A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 3

talent before. And he had answered it with ... amusement.
    The guardian before him promised such mortality, with palpable force.
    Another heavy step. A force to match the roiling waters. In sudden understanding, Brys smiled.
    The vicious current ceased its maelstrom. Speed and agility returned in a rush.
    The huge sword slashed horizontally. Brys leapt back, the point of his sword darting out and up in a stop-thrust against the only target within reach.
    Letherii steel slipped in between the silver plates of the left gauntlet, sank deep.
    Behind them a dolmen exploded, the concussion thundering through the bedrock underfoot. The warrior staggered, then swung his sword in a downward chop. Brys threw himself backward, rolling over one shoulder to regain his feet in a crouch.
    The warrior's sword had driven into the basalt a quarter of its length. And was stuck fast.
    He darted to close. Planting his left leg behind the guardian, Brys set both hands against the armoured chest and shoved.
    The effort failed as the guardian held himself upright by gripping the embedded sword.
    Brys spun and hammered his right elbow into the iron-sheathed face. Pain exploded in his arm as the head was snapped back, and the Letherii pitched to one side, his left hand taking the longsword from his fast-numbing right.
    The warrior tugged on his own sword, but it did not budge.
    Brys leapt forward once again, driving his left boot down onto the side of the guardian's nearest leg, low, a hand's width above the ankle.
    Ancient iron crumpled. Bones snapped.
    The warrior sank down on that side, yet remained partly upright by leaning on the jammed sword.
    Brys quickly backed away. 'Enough. I have no desire to kill any more gods.'
    The armoured face lifted to regard him. 'I am defeated. We have failed.'
    The Letherii studied the warrior for a long moment, then spoke. 'The blood seeping from your hands – does it belong to the surviving gods here?'
    'Diminished, now.'
    'Can they heal you?'
    'No. We have nothing left.'
    'Why does the blood leak? What happens when it runs out?'
    'It is power. It steals courage – against you it failed. It was expected that the blood of slain enemies would ... it does not matter now.'
    'What of Mael? Can you receive no help from him?'
    'He has not visited in thousands of years.'
    Brys frowned. Kuru Qan had said to follow his instincts. He did not like what had come to pass here. 'I would help. Thus, I would give you my own blood.'
    The warrior was silent for a long time. Then, 'You do not know what you offer, mortal.'
    'Well, I don't mean to die. I intend to survive the ordeal. Will it suffice?'
    'Blood from a dying or dead foe has power. Compared to the blood from a mortal who lives, that power is minuscule. I say again, you do not know what you offer.'
    'I have more in mind, Guardian. May I approach?'
    'We are helpless before you.'
    'Your sword isn't going anywhere, even with my help. I would give you mine. It cannot be broken, or so I am told. And indeed I have never seen Letherii steel break. Your two-handed weapon is only effective if your opponent quails and so is made slow and clumsy.'
    'So it would seem.'
    Brys was pleased at the wry tone in the warrior's voice. While there had been no self-pity in the admissions of failure, he had disliked hearing them. He reversed grip on his longsword and offered the pommel to the warrior. 'Here.'
    'If I release my hands I will fall.'
    'One will do.'
    The guardian prised a hand loose and grasped the longsword. 'By the Abyss, it weighs as nothing!'
    'The forging is a secret art, known only to my people. It will not fail you.'
    'Do you treat all your defeated foes in this manner?'
    'No, only the ones I had no wish to harm in the first place.'
    'Tell me, mortal, are you considered a fine swordsman in your world?'
    'Passing.' Brys tugged off the leather glove on his right hand, then drew his dagger. 'This arm is still mostly numb—'
    'I am pleased. Although I wish I could say the same for my face.'
    Brys cut his palm, watched as blood blossomed out to whip away on the current. He set the bleeding hand down on the warrior's left, which was still closed about the grip of the embedded weapon. He felt his blood being drawn between the silver plates.
    The warrior's hand twisted round to grasp his own in a grip hard as stone. A clenching of muscles, and the guardian began straightening.
    Brys glanced down and saw that the shattered leg was mending in painful-looking spasms, growing