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

All here know that in your care every sword grows too long for easy use.”
    Another silence followed while Jeremiah fretted. The Ironhand’s comment may have been a jest. If so, he did not understand it.
    Apparently the other Giants did. After a moment, they started laughing.
    At first, their laughter was as weak as their limbs: a sound like moaning amid the confusion of the winds. But then Stonemage retorted, “Mockery is ignorance. Occasions there have been in abundance, yet none have inspired complaint,” and her comrades began to laugh harder. Soon they were laughing with such abandon that they could not lie still. Latebirth and Galesend tossed from side to side. Grueburn pulled her knees to her chest, hugged them. Even Cabledarm chuckled in spite of her wounds.
    “I don’t get it,” Jeremiah protested; but the women went on laughing.
    Joy is in the ears that hear
. Clearly the Swordmainnir lived by that creed. Jeremiah did not understand at all. They sounded hysterical. Yet when they subsided, they were stronger. Somehow laughing had restored them.
    That was enough for him: he could accept it. When he was able to believe that the Giants were ready, he moved away toward the scant beginnings of his construct, beckoning as he went.
    The rectangle that he had marked in the dirt was still vivid in his mind, although its visible lines had been erased. A few heavy stones had already been put in place for him. He had added a number of small rocks himself. But that was barely a start. Most of the building remained to be done.
    However, all of his materials were waiting for him. He could imagine their eventual positions precisely, as if they were lit by sunshine rather than masked by dusk. His part of the work that remained was simple.
    Followed by the Giants, he thrust his way through the wind to select rocks in their proper sequence: a sequence that would allow him to prop each one securely before the next was lifted.
    That the women were more willing than able was painfully obvious. Stones that one Swordmain had managed alone earlier now required the strength of two or three, or even four. Nevertheless their willingness did not waver. To spare themselves, they rolled rather than carried rocks to the edges of the nascent temple. Together they heaved the shards into position. Then Jeremiah scrambled to insert the chunks of granite and basalt that would brace the bigger pieces in place.
    The Giants took turns, resting as much as they could. When their waterskins were empty, the Ironhand sent Kindwind to fill them again. And the women watched over each other. Whenever one of them faltered or stumbled, others moved to help.
    By slow increments, the walls of the temple rose.
    Every now and then, Jeremiah remembered to glance at Stave. Indistinct in the distance, the former Master still knelt with his back to the construct, motionless as a tombstone. He gave no sign that he was aware of his companions’ efforts.
    They could have used his help.
    By the time that Kindwind returned, the walls were nearly complete. A crude slab had been set to form the lintel of the entrance. Without counting, Jeremiah knew that a dozen heavy rocks and twice that many smaller ones remained before the capstone could be wedged into place. He knew exactly where the pieces would go. But he did not know how his companions would be able to finish the work. They seemed entirely spent. He was not confident that their hearts would continue to beat much longer.
    While Kindwind handed around waterskins and her comrades rested, Jeremiah went to plead with Stave.
    But when he reached the
Haruchai
, he did not know what to say. He could see that Stave was healing. The former Master knew how to provide for his own recovery. Nevertheless his heart beat with palpable reluctance, the pulse in his veins was as thin as a thread, and his breathing barely lifted his chest. In spite of his native toughness, he looked like a man who might not stand again.
    Jeremiah’s appeal for help turned to dust in his mouth. Winds seemed to drive it back down his throat.
    Stave did not turn his head, but his shoulders stiffened slightly at Jeremiah’s approach. After a moment, he answered the supplication of Jeremiah’s silence.
    “Chosen-son.” His voice was a wisp of its familiar inflexibility. “Say what you must. I hear you.”
    “I don’t know why you’re still alive,” Jeremiah blurted. “But I don’t know why the Giants are still alive either. They’re