A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 4

of
the Crippled God, obliterating what had been a thriving
civilization, leaving nothing but ashes and those craters
in which magma roiled, spitting noxious gases that swirled
high into the air.
    The ancient scene was so vivid in her mind that she
could scoop out one of those craters, half a mountain's
weight of magma, slap it into something like a giant ball,
and then position it over the sleepy estate wherein lounged
her sleepy, unsuspecting sister. And, now that it was ready,
she could just . . . let go.
    The mass descended in a blur. The estate vanished – as
did those nearest to it – and as a wave of scalding heat
swept over Spite, followed by a wall of lava thrashing
across the street and straight for her, she realized, with a
faint squeal, that she too was standing far too close.
    Ancient sorceries were messy, difficult to judge, harder
yet to control. She'd let her eponymous tendencies affect
her judgement. Again.
    Undignified flight was the only option for survival, and
as she raced up the alley she saw, standing thirty paces
ahead, at the passageway's mouth, a figure.
    Lady Envy had watched the conjuration at first with
curiosity, then admiration, and then awe, and finally
in raging jealousy. That spitting cow always did things
better! Even so, as she watched her twin sister bleating and
scrambling mere steps ahead of the gushing lava flow, she
allowed herself a most pitiless smile.
    Then released a seething wave of magic straight into her
sister's slightly prettier face.
    Spite never thought ahead. A perennial problem, a
permanent flaw – that she hadn't killed herself long
ago was due only to Envy's explicit but casual-seeming
indifference. But now, if the cow really wanted to take her
on, at last, to bring an end to all this, well, that was just
dandy.
    As her sister's nasty magic engulfed her, Spite did the only
thing she could do under the circumstances. She let loose
everything she had in a counter-attack. Power roared out
from her, clashed and then warred with Envy's own.
    They stood, not twenty paces apart, and the space
between them raged like the heart of a volcano. Cobbles
blistered bright red and melted away. Stone and brick
walls rippled and sagged. Faint voices shrieked. Slate tiles
pitched down into the maelstrom as roofs tilted hard over
on both sides.
    Needless to say, neither woman heard a distant gate disintegrate,
nor saw the fireball that followed, billowing high
into the night. They did not even feel the thunderous reverberations
rippling out beneath the streets, the ones that
came from the concussions of subterranean gas chambers
igniting one after another.
    No, Spite and Envy had other things on their minds.
    There could be no disguising a sudden rush to the estate
gate by a dozen black-clad assassins. As five figures
appeared from an alley mouth directly opposite Scorch
and Leff, three others, perched on the rooftop of the civic
building to the right of the alley, sent quarrels hissing
towards the two lone guards. The remaining four, two to a
side, sprinted in from the flanks.
    The facing attack had made itself known a moment too
soon, and both Scorch and Leff had begun moving by the
time the quarrels arrived. This lack of coordination could
be viewed as inevitable given the scant training these
assassins possessed, since this group was, in fact, little more
than a diversion, and thus comprised the least capable
individuals among the attackers.
    One quarrel glanced off Leff's helm. Another was
deflected by Scorch's chain hauberk, although the blow,
impacting his left shoulder blade, sent him stumbling.
    The third quarrel exploded in stone. The sky to the west
lit up momentarily, and the cobbles shook as Leff reached
his crossbow, managed a skidding turn and loosed the
quarrel into the crowd of killers fast closing.
    A bellow of pain and one figure tumbled, weapons skittering.
    Scorch scrabbled for his own crossbow, but it looked
to Leff as if he would not ready it in time, and so with a
shout he drew his shortsword and leapt into the path of
the attackers.
    Scorch surprised him, as a quarrel sped past to thud deep
into a man's chest, punching him back and fouling up the
assassin behind him. Leff shifted direction and went in on
that side, slashing with his sword at the tangled figure – a
thick, heavyset woman – and feeling the edge bite flesh
and then bone.
    Shapes darted in on his left – but all at once Scorch was
there.
    Things got a bit hot then.
    Torvald Nom was