The Last Dark: The climax of the entire Thomas Covenant Chronicles (Last Chronicles of Thomas Cove)

Stave’s indistinct form still clung to the rock. One grip at a time, he eased upward.
    Cirrus Kindwind left the Ironhand’s side, strode some distance up the rockfall. When she had climbed atop an especially tall boulder, she stopped to study the ridgefront. Then she raised her voice in a shout.
    “Grueburn! Latebirth! Alter your heading!” She waved her arms, directing her comrades to the left. “You will be struck!”
    The two women did not respond to Kindwind’s hail; but they must have heard her. They shifted their course.
    Unfortunately now they were no longer clambering up the rockfall’s spine. Instead they were forced to straggle along the side of the slope. If Stave came down toward the crest of the rubble, they would not be able to reach him without sprinting upward—and they were fatally weary.
    Still Stave made his way by undetectable increments. Only the erratic spatter of stones and the wind-torn fall of dirt showed that he was still moving. But he
was
moving. One hand or foot or finger or toe at a time, he worked his way closer to the bulbous rock supporting the slab.
    Jeremiah hardly dared to estimate the distance. Involuntarily he imagined Stave’s fingers bleeding, his muscles trembling—
    Rime Coldspray rested a gentle hand on Jeremiah’s shoulder. “Remember that he is
Haruchai
,” she murmured. “He has performed wonders ere now. Mayhap he will surpass our fears yet again.”
    “But he’s in trouble either way.” If Stave failed to shift the slab, he would never be able to climb back down. “Can they”—Jeremiah meant Grueburn and Latebirth, Stonemage and Cabledarm—“actually catch him?”
    “We are Giants.” The Ironhand’s reply was softer than the wind. “Often we have been tested. Often we have prevailed.”
    For a time, Stave seemed to vanish. Hidden by the shape of the bulge, he had become indistinguishable from the stone.
    In alarm, Jeremiah blurted, “Where is he? What’s happened?”
    “Gaze more closely,” Coldspray advised. “You will perceive that he is safe for a time. One arm he has wedged into the cleft between the monolith and the cliff. While he remains thus secured, his peril is diminished. Now the uncertain balance of the stone is the gravest threat. Should it tilt suddenly, catching him unprepared—” She allowed herself a sigh. “In that event, opportunities to affect his fate will be slight. Far better for him if he must exert his full strength to shift the stone. Then his efforts will carry him outward, away from the precipice and ruin.”
    As she spoke, Jeremiah caught an image of Stave dropping like more rubble. Spinning out of control. Hitting the ridgefront over and over again until he was mangled beyond recognition.
    The former Master had made his own choices—but Jeremiah had inspired them. His whole body ached with a futile desire to keep Stave safe.
    Still resting her hand on Jeremiah’s shoulder, Rime Coldspray continued, “For the moment, I am primarily concerned by the width and depth of the cleft.” She sounded deliberately casual. “At this distance, I cannot gauge it. If the stone does not stand free of the cliff, it is unlikely to fall. And if the cleft will admit no more than Stave’s arm, he will have scant leverage. Then the bulk of muscle which he will require might exceed even a Giant.
    “No, we must hope that he will contrive to force his arms and chest—indeed, his body entire—into the cleft. For him as for us, that will be the most favorable circumstance.”
    She may have been trying to soothe Jeremiah by focusing his attention on practical details.
    To an extent, she succeeded. As if involuntarily, he found himself imagining Stave squeezed behind the slab; Stave straining to shift the monolith. While Stave did such things—if he did them—he would not fall.
    Wind stung Jeremiah’s eyes. His pajamas fluttered around him in tatters. He ignored Stormpast Galesend and Halewhole Bluntfist as they drew near. Instead he watched Grueburn and Latebirth, Stonemage and Cabledarm. They had reached the places where they meant to wait for Stave. Now they stood motionless in the night. They were not immediately below the slab, but they were close enough to be struck by debris—or by the slab itself if it bounced crookedly against the ridgefront. Still Jeremiah thought that they were too far from the cliff—and too far from each other. He could not believe that they had a prayer of saving Stave.
    The three