HELL TO PAY Janet Morris

On the first day of winter-a sodden, sullen dawn of the sort only Sanctuary's southern sea-whipped weather could provide-the bona fide Stepsons, elite fighters trained by the immortal Tempus himself, crept round the barracks estate held by pretenders to their unit name and defilers of all the Sacred Banders stood for.

Supported by Sync's Rankan 3rd Commando renegades and less quotidian allies wraiths of the netherworld lent to the Band by Ischade, the necromant who loved the band's commander, Straton; Randal, the Stepsons' own staff enchanter; and Zip's gutterbred PFLS rebels-they stormed gates once theirs at sunrise, naphtha fireballs and high-torque arrows whizzing from crossbows in their hands.

By midmorning the rout was over, the whitewashed walls once meant to keep in slaves now bright with blood of ersatz Stepsons who'd betrayed their mercenaries' oaths and now would pay the customary, ancient price.

For nonperformance was the greatest sin, the only error unforgivable, among the meres. And Sacred Banders, the paired fighters who cored the Stepsons unit which had spent eighteen months warring on Wizardwall's high peaks and beyond, could not forgive incompetence, nor cowardice, nor graft nor greed. The affront had brought the ten core pairs to Strat, their line commander and half a Sacred Band pair himself, with ultimata: either the barracks was reclaimed, and purified, the honor and the glory of their unit restored so that Stepsons could once again hold their heads high in the town, or they were leaving- going up to Tyse to find Tempus and lay before him their grievances.

So it was that Strat walked now among the slaughter within the barracks' outer walls, among corpses burned past recognition and others disemboweled, among women and children gutted for being where they had no right to be and housepets slit from jaws to tails, their entrails already out at Vashanka's field altar of handhewn stones, ready to be offered to the god.

Ischade walked with him, inky eyes agleam within her hood. He'd promised Ischade something, one night last autumn. He wondered if this was it-if the killing had gotten out of hand because Ischade was there, and not because Zip's Popular Front for the Liberation of Sanctuary knew nothing of restraint and Sync's 3rd Commando, not to be outdone, forsook all thoughts of proper measure once it was clear that the ersatz Stepsons had been keeping dogs on grounds consecrated to Vashanka, the Rankan god of rape and pillage.

Rape, of course, was still under way in the stables and in the long low barracks. Strat saw Ischade turn her head away at the piteous cries of women who'd been where women had no right to be and now paid the soldiers' tithe.

Around them, PFLS rebels ran to and fro, heavy sacks or gleaming tack upon their shoulders-pillaging had begun.

Strat didn't move to stop the stealing or the defilement of the luckless few who'd been comely enough to live a little longer than their fellows. He was the ranking officer and his was the burden of command-even when, as now, he didn't like it.

Crit, Strat's absent partner, might have foreseen and forestalled the moment when the 3rd's bloodthirsty nature surfaced and Zip's rabble followed suit, and blood began to spill like Vashanka's rains or a whore's tears.

But he hadn't. Not until it was far too late. And then, knowing that if he tried to stop them he'd lose only his command, he'd had to let the bloodlust work through the assault force like dysentery works through those fool enough to drink from the White Foal River.

Ischade knew his pain; her hand was on his arm. But the necromant was wise-she said not one word to the Stepsons' chief interrogator and line commander as they came upon Randal-the Tysian Hazard who was the only magical ally besides herself the Stepsons tolerated-quartering a dog to roast and bury at the barracks' compass points.

"For luck, Witchy-Ears?" Straton growled to Randal, and Ischade relaxed. "It's hardly lucky for that pup."

He must take his anguish out on someone, vent his spleen. She'd thought while they walked among the corpses askew on training grounds and open-legged in doorways that the "someone" might be her. She'd raised shades to help the siege even one named Janni who'd been a Stepson before his death. And Strat, who'd known Janni and Stilcho and others among Ischade's part-living cadre when they'd laid a clearer claim to life, had had shadows in his eyes.

The same shadows of disgust scoured his mouth now as the big Stepson spat over his shoulder and demanded, "Randal, give me an answer."

But Randal, the big-eared, freckled mage who was so cautious and yet no man's fool or pawn despite his slight and unassuming person, knew that Straton wanted more than a reason for the sacrifice of a cur. Strat wanted someone to tell him that the massacre he walked through fit somehow into the Stepsons' code of honor.

But it didn't. Not in any way at all. It was war out of hand and blood begetting blood and the only justification or reason for it was the nature of Sanctuary itself- Sanctuary was out of balance, gnawing on its own leg while it frothed at the mouth, beset by enemies from within and without. The town was full of factions among men and among gods and among sorcerers, so full that even Ischade, who had interests here, had to come out into daylight to protect them, and to throw in her lot with Straton's Sacred Band and Sync's amoral 3rd Commando.

When Randal didn't answer, just favored Strat with an eloquent sickened look full of accusation, since Strat was putatively in command, Ischade said to the officer beside her, "Order is its own reward. And reason makes its bed with us, not with the Beysib interlopers who have the Prince enthralled, or with the quasi-mages locked up tight in their guild, or with Roxane's undead death squads."

Then Randal put down his knife and wiped his long nose with a gory hand. "Maybe it'll bring your god back, Strat. Rouse Vashanka from wheresoever the Pillage Lord is sleeping. The men think so, that's sure enough." The mage rose up and made a pass over the quartered dog and all four parts of it-fore and hind-rose into the air, dripping fluids, and floated away toward the field altar out behind the training ground.

Strat watched the pieces disappear around a corner before he said, "Vashanka? Back? What makes you think the god's gone? He's reverted to His second childhood, is all. He's lost all sense of proportion like a child." Then Strat turned on Ischade, as she'd thought he might, and his eyes were as flat and hard as her nerves told her his heart had become.

"Does this suit you, then, Ischade? All this 'order' that you see here? Will it help us-give us a few nights more for you to lie with me without your 'needs' taking over? Are you sated? Can a necromant ever have enough? Is it safe for you to take me home?"

Home to her embrace, he meant. To her odd and shadowed house, all gleam and velvet by the White Foal's edge. Straton made her soul ache and because of him she'd mixed in where no necromant belonged. And it was true: The death here was partly of her making; she'd be content now, without having to stalk the night for victims, for days.

She saw in his eyes that he knew too much, that all she'd done to give him what he wanted-her-for stolen evenings on brocade cushions was about to exact the price she'd always known it must.

Randal, knowing the conversation was getting too intimate for outsiders, hurried off, wiping hands on his winter woolens as he followed his sacrifice out toward the altar and called over his shoulder, "You'll have to say the rites, Ace." Ace was Straton's war name. "I'm not qualified, being an envoy of magic and thus an enemy of gods-even yours."