The Dark Symphony

power goes to him."
    "I give the power to you. Don't you understand that?"
    "They will not believe you surrendered it," Redbat said. 'They will not trust in my authority."
    Guil frowned, looked around to the other Populars, back to Redbat. That is not true. You have witnesses."
    "Fight!" Redbat stiffened, claws extended.
    "It's more to you than just leadership, Redbat You know they would believe you and accept your authority.
    You owe us a favor, you know. You owe me a favor for killing Nasty for you. You said so that day in the cave." Redbat said nothing.
    "Let us go now without a fight. That is the favor I ask Let us depart in peace."
    "Glory, my dear boy," Redbat said, his voice thinner than usual, "is a thing not easily attained. There will be a history of this one day. They will tell how Strong conceived the plan and how it was Redbat who led forth the new nation. How Strong perished is already settled. But how Redbat came to power must be a dramatic story, not a diplomatic coup hardly worth the telling and certainly not memorable. I hereby state my intentions of revenging the murder of Strong. Besides, I don't like the way you look." He grinned, thumb-sized fangs curving over his lips. "Fight!"
    "We should leave together," Tisha said. "Otherwise, we might not cross at the same point. We might not find each other on the other side. And that means we both have to use the pillar."
    I've killed one like him," Guil said. "I guess I can damn well handle another."
    "Nasty was a weakling," Redbat said.
    "We'll see," Guil answered.
    "Yes, I guess we will."
    And, circling, they began their minor battle while the larger combat roared behind.
    Redbat knew the boy's strength. He did not go flapping in on his neck as Nasty had done. Instead, he circled warily, waiting, waiting either for an opening or for the boy to tire of the game and leap first. And that was exactly what happened. Guil jumped, hands latching onto the wings of his opponent when they had been aligned for the neck.
    Guil felt claws sink wickedly into his flesh, seeking knowingly for the spots where Nasty had sunk claws and fangs the week before, tearing and scratching. Flesh sliced like ripe fruit and peeled away beneath them. Guil threw his fists in windmill flurries, caught Redbat in the face. The light cartilage of the mutant's nose snapped, crunched backward and released a jet of blood. But the manbat only opened his mouth and gasped breath that way, holding on, twisting the claws and seeking an opening to tear at the boy's jugular vein.
    Guil battered at the fragile wings as the noise and lights galloped about them. But he could not seem to land another decent blow. Redbat's head slipped back and forth, in and out, up and down like a snake bobbling to the tune of a flute.
    The manbat suddenly found an opening and sank teeth into Guil's arm.
    But he had to let go, for he had no nose with which to breathe and needed his mouth to suck air. Fangs were out. Still, the claws could and did slash murderously.
    Mercilessly…
    Pain as real as ice.
    Pain as real as fire.
    Then the manbat leaped against him, toppling both to the ground.
    Guil was on the bottom, pinned by claws and wings. Redbat ripped his claws loose from the boy's sides, hissed and spattered blood and saliva over Guil's face. His eyes were a madman's eyes—the eyes of a man who sees immortality before him and knows he must seize it before it moves on and loses him in the stream of eternity.
    Guil thought of all the murderers who had killed without reason—or a noticeable reason, at least. Prewar Earth history was full of them. So was some Musician history. Assassins. Mass murderers. All were hungering for immortality. And so it was; they received it. The infamous lived as long as the famous in the journals of men.
    Kill a hundred people and someone, somewhere, will
be
talking about you a thousand years from now, using you as an example of some mental instability, but talking about you nonetheless. Kill a leader, a chief, and the same is true.
    And why did men let the killers live on? Why give them the immortality they sought? Because, Guil thought, most men wished they too could have gained an historical niche for themselves equal to that of the killer. We are fascinated by the fact that they not only became toolmasters themselves, but that they used toolmasters (as opposed to the common people who are tools) to gain their immortality.
    "Now you'll die," Redbat said, bringing claws up to rake