The Last Dark

  Still swinging, Covenant nearly followed the wreckage into the depths. Stave dragged him back.

  Covenant did not pause. Every thought was gone from his head: every notion or awareness except a compulsory desire to get his people out of here. He would never rid himself of the taste of blood. Brandishing slaughter, he ran to help his companions reach the next bridge.

  e and those with him were only able to gain the fifth level because new groups of Masters entering the habitation converged where they were needed. Fresh and unbloodied, they threw their lives into the mass of Cavewights. They were Haruchai. In a distant region of the Land, two hundred of them rode to oppose the Worm of the World’s End with their bare hands. Fighting and dying like men who had never known fear and did not count the cost, they helped Rime Coldspray and Frostheart Grueburn clear the top of the span.

  Of the Masters ascending with the Swordmainnir, only Canrik and Samil remained. Branl alone guarded the rear, contesting every step with Longwrath’s flamberge. Somehow Stave kept spears away from Covenant, Linden, and Jeremiah.

  Fortunately the tunnel toward Kiril Threndor was near. And the Cavewights blocking the way had been scattered by unexpected Masters. From the opposite wall, more creatures came, loud as thunder, vehement as lightning; but most of them were not close enough to strike.

  Still they were too many, as they had been from the first. They would follow the company into the passage ahead. Eventually they would kill everyone.

  At Canrik’s urging, Coldspray and Grueburn led their companions into the blind dark of the tunnel. He and Samil joined Branl and Stave guarding the rear. The surviving Masters arrayed themselves at the opening, braced to die so that the Cavewights could not pursue.

  “No,” Covenant panted at them. “Come with us.”

  He had seen too many Haruchai killed.

  Branl silenced him. “Will you seal the passage, ur-Lord?”

  Covenant struggled to breathe. “Yes.”

  He could not have done so in the earlier tunnels. The company might have needed to retreat. Now he had gained a path to the Despiser. There was no going back.

  “Then,” said Branl flatly, “these Masters will aid the other Giants and the Cords.”

  Covenant tried to move; tried to lift the krill. Are you serious? You want me to leave them out there? His arms refused to obey him until the warriors outside the tunnel met his frantic gaze and nodded their approval.

  Even here, they made their own choices. He could not gainsay them.

  Groaning curses, he forged fire along the blade of Loric’s dagger for the last time. Unsteady as a man who had forgotten the use of his limbs, he slashed silver at the walls and then the ceiling. With wild magic, he cut down great chunks of stone until the passage was sealed.

  After that, he collapsed inwardly. He could still walk, still go where he was guided; but he could not think or speak. Images of slaughter filled his head. Wounds gaped at him like the grins of ghouls. The tumult of falling stone volleyed against the boundaries of his mind. So much killing. So many dead. And he had lost the sailors. He had lost everyone with them.

  He had brought carnage into the dwelling-place of the Cavewights: just one more item on the long list of his crimes.

  What was it all for? Covenant knew his own reasons, but Lord Foul’s daunted him. The Worm could not be stopped. At last, the Despiser could be sure of his long-sought freedom. Then why had he been so profligate with the lives of his servants? Did he simply enjoy sacrificing them? Or did he secretly fear that Covenant might yet find a way to thwart him?

  No. The Despiser knew Covenant too well.

  But Lord Foul did not know Linden and Jeremiah: not with the same intimacy. The fane which had preserved the Elohim and delayed the Worm demonstrated that he had underestimated Covenant’s wife and her adopted son. Without their efforts, their opposition, he might already have escaped the Arch of Time.

  Maybe that explained the brutality of his defenses.

  The tunnel rose. Dragging the weight of his sins behind him, Covenant trudged upward.

  At his side, Linden stared ahead, wide-eyed as a woman who saw a holocaust waiting for her. Jeremiah wrung the Staff as though he wanted to twist it apart. His every step was a flinch. Leading their few companions, Coldspray and Grueburn slumped like derelicts. Only Stave and Branl, Canrik and Samil paced the ascent like men who could not be appalled by any sacrifice.

  A rift cut across the tunnel. It split the floor as though it had been made by an axe sharp enough to wound mountains. It yawned at Covenant, too black to be relieved by the krill’s shining. But it was thin: a fracture no wider than his thigh. Pretending to ignore it, he stepped across.

  More fissures appeared. They were little more than cracks, yet they served to remind him of the times when violence had torn through Kiril Threndor, Heart of Thunder.

  He was getting close—

  When the Giants halted, he nearly walked into them. Blinking and stupefied, he looked around.

  They had entered a chamber like an exaggerated vesicle, a natural formation left behind by some accident of volcanism. The passage continued, but Coldspray and Grueburn stood wavering as if they had come to the end of themselves: they looked like they wanted to lie down. The cavity was more than large enough to accommodate them prone. It could have held a dozen sleeping Giants.

  To one side rested a pair of large boulders. They seemed strangely out of place. Covenant could not imagine how they had come to be here. But plenty of room remained, and the floor was approximately level. When he found himself swaying on his feet, he realized that he was tired enough to stretch out and rest in spite of the Earth’s peril.

  And yet his weariness was a drop in the ocean of Coldspray’s and Grueburn’s exhaustion. Even the Haruchai were probably worn down, although they concealed it.

  Grueburn’s longsword dangled from her fingers. “Is it conceivable,” she asked, plaintive as the cry of a distant tern, “that we are done with combat? I cannot raise my arms.”

  “‘The mightiest of the Swordmainnir,’” muttered Coldspray dully. “So I have vaunted myself, and so I am. Behold.” She lifted her glaive. “My hand is firm.” It shook like a dying leaf. “My eye is keen.” Fatigue glazed her gaze. “Beyond question, I am—” Abruptly she dropped her sword. Her shoulders slumped. “Stone and Sea! I am undone by woe and killing. I cannot spit out the taste of blood. It will fill my mouth to the end of my days.”

  Sighing, Covenant roused himself enough to respond, “Join the club.”

  Jeremiah said nothing. He appeared to have lost interest in everything except his ambiguous struggle with the Staff of Law. Folding his legs, he settled himself against one wall, sat cross-legged with the black wood resting across his thighs. His head he kept bowed as if he did not want anyone to see the darkness deepening in his eyes.

  Linden studied him for a moment, then turned away. She had spent too long clenched inside herself; too long crowded with needs and fears which she had not allowed herself to express. She was a rightful white gold wielder: for hours now, she could have struck her own blows. Yet she had contained herself, passive as dust amid the winds of battle. Somehow she had withheld—

  But I’m done fighting.

  In spite of endless provocations, she had kept faith with her decision. The cost of so much restraint must have been severe. Now she seemed ready to explode.

  Nevertheless her voice stayed clenched as she asked the Ironhand, “What about the others? We left them to die.”

  Her bitterness resembled the edges of Longwrath’s sword.

  Coldspray shook her head. “They will not perish while they are able to fight and flee.” She spoke as if she sought to reassure herself. “Having lost us, they will retreat for their lives. My commands were plain. And Halewhole Bluntfist and Onyx Stonemage are Swordmainnir. They comprehend that they must not sacrifice the Anchormaster’s crew and the Masters of the Land—and assuredly not the Ramen Cords—to no purpose. Rather they will
seek an egress from the habitation.”

  Then her tone frayed. It seemed to tear. “Now we have played our part. Ask no more of us. We can go no farther.”

  Once before, Covenant had seen despair in the eyes of a Giant, when Saltheart Foamfollower had tasted the ecstasy of killing Cavewights—and had found that he wanted to kill more. That despair had kept Foamfollower alive when all of his people were murdered. Coldspray’s surrender, and Grueburn’s, made Covenant want to weep.

  He drew a shuddering breath. Well, then, he told himself. This is as good a place as any.

  Hell and blood.

  To the Ironhand, he said, “Don’t worry about it. You’ve brought us far enough. Nobody could have done more.”

  Then, wincing inwardly, he told Linden, “If you’re going to do it, now’s the time. You won’t get another chance.”

  On the walls, silver made dark streaks like the ichor of mountains.

  Alarm flared across her face as she turned to him; but she did not protest. Instead she tightened her grip on herself, increased the pressure until it threatened to break her. “Already?” she asked without hope or humor. “Are you sure? I still want to live.”

  Her gaze said, I still want to live with you.

  “Kiril Threndor isn’t far.” Covenant choked for a moment. He had to swallow a rush of grief. “You can’t go there with me. Neither can Jeremiah. This is it.”

  As if he were asking for forgiveness, he added, “I’ll take Branl. Jeremiah will have Stave and Canrik and Samil.”

  She looked away. Her eyes avoided Coldspray and Grueburn as if she felt shamed by the prices which they had paid for her. Instead she regarded her son again.

  To no one in particular, she said, “All right. I chose this. Some of those poor Masters might still be alive if I had made a different choice.” She seemed to choke momentarily. “Or Baf Scatterwit. Cirrus Kindwind. God, I loved her—

  “Losing them will be wasted if I change my mind now.”

  Covenant’s vision blurred. He squeezed his eyes shut to clear them. Taunting her, Lord Foul had called Linden his daughter. He was wrong.

  From the floor, Jeremiah asked suddenly, “What’re you talking about?”

  Linden did not let herself look away. “Jeremiah, honey—” Her voice was breaking. “I have to go.”

  In one motion, Jeremiah surged to his feet, lifted his gaze into the light of the krill. His eyes were as black as the Staff. Even the whites had become midnight.

  “Go where?”

  “I can’t put it off any longer.” She sounded tight enough to snap. “I need to face the only thing that scares me worse than losing you. You and Thomas.”

  His face twisted. Protests clawed at his features. “But you’ll come back,” he said as if that were not a question. “That’s what you do. You come back.”

  She flinched—but she did not falter. “I don’t think so, honey. Not this time.”

  Jeremiah stared horror at her. “You’re going to leave me? You’re going to let Lord Foul have me?”

  “No, Jeremiah.” Her tone sharpened. “I’m not going to let him anything. But I can’t fight him for you. Even if I took back the Staff and stood right in front of you, I couldn’t help you.” More gently, she said, “I wish that I could spare you, but I can’t. If you don’t want him to take you, you have to stop him yourself.

  “I know it’s hard—”

  Her son cut her off. Vicious as a denunciation, he sneered, “‘I know it’s hard.’ You keep saying that. You don’t know anything. I’ve already tried to fight. I’m not strong enough. The croyel thought I was easy. How am I supposed to stop the Despiser?”

  Linden shook her head. Her distress made Covenant ache. “I don’t know. But I believe in you. You can do it.”

  “I can’t!” His shout was like the tearing of flesh, full of pain and awash with blood. “I’ll have to watch the Worm destroy everything!”

  Covenant’s balance shifted. Only grief kept him from dropping to his knees. Only a whetted empathy kept him from raging at Jeremiah. But grief and empathy were enough. He braced himself on them when everything else spun away.

  “You can always decide to give up,” he said as if he were steady and sure; as if he had strength to spare. “You have that right. If it’s what you really want.” Or the boy could join Lord Foul. “But I need you. I’m going to need you absolutely. And Linden can’t help me. Nobody else can. There’s only you.

  “But first we have to let Linden go.”

  Jeremiah flung a look black enough to kill at Covenant.

  A heartbeat later, the boy turned his back on his mother.

  “Then go.” He sounded as lightless and fatal as the path toward Kiril Threndor. “You never loved me anyway. I was just an excuse. You don’t want to have to blame yourself for letting me put my hand in that bonfire.”

  “Jeremiah—” Linden was weeping now. “Honey—”

  Ah, hell, Covenant thought. Visions of the Worm had raised all of Jeremiah’s demons. He had spent days suppressing them. They ruled him now. Deliberately he sat down again, put his back to his mother; to Covenant and their companions. His hands wrestled ebon flames along the wood of the Staff as if he wanted to rewrite Caerroil Wildwood’s runes.

  Maybe we should all try to become gods.

  The Giants watched blank-eyed, caked in drying blood, mute as cenotaphs. Branl studied Jeremiah with a speculative frown, as if he were considering where to cut the boy.

  Covenant gave the krill to Stave. Then he took Linden’s arm and pulled her away. While she stifled sobs against his chest, he held her tight.

  With as much tenderness as he could manage, he promised quietly, “I’ll talk to him, love. He doesn’t know it yet, but he’s just proving your point. You can’t do his fighting for him. No matter what happens to him, he’s the only one who can do anything about it.”

  “Oh, Thomas.” Distress shuddered through her, harsh as spasms. “I’m so scared. What if he gets it wrong?”

  For a moment, she could not go on. She slumped against Covenant as if she had lost the will to stand on her own.

  He hugged her in silence. He had no words—

  But gradually she responded to his embrace; drew a steadier breath. Freeing one arm, she wiped her face, smeared tears and blood across her cheeks. “And I swore that I would love you as long as you never let me go. Now I’m the one who’s leaving. I have to let both of you go.”

  Covenant held her as hard as he could. “I understand. You can’t get rid of me this easy.” Then he said more seriously, “In any case, I’m like you. I believe in Jeremiah. He has to feel this way. If he doesn’t, he won’t ever get past it.”

  At one time, Covenant himself had embraced despair—

  “Also,” Stave put in like a man who had been biding his time and was done with patience, “you will not depart alone.” The krill shone full on his face; on the scar of his lost eye. “Linden Avery, I have said that I will not be parted from you again. The Chosen-son I entrust to Canrik and Samil, and to the Swordmainnir. You I will accompany.”

  Surprise seemed to loosen some of Linden’s tension: surprise or relief. She ignored the former Master long enough to kiss Covenant quickly, wipe her face again. Then she turned to Stave.

  “Do you know where I’m going?”

  “Mayhap.” Stave may have smiled. “Or mayhap I am mistaken. I care naught. At one time, I declared that Desecration lies ahead of you. Now I am persuaded that there is no Desecration in you. I will not stand at your side to ward against you. I will do so because I have not learned humility, though you have endeavored to teach me. I crave further instruction.”

  His assertion sounded like an example of Haruchai humor.

  Linden tried to say his name. Apparently she could not. Instead she went to him, put her arms around his neck.

  Past her hair, Stave met Covenant’s gaze. “You have wed well, Timewarden,” he said as if his characteristic stoicism had become a form of jestin
g. “I will strive to ensure her return.”

  Covenant nodded. What could he have said? There were no words in all the world for his gratitude.

  When Linden released the former Master, he returned Loric’s dagger to the Unbeliever.

  Covenant took it; gripped it. His throat was as tight as his grasp on the krill. He had to force himself to ask Linden, “Are you ready?”

  The corner of her mouth twisted: a failed smile that nearly broke his heart. “I’m never ready. I’ve given up waiting for it.”

  He rubbed his scar roughly, tried to compose himself. “Then remember I love you. I love you.

  “And don’t worry about Jeremiah. You did your part. I refuse to believe anything you did for him is wasted. The rest is up to us.”

  Her mouth said, “I’ll try.” Her eyes said, Thomas of my heart.

  The Giants offered her no farewell. Frostheart Grueburn set her teeth on her lower lip: a woman stifling protests. Tears streamed openly down her cheeks. Rime Coldspray hung her head as if she could not bear her weariness—or her dismay.

  Jeremiah did not look at any of them.

  Together Linden and Stave moved to a clear space a few steps from the walls and the Swordmainnir. There they waited like contradictions or counterweights. His poised relaxation balanced her trembling tension. After a moment’s consideration, he tossed Cabledarm’s sword to Canrik. No weapon would serve him now.

  Grim as a deliverer of damnation, Covenant stood beyond Linden’s reach. He could not afford to hesitate now. He had no time; and his resolve might fail at any delay. He knew where she was going. He was more afraid for her than he was for himself.

  As if he had begun preparing for this days ago, he gave fresh wild magic to the dagger’s gem and thrust the blade into the stone between his boots. When the hard surface caught silver, he dragged the krill to the side, cutting granite like damp clay. Step by step, he sliced a circle around Linden and Stave.

  Along the line of his cut, his power shone as if rock were the fuel for which it yearned.

  He did not need a large circle to enclose his wife and the former Master. In spite of his awkwardness and grieving, he returned to his starting point quickly. Then he forced himself upright. Wild magic reached for the ceiling. Through its brightness, he met Linden’s gaze.