The Last Dark

  “What do we do now?”

  Several of the Giants grimaced at his tone. Scowling, Covenant showed his teeth as if he wanted to take a bite out of the boy. But it was Stave who answered.

  “We have shared an abundance of aliantha,” he remarked with particular dispassion. “You and the Chosen have not.”

  The Ironhand nodded gravely. “Indeed, Stave Rockbrother.” At the same time, Cabledarm and Halewhole Bluntfist raised their waterskins.

  “Fortuitously,” Cabledarm proclaimed to Linden, “we are Giants, and provident. In addition to water, we bear treasure-berries. They will feed us well enough for the present, and perhaps for the morrow as well.”

  For a moment, Linden simply stared while her emotions tried to go in too many directions at once. Then she murmured an inadequate thanks.

  Yet she could not leave Jeremiah as he was, not without offering him some form of acknowledgment. In the act of reaching for Bluntfist’s waterskin, she paused. “But Jeremiah is right. What are we going to do? Saving the Elohim is just a delay. We have to do more.” With a quick glance at Covenant, she suggested, “Maybe we can talk about that while Jeremiah and I eat.”

  Jeremiah accepted treasure-berries from Cabledarm as if he were turning away. Nevertheless his gaze followed every shift and flicker of Covenant’s reaction.

  Frowning, Covenant considered Linden’s suggestion. After a moment, he muttered uncomfortably, “We probably should.”

  At once, the Giants gathered around him. Stave remounted Hynyn, and Branl nudged Rallyn closer. In their disparate fashions, they all needed a sense of purpose as badly as Jeremiah did. A chance to live—or to give the end of their days meaning.

  Sitting Mishio Massima in the center of the company, Covenant asked Branl, “How far have we come?”

  The last of the Humbled shifted his grip on Longwrath’s flamberge. “Not less than a score of leagues, ur-Lord, else we would be able to discern the storm of the Worm.”

  “Northwest, right?”

  “Our heading has been chiefly to the west. We stand some small distance from the southmost verge of the Sarangrave. We must pass the wetland to gain Landsdrop and the Upper Land.”

  Covenant nodded. “And how much time did we lose?”

  Branl glanced at Stave. “We gauge that our passage has consumed little more than an hour.”

  “Aye,” Rime Coldspray assented. “So it appears to me also.”

  Linden did not bother to concur. While she listened, she concentrated on shaking out berries from the waterskin and tossing them into her mouth; relishing the abrupt tang of energy and health. The seeds she discarded as she ate.

  Covenant nodded again. “Good. Since the Forestal has held on this long, we can at least hope he won’t fail. The Worm will move on eventually, if it hasn’t already. It’s fast, and it’ll go faster when it gets closer to Melenkurion Skyweir. But we can be pretty fast ourselves now. Maybe we can get where we’re going faster than Lord Foul expects.”

  The Giants watched him in silence, waiting for an explanation. Like Jeremiah—like Linden—they had come to the end of what they knew how to do. Now they sailed chartless seas and needed a heading.

  “So.” Covenant seemed to be reasoning aloud, speaking primarily to himself. “Landsdrop. The Upper Land. Mount Thunder. That’s where Lord Foul is. He has to be. He needs to be close enough to She Who Must Not Be Named to take advantage of whatever She does, but not close enough to be in danger himself. And he has to be able to organize his forces, all of which are somewhere inside or near Mount Thunder.” Then he shook his head. “Hell and blood. I think that’s a mistake.”

  Linden agreed. Of course it would be a mistake to approach Mount Thunder. She did not doubt Covenant, and Jeremiah had to be protected.

  But the Giants passed puzzled glances back and forth; and Rime Coldspray held up her hands. “A moment, Timewarden, I implore you. Your thoughts out-pace ours. Are you certain of our destination? Have you determined our purpose?

  “Surely it would be folly to hazard Mount Thunder. You speak of She Who Must Not Be Named and other forces. I must also name your fell son, whose command of the Cavewights appears complete. I deem it unwise to trust that his puissance has been diminished by the severing of Kastenessen’s human hand.

  “Yet these are lesser concerns. Of greater import is the Worm, a threat to pale all other perils. I know not how we may oppose it, but we can accomplish naught if we do not make the attempt. Therefore surely we must follow, hoping to forestall the Worm from Melenkurion Skyweir. How otherwise may the Land and the Earth and life be preserved?”

  Her comrades murmured their agreement; but both Stave and Branl frowned as if they wanted to challenge the Ironhand’s assessment. Jeremiah watched Covenant with an intensity that resembled nausea. His mouth shaped words that Linden could not interpret. They may have been protests.

  “Well,” Covenant said gruffly. For a moment, he appeared to wrestle with himself. Then he announced with an air of defiance, “I disagree.

  “I won’t try to make your decisions for you. Even Linden and Jeremiah—you all have to do what you think is right. But I’m going to Mount Thunder. I have to try to stop Lord Foul. And I need you with me. I need you all.

  “It’s not just that I have no earthly idea what to do about the Worm. That thing is part of the created world. It’s inherent to the way this world works. There isn’t enough power anywhere to get in its way. But on top of that, I think the Despiser is more important. He’s absolutely more important to me.” Passion mounted in him. He did not raise his voice, but it thrummed with intensity nonetheless, with the authority of earned conviction. His whole body seemed to imply imminent wild magic. “Ever since I first came here—ever since he and the Creator picked me—my life has been about Lord Foul. He scares me worse than any ordinary death, even if the people I love most are the ones who do the dying. I have to face that. I have to do something about it.

  “Sure, if we could stop the Worm, Foul would be stuck in his prison. But we can’t, and he won’t. Think about that. Think about setting Despite loose in eternity, where it can pollute every new creation just like it’s polluted this one. That’s bad enough. Hellfire, that’s bad enough! But it could become even worse. If he gets his hands on Jeremiah, he’ll try to trade places with the Creator. He’ll try to make a prison that will put an end to the very possibility of creation. He’ll wipe out everything that has ever lived, everything that ever might live, every conceivable world.

  “If he can do that, eternity will become the kind of wasteland we’ve only seen in caesures. Then there won’t be anything anywhere ever again. Nothing except scorn until even Lord Foul’s heart breaks.”

  Amid the shocked silence of the company and Linden’s dismay, Jeremiah asked like sneering, “So your solution is to take me closer to him?”

  Covenant wheeled his mount to face the boy. “Hell, Jeremiah, he can get you anywhere. All he needs is the right kind of grass and one mistake. Then you’ll give him whatever he wants. That won’t change if we’re a hundred leagues from here fighting the Worm. And you’ll never get a chance to find out what how you feel and what you can do are good for.”

  Then he turned Mishio Massima toward Linden. His eyes blazed with need. “Linden, I’m sorry. I have to do this. Eventually we all have to face the things that scare us most. And I’m not actually convinced that the Worm can’t be stopped. I just don’t think we can stop it. There’s more going on here than just the Worm and Lord Foul and Jeremiah and more enemies than we can count. I don’t know what it is, but I don’t believe—I don’t choose to believe—that the way things look to us right now is the whole story. We have two white gold rings and the Staff of Law and Jeremiah’s talent. We have friends who have never let us down. All of that has to be good for something.”

  He might as well have added, And betimes some wonder is wrought to redeem us.

  But he did not wait for a reply. The naked chagrin on Linden’s face seeme
d to drive him away. Again he turned his mount.

  To the Ironhand and her Swordmainnir, he said, “So, yes. I do want to go to Mount Thunder. In spite of, or maybe because of, all the obstacles you mentioned. That’s not the mistake I was talking about. The mistake would be to go there the way damn Foul expects.”

  In spite of their deliberate dispassion, the approval of the Haruchai was plain.

  Rime Coldspray held up her hands again. “Enough, Timewarden.” She and her comrades studied him with a mixture of rue and wonder. Cabledarm and Latebirth grinned openly. “We cannot protest such passion. For us, any deed which can be attempted is preferable to one which cannot. If your purpose is clear to you, it will suffice for us. Unless,” she added, “Linden Giantfriend reasons against it. Then we will heed her as we have heeded you, and will await the outcome between you.”

  Linden hardly noticed that everyone was looking at her now. She hardly recognized the confusion of dread and hope in Jeremiah’s eyes. The light of the krill and Covenant’s extravagance filled her mind with gibbering.

  No. Gibbering and carrion-eaters. Not She Who Must Not Be Named. I can’t.

  And not Lord Foul. Not Jeremiah. His worth to the Despiser is beyond measure. I can’t take that chance.

  Nevertheless the bright gem of the dagger held her. Covenant’s gaze held her. She had never been able to refuse him. From the moment of their first meeting on Haven Farm, he had compelled her by simply being who he was.

  Feeling bitter and beaten, she said slowly, “Don’t stop now. Tell us how you think we can get into Mount Thunder. Tell us how you think that’s even possible.”

  He was still her husband.

  A sigh passed among the Giants.

  “Mom,” Jeremiah groaned: a low sound that did not distinguish between protest and relief.

  Covenant’s eyes did not let Linden go. He spoke to the company as if he were answering only her.

  “I’ve been inside Mount Thunder twice, and both times I went in by the front door. From the Upper Land along Treacher’s Gorge to Warrenbridge, then into the catacombs. That’s the mistake. Foul is bound to be expecting us. We need another way in.”

  “Indeed, ur-Lord,” remarked Branl. “It is certain that other passages exist. One enabled the quest for the Staff of Law to evade Drool Rockworm. Another brought Cavewights and your son to assail us. But such paths are known only to the Cavewights. Also they are perilously small, ill-suited to Giants.”

  “Right.” Covenant did not glance at the Humbled. All of his attention was fixed on Linden. “We’ll have to try a different approach.

  “Forget the Upper Land. If the Sandgorgons and the skurj were cutting into Salva Gildenbourne back when the Ardent brought us out of the Lost Deep, they’ll be near Treacher’s Gorge by now. Even if we get into the Wightwarrens ahead of them, they’ll be right behind us.

  “I think we should try climbing up from the Defiles Course.”

  No, Linden repeated. She could not stop herself—and could not find her voice to tell him that he was wrong about her. No. What he said made sense. Nothing made sense. She Who Must Not Be Named was too strong for her.

  “The waters are corrupt,” objected Branl.

  “Well, sure,” Covenant countered. Every word was addressed to Linden. “But they must have receded by now. The Soulsease has been pouring into the Lost Deep for days. Until all those chasms and caverns fill up, there won’t be any water coming out. Or not much,” he amended. “There are probably other sources, but they’re nothing like the Soulsease.”

  Branl was not deflected. “Also the path is unknown. Uncounted millennia of slime and filth and dire poisons will clog the channel. The inhalation of the vapors will cause sickness and death. The Giants will not be spared. The Haruchai will not.”

  At last Covenant turned away as if Linden’s silence and dismay had defeated him. He sounded sour and forlorn as he retorted, “I’m not worried about the damn vapors. Linden has her Staff. We’ll be fine. And we’ll have another advantage. We’ll be close to water.

  “Hellfire!” The scar on his forehead seemed to bleed silver. It squeezed out of his old wound like sweat. “We’ll be close to the lurker. If we need help, we’ll get it. That monster has already staked its life on the alliance. We can do the same.

  “Linden’s fate is ‘writ in water.’ The Ardent told us that. What the hell else do you think he meant? The lurker can’t reach the Upper Land, but the Defiles Course opens into Lifeswallower. That’s where Horrim Carabal thrives.”

  But Branl did not relent. He and Stave had already shown their approval. Now the last of the Humbled seemed determined to judge Covenant’s intentions accurately, as if he agreed with Linden.

  “And also there is the matter of the Cords. They have been conveyed to Revelstone to seek the aid of the Masters. Should they succeed, that aid will not find us at the Defiles Course.”

  “Don’t you think I know that?” Covenant snapped. “But they can’t help us. If Bhapa and Pahni succeed, the Masters will head for Treacher’s Gorge—where they’ll be slaughtered. They can’t do anything against skurj and Sandgorgons. For their sakes, we have to hope the Cords don’t convince them.

  “Whatever happens, we’ll have to find the way by ourselves.”

  Writ in water. Finally those words reached Linden. She remembered how Covenant had rescued her from her terror of She Who Must Not Be Named. He had gone to that extreme for her: her husband who loved her. How could she fault him for still being a man who went to extremes? When extremes were needed? And she knew that he was right about Jeremiah, although the truth appalled her. Lord Foul could reach him anywhere. The Despiser did not need proximity.

  While Covenant faced the company with his needs and his pain and his severe convictions, Linden found her voice. But she did not speak to him: she spoke to her son.

  “What do you think, Jeremiah?” Her voice shook. “This has got to be harder for you than anyone else.” He had said as much himself. He had no instrument of power. No weapon, no prowess, no great strength. “Are you willing to go to Mount Thunder and take your chances?”

  Jeremiah’s attention seemed to leap at her. “Sure,” he returned as if he had never questioned himself. “Why not? Otherwise we’re all just dead. If it’s too much for me, I can always hide again. Lord Foul will still be able to use me, but I won’t have to feel it. Not like I did with Kastenessen, and he only got me because I didn’t expect it.”

  He gave the impression that he meant, Maybe I don’t have to be useless. Covenant said he needs us. But Linden heard more. As if Jeremiah had spoken to her like the Haruchai, mind to mind, she heard him say, I want Lord Foul dead.

  Oh, my son—

  “Linden?” Covenant asked. Now he sounded deliberately neutral, as if he thought that he had already put too much pressure on her. “It’s up to you.”

  From him also, she heard more than he said.

  I know what I have to do.

  I can’t do it without you.

  She recognized the knots that defined his face, the lines like cuts, the clench of understanding and regret. How often had he regarded her like that? When he knew what the Land’s need required, and regretted it for her sake rather than his own?

  Eventually we all have to face the things that scare us most.

  A flick of grit forced her to shut her eyes for a moment. She felt suddenly parched in spite of the lingering taste of treasure-berries; scorched by the heat of Covenant’s gaze. She had ashes in her veins instead of blood. God, he was a cruel man sometimes. Cruel and terrible and irrefusable.

  Barely able to clear her throat, she said, “You aren’t just my husband,” Thomas of my heart. “You’re Thomas Covenant the Unbeliever. And Jeremiah is willing. I’ll go with you as far as I can.”

  At that moment, the sudden lift of relief and hope and even love in Covenant’s gaze did not touch her. And she ignored the reactions of the Giants. Their Ironhand had already given her assent. Instead she remem
bered Berek Halfhand among the Dead.

  He may be freed only by one who is compelled by rage, and contemptuous of consequence.

  The Lord-Fatherer’s pronouncement made her want to weep. He may have been trying to warn Covenant rather than her. He may have been describing Jeremiah.

  Or he may have seen the Land’s doom in all three of them.

  second circle of wild magic. A second rush of disorientation. A second reflexive response from Linden’s wedding band. Then the horses and the Giants pounded as if they were deranged down the bottom of a ravine that Linden almost recognized.

  Weathered hills rose on either side. The cut between them was comparatively shallow, a crooked trough wide enough for the company. The sand and age-smoothed stones of the bottom provided an easy surface for the mounts and the Swordmainnir as they pounded along, slowing with every stride. And ahead of them—

  Black in the unnatural twilight of midday, a stream slid past a widening fan of sand punctuated by the jut of a few boulders. Complaining against rock on the far side, the water flowed down a small canyon that arced around the swath of sand.

  As Hyn’s gait eased, and Linden’s nerves began to recover from the mad reel of translation, she realized that she did indeed know this place. Here the company had rested days ago. Here she had rejoined her companions after Covenant had retrieved her from nightmares of She Who Must Not Be Named. Here the Ardent had delivered a feast, and had lost his grip on name and use and life. And back there, behind her now, lay the ridge of fouled gypsum where Liand and then Galt had been slain, and Anele had perished; where Esmer had passed away: the crest crowned by cairns. In this low canyon, Covenant had ridden away with Branl and Clyme as if he did not want her love. It was a place of loss and struggle and butchery, a black omen.

  The Ranyhyn must have chosen this destination. As far as she knew, Covenant did not have such control over his translations.

  Fortunately the company had arrived in a region of calmer winds. The Worm seemed far away, as if it had lapsed back into abstraction.