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

of waterskins will test only my dexterity.”
    Rime Coldspray nodded. “Go with my thanks. Return as swiftly as you are able. Water we must have. The tasks remaining to us will be arduous.”
    Nodding to her comrades, Cirrus Kindwind left with Hynyn. The imperious arch of the stallion’s neck seemed to assert that he could not be humbled by such mundane service.
    When they were gone, Rime Coldspray said, “Now, Chosen-son. We have delayed too long. There is death in every lost moment. Instruct us, that we may begin.”
    Jeremiah’s heart beat eagerly. At last—“I’ve found everything I need,” he answered. “But some of it still has to be moved. Then I’ll need help putting the pieces in place.”
    “Indeed.” Coldspray scanned her comrades. “For the present, we are only six. But six are more than five, or three, or one. We must suffice.
    “Instruct us,” she said to Jeremiah again. “Come good or ill, boon or bane, we will strive to do as you ask.”
    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.