The Last Dark

  Fighting for breath, Coldspray and Bluntfist paused briefly; braced their trembling hands on their hips; straightened the cramps out of their backs and legs. Then Rime Coldspray nodded to Jeremiah and the Haruchai.

  “Ready yourselves,” she warned the other Swordmainnir as if she wanted to scream and did not have the strength. “The end is near. One exertion remains, the last and the worst.”

  At once, she grasped Stave and wrenched him into the air. He landed on the roof as if he were as weightless as dust.

  Then it was Jeremiah’s turn. He held his breath while Bluntfist lifted him; placed him beside Stave.

  With his bare feet, he felt the ordeal of the Giants. The surface of the roof resembled strewn rubble. It shifted under him when he moved. The women were only moments from absolute exhaustion. The roof might yet cave inward. And there was one more rock—

  If Coldspray and Bluntfist could even raise that piece. If Stave could manage it alone in spite of his wounds.

  If.

  Entire realities rested on one small word.

  “Hang on,” Jeremiah croaked. “We’re moving as fast as we can.”

  He was sure only of himself. The temple had been built correctly: it was exactly what it needed to be. When the capstone sat in its proper position, the whole edifice would become secure. Even rested Giants might not be able to knock it down.

  Stone was not bone: he could not fuse it. Nevertheless there was power in shapes: the right shapes, the right materials, the right fit. The right words. The right talent. Even the right Earthpower. Such things could change the world.

  Praying, Jeremiah watched Stave at the edge of the roof. Coldspray and Bluntfist would have to do more than lift the last stone. They would have to hold it over their heads for the Haruchai. If he had to reach down for it—if he could not crouch under it—even his great strength would not suffice.

  Groaning like women whose hearts were about to burst, the Ironhand and Halewhole Bluntfist heaved. In their extremity, they half threw their burden at Stave.

  Jeremiah did not understand how Stave caught it. He did not know why Stave’s bones did not break; why Stave’s muscles and heart did not rupture. The former Master was not breathing. He had no pulse. A convulsion seemed to stop his life.

  The roof where he stood tilted. The stones on either side of him swayed fatally. Giants groaned in dismay.

  He stayed upright, but he did not move. He looked like he could not. Every sudden thrash of wind threatened his balance.

  Then Coldspray and Bluntfist reentered the temple to help their comrades. Together they steadied the roof.

  Slowly, as if he thought that he could live forever without air or blood, Stave turned away from the edge. He took one abused step toward the hole in the center of the roof. Then he took another.

  And another, ascending the slope of the stones.

  Still his heart did not beat. He did not breathe.

  A sensation like terror gripped Jeremiah. He moved toward the Haruchai. He could not help Stave carry the stone, but he could guide it. As firmly as he dared, he placed his hands on the rock. By touch, he urged Stave to accommodate a subtle rotation: a shift of inches so that the rock would fit its intended seat.

  Stave did not appear to look at his target. His eye seemed sightless. No part of him reacted to the pressure of Jeremiah’s hands: no part except his feet. At his next step, he angled his failing stance slightly to match Jeremiah’s wishes.

  With the slowness of hindered time, one instant forced to pause for the next, he sagged to his knees. By rending increments, he extended his arms. Beyond the limits of his strength, he dropped his treasure of malachite into place.

  In almost the same motion, he thrust himself away. From his knees, he fell onto his back. Soundless as a figure in a dream, he rolled down the slant of the roof, fell over the edge.

  The jolt when he hit the ground restarted his heart. He began to breathe again. With a gasp that no one heard, he fought air into his lungs.

  Jeremiah did not see him. Suddenly faint, the Chosen-son crumpled as if his own heart had stopped.

  ut he was only unconscious for a moment. Then he jerked up his head like a swimmer who had been underwater too long.

  The roof under him felt as solid as the cliff looming across the southeast. It looked like an accidental spill of stone too heavy to hang in the air; but it was not. It had become something more. Delicate strands and small deposits of malachite held the roof and the walls together as if they had become one with each other. The hidden green was now a mesh of theurgy able to withstand shocks which would have broken a house.

  And the whole edifice thrummed with power. It sent a thrill of summons along the winds, out into the twilight and the rising dark.

  They had done it, the Giants and Stave and Jeremiah himself. Somehow they had vindicated Linden’s faith in them.

  But he did not know how many of his companions had survived.

  Then he did. As soon as he cast his health-sense farther, he located Stave. The Haruchai lay prone in the dirt. Respiration barely lifted his chest. His heart straggled from beat to beat. Nevertheless he lived.

  Apart from Cabledarm, the women were in no worse condition than Stave. Rime Coldspray, Cirrus Kindwind, and three others had managed to stagger out of the temple before they collapsed. Now they sprawled on the ground like invalids in the last stages of a wasting illness.

  Felled by their efforts, the remaining Swordmainnir lay like debris on the floor of the construct. Frostheart Grueburn and Onyx Stonemage were there. Their prostration resembled Coldspray’s, and Kindwind’s. Still Jeremiah could hope that they would recover. But Cabledarm’s plight was more severe. She had lost too much blood. He had no idea how much longer her heart would be able to sustain its beat.

  Yet she had succeeded. The whole company had succeeded. The construct was complete. It was exact. In some sense, it lived. That achievement counted. It may have been as costly as a defeat, but it was a victory nonetheless.

  Jeremiah wanted to hear a song of praise. He should have sung it himself, but he did not know how.

  Unaware that he was hurrying, he gained his feet, went to the edge of the roof, dropped to the ground beside Stave. “We did it,” he told the Haruchai. “You did it.” Then he trotted around the corner to the front of the structure.

  There he announced to the Swordmainnir, “You did it. All of you did it. You were amazing!”

  The Ironhand turned her head. She was too weak to lift it. Wan as a whisper, she asked, “Do the Elohim come?”

  Jeremiah looked up into a hard slap of wind, scanned his surroundings. Mottled by craters, the hardpan plain stretched away into the gloom. It looked as empty as a wasteland. Toward the east, darkness continued to swell, dimming the unnatural day, obscuring even the ravaged heavens. But full dark was still hours away.

  “Don’t worry about it,” he answered Coldspray. “They’ll come. They have to.”

  They could not refuse without ceasing to be themselves.

  His purpose for us is an abomination, more so than our doom in the maw of the Worm. But it is not the worst evil.

  Infelice believed that Lord Foul would use Jeremiah’s gifts to form a prison for the Creator. The eternal end of Creation is shadow enough to darken the heart of any being. For that reason alone, her people had no choice. While any of them lived, they would make one last attempt to stop Jeremiah.

  But the prospect did not scare him. He was looking forward to it. Infelice thought that she knew him. She was wrong.

  “Then, Chosen-son,” murmured Coldspray, “I ask that you bring water. Cabledarm must drink. Water may ease her.”

  “Of course.” Quickly Jeremiah looked around for the waterskins. All of the Giants needed to drink. Stave did. Jeremiah was thirsty himself. But Cabledarm—“I’ll be right back.”

  Fortunately Kindwind’s last trek to the distant spring or stream had delivered seven full waterskins: as many as she could manage. Several had bee
n emptied, but Jeremiah found three that still bulged. With the strength of his inheritance, he carried two. One he left within Coldspray’s reach. The other he took into the temple.

  He did not want to look at Cabledarm. Her injuries still seeped blood, in spite of makeshift tourniquets and bandages. Her spirit had been reduced to embers. The idea that those sparks might fade twisted his heart.

  But he could not both lift her head and hold the waterskin. She was too big for him, too heavy. After a moment’s hesitation, he knelt beside Frostheart Grueburn, nudged her gently.

  “I need you. Please. Cabledarm is dying. I’ve got water, but I’m not strong enough to help her drink.”

  With a strangled groan, Grueburn tried to raise her head. Her eyes opened, but at first she did not appear to see. Then her gaze focused on the waterskin. Groaning again, she flung out an arm. Her hand found the waterskin. She dragged it to her.

  While she drank, Jeremiah insisted, “Cabledarm needs that. Did you hear me? She’s dying.”

  Wearily Grueburn nodded. After a few swallows, she wedged her elbows under her, forced herself to rise to her knees. There she paused while she tried to remember strength or balance or at least determination.

  “Chosen-son.” Her voice was an exhausted rasp. “Does your edifice stand?”

  Jeremiah was too anxious to answer. “Cabledarm,” he pleaded. “Water.” Grueburn would recognize the truth for herself when her mind cleared. “I’ll get another waterskin.”

  In a rush, he left the construct.

  Outside, he saw that Coldspray had managed to sit up and drink. In spite of her frailty, however, she was sparing with her own needs. Two swallows, or three: no more. Then she began to rouse her comrades.

  Jeremiah allowed himself a quick drink from the third waterskin before he carried it into the temple.

  He found Grueburn and Stonemage beside Cabledarm. Grueburn supported Cabledarm’s head and shoulders while Stonemage held the waterskin to Cabledarm’s mouth.

  Grueburn glanced up as he entered. “Our thanks, Chosen-son,” she said hoarsely. “Cabledarm will perish, or she will not. In large part, the choice is hers. For the present, this must suffice.” With a twitch of her head, Grueburn indicated the waterskin Jeremiah held. “Succor to our comrades.”

  Glad to be spared the sight of Cabledarm’s peril, he turned away.

  In the gloom beyond the entrance, Rime Coldspray was no longer the only Giant conscious. Halewhole Bluntfist sat nearby, rocking from side to side and holding her head. Latebirth had begun the arduous chore of prying herself out of the dirt. Stormpast Galesend was stirring. And Cirrus Kindwind was already on her feet. She had labored less than her comrades: she rallied with less difficulty. Now she was readying herself to go for more water.

  She gave Jeremiah a grimace that almost became a grin. “We live, Chosen-son. And we have accomplished our purpose. I have said that I honor effort and intent. Now I also honor their outcome. Few in life are given such gifts.”

  Then she nodded in Stave’s direction. “How fares Stave Rockbrother?”

  Before Jeremiah could reply, he heard a sound in the wind.

  He was expecting the chimes that announced the sovereign of the Elohim, waiting for it: the crystalline clear ringing of small bells, lovely and delicate. Instead he heard a sharp clatter like the ruin of gongs; like a welter of huge iron crashing down. It was not loud. Indeed, it seemed imponderably distant, as if it had reached him from the far side of the world. Yet its tone and timbre were unmistakable. They spoke of shattering and calamity and irreparable loss.

  He tried to call a warning to the Giants inside the temple, but the words stuck in his throat.

  Instinctively he believed that Infelice was coming to prevent the worst evil. To kill him before he could be reclaimed by the Despiser.

  If so, none of his companions would be able to defend him. No Giant could stand against any one of Infelice’s people. And the Swordmainnir were too weak to don their armor or swing their swords. Stave was not even conscious.

  But Jeremiah did not flinch. He knew that Infelice was wrong about him. She would see the truth when she arrived.

  Forgetting Stave and Kindwind and water, he went to stand at the entrance to his temple as if he had become its guardian.

  The metallic clamor continued. It acquired intensity and ire. It was as sharp as knives forged to flense and flay. In spite of the distance, it cut. And it was coming closer. The Giants heard it now. The Ironhand and Bluntfist struggled upright, stood wavering with their fists clenched. Latebirth was at Galesend’s side, rousing her comrade. Cirrus Kindwind moved to join her.

  As Jeremiah reached the entryway, Grueburn and Stonemage emerged, supporting Cabledarm between them. They bore her a few paces to one side, lowered her carefully to the dirt. Then they stood over her as though they meant to fight for her.

  But the wrath and repudiation of the Elohim would not be directed at her, or at any of Jeremiah’s companions.

  He folded his arms across his chest; across the fouled blue and horses of his pajamas. He did not know how else to contain his trembling.

  Rime Coldspray took a position on his left. Halewhole Bluntfist matched her on his right. Together they waited.

  He expected to see forces gathering in the eastern darkness, anger as fierce as lightning, an army of eldritch beings. The shredded winds seemed to promise multitudes and violence. But when Infelice came, she came alone. And she did not arrive from any direction. Instead she incarnated herself in front of him like a star plucked out of the heavens. She was no more than five steps away.

  Involuntarily he blinked. Her brightness stung his eyes. She was clad in light: an elegant profusion of gemstones—emeralds and rubies, sapphires and garnets—all shining with their own radiance, all arrayed like garments woven of glory. Only the iron clangor and desperation of her bells contradicted her deliberate loveliness, her stubborn will to believe that she was the crown of Creation.

  Across the plain behind her, the wind fashioned illusions of movement in the hollows, illusions that made the ground look like it was squirming.

  Her vehemence seemed to appall the dusk. It buffeted Jeremiah’s bones. Now he saw that her many jewels resembled tears, incandescent woe. Her wrath was weeping. The suzerain Elohim’s form and raiment articulated fury indistinguishable from grief.

  “Abomination!” she cried. “Malign child! Thus you complete our despair! Better for us to be devoured by the Worm. Better had you never been given birth.

  “I am able to decline entrance only because I am Infelice. I cannot continue to do so. My people have not come only because I prevent them. I cannot continue to do so. Soon we must accept eternal absence and futility, eternal continuance in a void in which we can do nothing, and from which we cannot return.

  “This evil you have performed, though I have both striven and pleaded to avert it. In your heedlessness, you are a-Jeroth’s servant, and all of your deeds conduce to his designs.”

  Coldspray and Bluntfist glowered uselessly. Farther away, Stormpast Galesend tottered to her feet between Latebirth and Kindwind. Grueburn and Stonemage knelt like shields on either side of Cabledarm.

  Jeremiah should have been terrified. On some level, he was. Infelice had not given rise to the darkness mounting in the east. Her ire and lamentation had not caused the turmoil of winds. Something else was coming—

  Nevertheless his fears only made his hands tremble, only caused his heart to stutter. His crossed arms closed a door on that part of himself. Behind his façade, memories of the croyel barked in derision. Outwardly he faced Infelice as if he could not be daunted.

  In spite of her supernal powers, she did not know him. He was exactly what she believed him to be. At the same time, he was something entirely different.

  He raised his halfhand as if he expected her to respect it; to recognize that it did not resemble Covenant’s. “You’re wrong,” he said in a fevered voice. “You don’t know what you’re talking abou
t.

  “Your people are dying. You need to get them here.” Then he gestured behind him. “But first you need to look.” He wanted to shout in the Elohim’s face. “You’ve been wrong about me all along.”

  “Do you think to mislead me, boy?” Infelice retorted imperiously. “Do you believe that I may be deceived?”

  Nonetheless she glanced past him.

  Then she stared. Confusion made chaos of her clangor and radiance. Her apparel thrashed around her like the storms of desire and misery which had haunted Esmer. Her visage modulated: it seemed to become scores of different faces in quick succession, as if all of her people were suddenly manifested in her. As if the entire meaning of their existence had been called into question.

  An instant later, the clatter of falling metal ceased. Every wind dropped. Silence closed like a lid over the plain. The gems of Infelice’s raiment corrected themselves, resumed their accustomed grace. When she spoke again, her voice was little more than a whisper.

  “It is not a gaol. It is a fane.”

  Like an antiphony, her bells chimed relief. They implied awe.

  “That’s right!” Jeremiah crowed. Vindication rose in him. It felt like scorn for the ways in which the Elohim had misjudged him. “You have to go in, but you can come out whenever you want. If you want. If I were you, I would stay inside. Let the rest of us worry about the Worm. As long as you’re in there, it can’t reach you.”

  For a moment or two, Infelice looked so lovely that every aspect of her seemed to sing: every line of her face and form, every implication of her demeanor, every glad jewel. She was lucent with melody. But then she appeared to recall herself from a vision of hope. It had almost seduced her. Now she returned, unwilling, to the implications of her plight.

  Frowning, angry again, and strangely uncertain, she said as if she were asking a question, “Yet the Worm will destroy the fane. Though we will not be consumed, we will be denied our place in life. That you cannot prevent.