half with her teeth. When the creature leaps skyward again, there is another soldier gripped tightly in one set of claws. In the other, the white flag streams.

  Leo follows the dragon as it rises, a bright burst of flame unfurling toward the creature’s tail. But as I watch, the tail flicks—the warbird falters in the sky. The avion’s wings beat hard to regain balance. The old monk was right. I have so much to lose.

  How will I stop them both? I press the soul of the owl higher, but behind me, Akra spits a name like a curse. “Pique.”

  “What?”

  “There.” He points toward the jungle, but it takes me a moment to make out a small group of men fleeing through the haze.

  “How can you tell?”

  “I can tell,” Akra snaps. “We can’t let him get away!”

  “We can’t lose Le Trépas either,” I say. Ahead of us, Leo turns. Has he seen me? I raise my arm, and he returns the signal, then moves his hand in a circle to point at the fields below. His avion banks, circling, and I follow him down.

  As soon as we splash down into the muddy ponds of the paddies, Akra leaps from the dragon’s back and plunges toward the tree line. I climb down after him, calling for him to wait, but he doesn’t even slow. My own little dragon tilts her head, peering after my brother as he vanishes through the haze. I can’t follow, but she can. “Take care of Akra,” I whisper to the soul, and the dragon leaps after him, half gliding, half bounding toward the trees.

  Farther down the field, Leo lands his avion. I hurry through the mud to his side. He ekes out a smile as I approach, though his eyes are hollow. “Told you I’d be back.”

  “What the hell are you doing?” I demand, jerking my chin toward the sky. “Why are you taking on Le Trépas?”

  “Because Xavier’s dead, and so are the avions.” Leo’s voice is distant—shorn of emotion. “The soldiers will surrender if we let them.”

  I stare at him, taken aback. “What I mean is, why are you risking your life to save theirs?”

  “I’m risking my life to do the right thing,” he replies, with a look in his eyes like I’ve never seen. “And that’s the only thing worth a damn right now.”

  His hand goes to a gold medallion at his neck. The one his brother used to wear. My heart sinks in my chest—all of a sudden, I want to wrap my arms around him. Instead, I climb aboard behind him. “Do you still have any bullets?”

  “A few. Do you still have the grenade?” Leo glances back at my satchel as metal wings buffet the air. My eyebrows go up—I had forgotten about the explosive. But I shake my head.

  “I have to be closer than that,” I say as we climb. “If we have to kill him, I can’t let his soul escape.”

  Leo narrows his eyes. “How close is close?”

  I wet my lips. I don’t want to think about it. “Just get me close enough to jump,” I say then. “And be ready to catch me if I fall.”

  “Always,” he says as we climb higher, but the wind pulls the words from his lips.

  Leo is a natural pilot—or should I say handler? The bird responds almost eagerly to his touch, and the distance closes quickly. The monk is chasing down a group of soldiers, and he hasn’t noticed us right behind him—not yet. Leo pushes the avion faster . . . faster . . . until we are soaring directly above the dragon’s bony back. The earth shoots by beneath us, making my head spin, but I try to focus on the ridged spine: my target. Gripping my satchel in one hand and the side of the avion in the other, I crouch on the edge of the seat and jump.

  For a breath, I am weightless. Floating. Gravity yanks me down a moment after. I fall, leaving my stomach somewhere in the clouds. It catches up and seems to go right past when I slam into the dragon’s ribs.

  With a grunt, I catch hold of one of the spines and pull myself desperately higher. The dragon is slower than the avion—the wind is not as bad here. But the open air
beneath me seems to claw at my ankles, and the skeleton is not easy purchase, especially with my battered hands. Panting, I make it to the spiny ridge of the long backbone, swinging my leg over the creature like it is a horse. Glancing over my shoulder, I catch sight of Leo. He raises his eyebrow, but I shake my head. I am nowhere near close enough yet.

  “Come to join me after all?” Le Trépas calls as I catch my breath.

  “Bring the dragon back to the ground,” I reply as I reach for the next vertebrae, climbing awkwardly closer. “The armée is in ruins. We’ve won.”

  “We haven’t won till there is peace. And there’s no peace until they’re dead,” he says softly, looking down at the scattered forces on the ground. “Including your moitié.”

  “Stay away from Leo,” I growl, hooking one leg over the next rib. But the distance between us is much farther than it looked from above, and far more treacherous.

  Le Trépas smiles, as though he can hear my thoughts. “I told you I would kill him if you don’t kill me first.”

  I swing my left leg over the next ridge, crawling forward. “Are you so eager to meet the gods?”

  “I don’t fear death,” he says. Then he drags one hand across the blood that still drips from his chest. How had he gotten hold of a knife? I drop my eyes to the dagger at his belt. The hilt is jeweled and shaped like a dragon—a weapon fine enough for a king to carry. For the first time tonight, I spare a thought for Raik. He is almost certainly dead . . . but there is no time for mourning. Le Trépas lifts his hand, his fingers red and sticky. “Do you?”

  “Not always,” I admit, gauging the distance between me and the monk, between me and the blood on his outstretched hand. Then I take a deep breath and pull the satchel from my shoulder. In it, the heavy jar of kerosene still sloshes. “But I won’t court it, either.”

  Clutching the bag in one hand, I push myself up with the other. Springing forward, I step from rib to rib, moving as delicately as if I were dancing, though the satchel swings with every step. Le Trépas reaches for me as I approach, his hand wet with his own blood, but before he can touch me, I swing the heavy bag around.

  It connects with a meaty sound. The monk cries out, sliding sideways, gripping the bony spine with one blood-slicked hand. Growling, he takes a swipe at me with the other, but as I dance back out of reach, my foot slips on the thin rib.

  I slide down the other side of the skeleton, catching myself one-handed as my feet dangle high above the jungle hillside. My satchel falls away, down down down, to the ground below. Grunting, I pull myself up much too slowly. Le Trépas does the same, grinning like a skull. And though his hands are slick, they are not half as battered as mine. He pulls himself back to kneel on the dragon’s neck, reaching out for me. He is still smiling when the bullet hits his chest.

  Le Trépas reels, slumping backward; Leo shouts at me to take his soul. Scrambling up, I regain my footing. Is the monk still breathing? I cast about for something to mark—something to contain the man’s spirit. Will my belt do until I find something more permanent?

  As I reach for the silk, Le Trépas lifts his head, fixing me with a deliberate smile. Before I can stop him, he plants a bloody palm on the dragon’s skull and pushes, sliding off the bony neck and into the whistling wind.

  I squeeze my eyes shut before he hits the ground, but I feel the impact in my gut—and in the way the dragon’s bones go limp beneath me. A moment later, bright light pries through the cracks in my eyelids as the dragon’s soul soars free: no longer cold blue, but brilliant gold. My mouth opens in awe; she is the most lovely soul I have ever seen. But as she ascends, the body beneath me starts the long descent to the ground.

  Leo pushes the avion faster, but he is not close enough. And though I do not fear my death, I do not wish for it either. So I make my own symbol next to the monk’s bloody handprint—life, in red blood on the dragon’s brow. Is it wishful thinking that her soul’s return to this body is more joyful this time? Either way, the light flashes gold once more as the spirit dives into the bones, and together, we soar upward, circling above the temple as we search for a place to land.

  Act 3,

  Scene 38

  The jungle at the edge of the paddies. The air is hazy with smoke as AKRA slips through the trees, following a hunter’s track. He is almost certain PIQUE came this way, but signs are hard to find; the night lingers here in the dense greenery. All around him, the shadows are strangely quiet. The morning birds have fled from the armée men ahead of him—or are they hiding from the dragon just behind?

  The creature glides from tree to tree, quiet as the owl that ensouls it, though much larger. Bark crunches under its claws every time the beast lands—not on branches, but on the trunks of the oldest trees. It peers into the greenery, swiveling its hollow skull on the end of the long neck. Nothing else moves aside from the wind in the leaves. Then the dragon leaps again, soaring toward the next trunk. As it lands, a gout of flame bursts from the thicket below.

  The crackle of the fire hides AKRA’s curses as he dives for cover in a patch of elephant ears; the dragon writhes as the fire engulfs the bones. It stops as quickly as it started, but it is too late. The blackened bones crash to the jungle floor in a heap; though AKRA cannot see it, the soul of the owl has fled. But up ahead, the sound of PIQUE’s voice drifts back.

  PIQUE: The dead are all around us. Keep an open eye.

  Through the leaves, AKRA catches sight of the man. PIQUE has tubing looped over one shoulder and a tank of accelerant shoved into a makeshift backpack; he has pried the flamethrower from one of the grounded avions.

  Move!

  Ahead, the men return to the path, traveling single file. There are six of them, including PIQUE, and each of them has a gun. Even in the dim light, AKRA can tell the soldiers are on the edge of panic—they stand a bit too close, they look too sharply at shadows.

  AKRA: You should be afraid.

  His voice is so soft not even the birds hear him. Slowly, he nudges aside a broad leaf to take aim. Is he rusty with his first shot, or is PIQUE a lucky man? AKRA fires, but the bullet misses. Instantly, the lieutenant whirls.

  PIQUE: Take cover!

  He dives behind the closest tree as the other men scatter into the brush. AKRA can hear two of them crashing through the jungle without stopping.

  AKRA (a whisper): That leaves four.

  The sound fades into a silence that lasts so long the birds begin to call. AKRA wets his lips. Has the lieutenant slipped away? He can’t let PIQUE escape. So he takes a deep breath and calls out.

  Lieutenant?

  Another silence. Then . . .

  PIQUE: Who’s there?

  AKRA: Ex-Capitaine Chantray, sir. I served under you in La Sucrier, and through La Verdu.

  PIQUE: Through part of La Verdu. You asked for a transfer before Dar Som.

  AKRA: You were happy enough to see me go.

  To his left, the brush rustles. Like lightning striking, AKRA fires. Deep in the shadows, a soldier cries out. Akra shoots again, and the scream cuts short. Three left, now.

  J’étais un capitaine, putains! And a Chakran besides. I grew up in the jungle. You think you can sneak up on me?

  He fires again, this time to the right; another soldier drops in the brush, but not before the man gets his own shot off. The bullet slams into AKRA’s shoulder like a punch—he bites down on a curse as blood blooms on his right sleeve. But AKRA laughs, rueful, pitching his voice to carry.

  Pique knows you can’t. But he also knows my gun can’t hold more than six bullets.

  Silence again, though the quality of it has changed: there is only one soldier left aside from PIQUE, and neither man is willing to try sneaking through the leaves. But AKRA can’t exactly sneak up on them either. His arm is throbbing, weak. Wincing, he transfers the gun to his left hand, but his aim is nowhere near as good. Chewing his cheek, AKRA takes another deep breath.

  I have two shots left, Lieutenant, but I can take more ammunition from the men I ju
st killed. I will follow you as far as you run. But I have nothing against your last soldier, poor bastard. What if we let him go while you and I both step onto the path?

  Another silence. Is PIQUE weighing the options, or has he run while the others kept AKRA occupied? The ex-capitaine calls again, close to desperation.

  Two bullets. How many do you have?

  A long pause.

  PIQUE: Six.

  AKRA chuckles.

  AKRA: Your kind of odds, ness pas?

  Another agonizing moment. Then, with a rustle of the leaves, PIQUE steps out from his hiding place, his gun cocked in his hand.

  PIQUE: What do you want?

  AKRA: Peace.

  AKRA takes a deep breath, steeling himself. Then he bursts from his hiding place, running toward the lieutenant. PIQUE fires in an instant. The bullet drills through AKRA’s chest, right through the heart. He stumbles, doubled over with the pain. But he doesn’t fall. After a moment, he straightens up and takes a step closer.

  PIQUE fires again, this time hitting the ex-capitaine in the gut. Still, AKRA advances. Another shot, and another—AKRA’s shoulder snaps back and his knee buckles. The fifth shot makes him wheeze as blood bubbles through his lips, but the sixth shot misses, whistling by his ear. PIQUE’s eyes are wide with terror as he scrabbles for the nozzle of the flamethrower, but AKRA raises his own gun then; he is close enough to hit PIQUE twice between the eyes.

  The lieutenant collapses on the jungle floor. AKRA sinks down beside him. Blood runs down his limbs, soaks his shirt, trails from the corners of his mouth as he smiles.

  AKRA: Pique is dead, Jetta.

  The words are a wheezy whisper, but the satisfaction in his voice is undeniable. JETTA’s voice comes back almost immediately, but he can’t make out her words over the struggling beat of his heart. Everything hurts. His eyes fall on the nozzle of the flamethrower, but on his tongue, life tastes less like blood than sugar. So he lies down beside PIQUE and closes his eyes for a while. His thoughts drift. Old songs play in his head—the memory of melodies he used to sing.