The Last Dark

  Urged by relief and gratitude, Jeremiah tried to cheer. Then he turned to lead the Giants. With every step, he recovered more of his necessary excitement.

  y midday, the women had finished moving green-veined rocks to open ground. Before they were done, they were all trembling on the verge of exhaustion. But earlier Cirrus Kindwind had returned with every bulging waterskin that she could carry. The Swordmainnir had been able to continue working because they had enough to drink.

  Now they were sprawled in the dirt, resting as though they had been felled. The fraught rasp of their respiration sawed at Jeremiah’s nerves until he felt as raw as their lungs; as desperate to be done. But they still had a lot to do.

  For him, actually assembling his temple would be comparatively easy. It required no thought at all. His talents were certain, as instinctive as breath. He could have completed the structure without hesitation—if he could have raised the heavier rocks alone.

  But for his companions—

  The work ahead of them would demand more effort, not less. As the walls rose, massive chunks and boulders would have to be lifted higher. And the roof would be more difficult than the walls. The Giants would have to hold the stones in place at the height of their own shoulders until he could brace the construct with his last hunk of granite, his capstone of malachite. Only then would the temple stand without support.

  At some point, Cabledarm had climbed upright. Walking stiffly, she had come to watch her comrades. But she was still too weak to stay on her feet. She had nothing to offer except the encouragement of her presence.

  Stave had not moved. At some distance, he knelt facing the northwest as if he sought to ward off threats by nothing more than force of will. Or perhaps he was praying for Linden’s return.

  Standing near the Ironhand, Jeremiah said uncomfortably, “When you’re ready.” Erratic bursts of wind slapped at him. Grit stung his cheeks. Beyond his horizons, a fierce storm was brewing. The air was growing cooler. “I know where everything goes. I can do this fast.” Elohim were dying. “But you should take your time. We can’t afford mistakes.”

  Infelice had tried to prevent his escape from his graves. She should have known better. She should have trusted Linden.

  “Yet it must be done,” Coldspray replied in a low growl. “Much depends upon it. When we are beset by storms as we sail the world’s seas, we do not rest merely because we are weary. Rather we cling to our tasks, and to our lives.” She seemed to be trying to convince herself. “Matters do not stand otherwise now.”

  “Sooth,” groaned Frostheart Grueburn. “All that you say is sooth, Ironhand. We must—yet I cannot. In the Lost Deep, I deemed that I had measured the depths of exhaustion. Now I learn that our flight from She Who Must Not Be Named was no more than a child’s game by comparison.”

  “Nay, Grueburn,” Stormpast Galesend countered like a pale imitation of herself. “You misesteem us. Exertion alone does not justify our weariness. In addition, we lack viands. Do not discount that deprivation.”

  “Indeed!” exclaimed Onyx Stonemage. “I will give my oath that I am dwindling. Hunger diminishes me. My garments hang loosely, and my cataphract has become an encumbrance, and I fear that my sword has grown too long for easy use.”

  For a moment, the Giants were silent. Then Coldspray said like a sigh, “You forget to whom you speak, Stonemage. All here know that in your care every sword grows too long for easy use.”

  Another silence followed while Jeremiah fretted. The Ironhand’s comment may have been a jest. If so, he did not understand it.

  Apparently the other Giants did. After a moment, they started laughing.

  At first, their laughter was as weak as their limbs: a sound like moaning amid the confusion of the winds. But then Stonemage retorted, “Mockery is ignorance. Occasions there have been in abundance, yet none have inspired complaint,” and her comrades began to laugh harder. Soon they were laughing with such abandon that they could not lie still. Latebirth and Galesend tossed from side to side. Grueburn pulled her knees to her chest, hugged them. Even Cabledarm chuckled in spite of her wounds.

  “I don’t get it,” Jeremiah protested; but the women went on laughing.

  Joy is in the ears that hear. Clearly the Swordmainnir lived by that creed. Jeremiah did not understand at all. They sounded hysterical. Yet when they subsided, they were stronger. Somehow laughing had restored them.

  That was enough for him: he could accept it. When he was able to believe that the Giants were ready, he moved away toward the scant beginnings of his construct, beckoning as he went.

  The rectangle that he had marked in the dirt was still vivid in his mind, although its visible lines had been erased. A few heavy stones had already been put in place for him. He had added a number of small rocks himself. But that was barely a start. Most of the building remained to be done.

  However, all of his materials were waiting for him. He could imagine their eventual positions precisely, as if they were lit by sunshine rather than masked by dusk. His part of the work that remained was simple.

  Followed by the Giants, he thrust his way through the wind to select rocks in their proper sequence: a sequence that would allow him to prop each one securely before the next was lifted.

  That the women were more willing than able was painfully obvious. Stones that one Swordmain had managed alone earlier now required the strength of two or three, or even four. Nevertheless their willingness did not waver. To spare themselves, they rolled rather than carried rocks to the edges of the nascent temple. Together they heaved the shards into position. Then Jeremiah scrambled to insert the chunks of granite and basalt that would brace the bigger pieces in place.

  The Giants took turns, resting as much as they could. When their waterskins were empty, the Ironhand sent Kindwind to fill them again. And the women watched over each other. Whenever one of them faltered or stumbled, others moved to help.

  By slow increments, the walls of the temple rose.

  Every now and then, Jeremiah remembered to glance at Stave. Indistinct in the distance, the former Master still knelt with his back to the construct, motionless as a tombstone. He gave no sign that he was aware of his companions’ efforts.

  They could have used his help.

  By the time that Kindwind returned, the walls were nearly complete. A crude slab had been set to form the lintel of the entrance. Without counting, Jeremiah knew that a dozen heavy rocks and twice that many smaller ones remained before the capstone could be wedged into place. He knew exactly where the pieces would go. But he did not know how his companions would be able to finish the work. They seemed entirely spent. He was not confident that their hearts would continue to beat much longer.

  While Kindwind handed around waterskins and her comrades rested, Jeremiah went to plead with Stave.

  But when he reached the Haruchai, he did not know what to say. He could see that Stave was healing. The former Master knew how to provide for his own recovery. Nevertheless his heart beat with palpable reluctance, the pulse in his veins was as thin as a thread, and his breathing barely lifted his chest. In spite of his native toughness, he looked like a man who might not stand again.

  Jeremiah’s appeal for help turned to dust in his mouth. Winds seemed to drive it back down his throat.

  Stave did not turn his head, but his shoulders stiffened slightly at Jeremiah’s approach. After a moment, he answered the supplication of Jeremiah’s silence.

  “Chosen-son.” His voice was a wisp of its familiar inflexibility. “Say what you must. I hear you.”

  “I don’t know why you’re still alive,” Jeremiah blurted. “But I don’t know why the Giants are still alive either. They’re way beyond exhausted. They can hardly lift their arms. And we still haven’t done the hardest part.”

  Abruptly he stopped. He had no idea how to continue.

  “The hardest part?” Stave inquired: a mere breath of sound.

  “The roof. I’m making a temple. I mean, that’s how I th
ink of it. It has to have a roof. But it won’t stay up until I brace it. That’s what your lump of malachite is for. They’ll have to lift the rocks and stand—” Simply thinking about such things hurt. “They’ll have to just stand there holding up the roof. And even if they can do that, I don’t know how they’re going to set the capstone. I can’t imagine—

  “It has to be just right, or it won’t work.” He struggled to devise scenarios. They were all cruel. “So even if four of them can hold up the roof, that only leaves two to lift the last piece because at least one of them has to climb up there,” adding her weight to the rocks on the shoulders of the other Giants, “and put that piece in place. I’ll probably have to be there myself to make sure it’s right.”

  Without warning, sobs crowded into his chest. If he let himself, he would wail like a child. He was tired to the bone, and all of his talents and excitements were useless now. He did not have the strength to complete his construct.

  “It’s terrible.” He restrained himself by gritting his teeth. “It’s all terrible. I don’t know how to make it better.”

  Stave did not react. For a time, he knelt motionless and said nothing, as if he had no interest in Jeremiah’s distress. Eventually, however, he bowed his head in submission.

  “Yet the attempt must be made.” He spoke as if the wind tugged the words out of him. “I will remain as I am for a time. Then I will come.”

  With that, Jeremiah had to be content.

  As suddenly as it had arrived, his impulse to sob faded. He had reached the end of his emotions. Now he felt emptied. Matters were out of his hands. He had done what he could. Anele’s gift of Earthpower did not make him mighty. It only made him vulnerable.

  Sagging into himself, he left Stave and stumbled across the wind back toward the Giants.

  But he did not go to them. He had nothing to tell them that they did not already know. Under kinder circumstances, they probably could have finished the task without him.

  Instead he made his way to his crude edifice. For a while, he studied the four walls and the northwest-facing entrance. Then he set to work.

  With negligent, futile ease, he tossed small stones into their necessary positions along the tops of the walls. Doing so did not require thought: it required only certainty. But soon he had done what he could. Then he had to wait for the Giants.

  Around him, the day grew darker. That was wrong: his senses were sure. The time was early afternoon, no later. Yet the vague illumination was fading. He had become little more than a shadow to himself, a wraith in a distorted dream. His construct crouched in the gloom like the base of a tower broken by siege.

  Carried by baffled gusts and blasts, the darkness gathered from the east, or perhaps somewhat north of east. It advanced in tatters like the wind, moiling and routed, then surging ahead. And its source was still distant, scores of leagues away. Nonetheless the fading of the light was a warning.

  “Ho, Swordmainnir.” Rime Coldspray sounded improbably far away. “Now or never. Behold! Night gathers against us prematurely. I know not how to interpret this augury, but I do not doubt that it promises ill. We must complete our purpose.”

  A chorus of groans arose: protests and curses. Across the distance, Jeremiah felt the Giants climbing to their feet as if they were struggling out of an abyss. Even Cabledarm stood.

  Leaning against each other, the Ironhand and her women came to stand with Jeremiah.

  He heard their exhaustion, their frailty. He seemed to taste it like charcoal on his tongue. He did not know how to bear it—or how to ask them to bear it.

  Because he was concentrating on them, a moment passed before he realized that Stave also had joined him.

  Several of the Giants greeted the Haruchai, but he did not reply. Instead he regarded the walls of the construct. After a pause, he announced thinly, “This is suru-pa-maerl. The folk of the Stonedowns formed such sculptures balancing and fitting stones to each other. In Muirwin Delenoth, Chosen-son, you devised a structure of marrowmeld. Now you have restored suru-pa-maerl to the Land, or perhaps created it anew. Perhaps it gives cause for hope.”

  Then he turned to Rime Coldspray. “I have recovered strength enough for one effort. I will expend it here. Afterward I will pray that we have no more need of it.

  “You must fashion the roof. When it lacks only its capstone, I will ascend. Receiving the stone from those below, I will place it as the Chosen-son instructs. That I will be able to do, that and no more.”

  Jeremiah winced. In her weariness, the Ironhand herself flinched. “Will you?” she asked, stern and anxious. “Stave Rockbrother, the prospect troubles me. The monolith which you dislodged is broken. The portion containing malachite is small by comparison. Still it outweighs you.

  “Your prowess is ever a cause for wonder. Nevertheless I fear that no Haruchai could lift and settle that fragment.”

  Gloom masked Stave’s visage. Even his lone eye was shrouded as if it had fallen into shadow. “Yet the choice is mine,” he answered. “The strength is mine. The life is mine.

  “If I am not needed, I will stand aside.”

  Coldspray rubbed her face like a woman disguising another flinch. First with one hand, then with the other, she slapped her cheeks. She seemed to dig deep into herself for a response.

  “Certainly you are needed,” she rasped.

  “Thus in the end,” one of her comrades muttered, “even Giants may be reduced to brevity.”

  Stave nodded. “Then have done with delay.”

  Jeremiah opened his mouth to argue; closed it again. How could he object? His construct was impotent without its capstone. Everything that he and the Giants and Stave had done here hung in the balance. If he wanted to spare the former Master, he would have to suggest an alternative; and he had none.

  Sighing, the Ironhand said, “Come, Swordmainnir. The task exceeds only our muscles and thews. It does not lie beyond our comprehension. We must believe that a feat which may be understood may also be achieved.”

  In response, Cabledarm lifted her head, flexed her arms. “I will join you,” she announced grimly. “I am less than I was. What of it? I am able to stand. Therefore I will be able to stand under some weight of stone.”

  Coldspray nodded. “That is well. You also are needed.”

  Like a woman walking to an execution, she went to the nearest roof stone. There she told her comrades, “Some will lift. Others will serve as pillars. The first pillar will be Kindwind. Cabledarm will be the last. When the roof is complete, Bluntfist and I will pass the final fragment to Stave. Thereafter we, too, will become pillars until the capstone is set.”

  The other Swordmainnir nodded their assent. When Cirrus Kindwind had entered the temple, Rime Coldspray and Stormpast Galesend rolled a chunk of granite inside. There they heaved it upward until Kindwind could crouch under it, accept its weight with her back and shoulders.

  At the same time, Latebirth and Grueburn began shifting another stone. Onyx Stonemage joined Kindwind: a second support. Halewhole Bluntfist and Cabledarm readied themselves.

  Jeremiah, too, was needed: he knew that. The sections of the roof had to be positioned exactly. Otherwise they would not remain in place when they were wedged by the capstone. Yet he did not move. He had lost every resource of excitement. Now he felt only a sickening apprehension.

  How much more would his companions have to suffer because he had suggested building a sanctuary for the Elohim?

  or a while, he sank into a kind of paralysis. Matters of scale overwhelmed him: the extremity of the Giants; the consequences of failure. Possible deaths drained the volition from his limbs. But then his fears were thrust aside by a summons which he could not refuse.

  The straining women did not call out to him. Stave did not. His construct did.

  It was crude in every detail, and so tenuously balanced that a nudge might knock it down. At the same time, it was ineffable, capable of mysteries. Eloquent as a paean, it spoke the language of his talents, his deepes
t needs. He had to finish it.

  Compelled, he followed a Swordmain into the temple.

  Now he seemed calm to himself, although his voice shook and his hands trembled. Fervid and sure, he told the Giants, the pillars, where they had gone wrong; urged subtle corrections of tilt and fit; encouraged them to stand taller under their burdens. While darkness mounted across the plain, he guided the placement of his materials.

  Soon only Halewhole Bluntfist and Rime Coldspray remained to move the last stones. Cabledarm had already taken her place inside the temple. Blood seeped from her bound wounds, but she ignored it. With her comrades, she did what she could to keep the roof steady. But there were still two slabs to raise. One would have to rest entirely on the injured woman and the wall. The other she would be able to share with Cirrus Kindwind.

  The gasping of the Giants sounded like anguish. They had to stand as rigid as foundations, but they could not stand straight. The finished walls around them were no higher than their shoulders. They had to lower their heads and bow their backs in order to balance the roof stones. That posture constricted their breathing. Their heavy muscles quivered on the verge of collapse. Any sudden shift might scatter them like dying leaves. Sweat streaming from their faces spattered the dirt, made marks like cries. Their staring eyes showed white like terror in the enclosed gloom.

  Nevertheless Coldspray and Bluntfist forced the remaining stones upward. Somehow Cabledarm and Kindwind bore those added loads. Somehow they managed to turn and twist—lowering one shoulder, raising another, shifting their feet incrementally—so that the slabs fit where they had to be.

  Jeremiah supervised all of this without thinking about it. He could not afford to regard the sufferings of the Giants, and nothing else required his consideration. As soon as Cabledarm and Kindwind achieved the right positions, he dashed out of the temple with the Ironhand and Halewhole Bluntfist at his back.

  Stave waited there as if he were deaf to the desperation of the Giants. Shredded gales as fragmentary as the rocks of the construct gusted around him and away, but did not move him.