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

and Rime Coldspray remained to move the last stones. Cabledarm had already taken her place inside the temple. Blood seeped from her bound wounds, but she ignored it. With her comrades, she did what she could to keep the roof steady. But there were still two slabs to raise. One would have to rest entirely on the injured woman and the wall. The other she would be able to share with Cirrus Kindwind.
    The gasping of the Giants sounded like anguish. They had to stand as rigid as foundations, but they could not stand straight. The finished walls around them were no higher than their shoulders. They had to lower their heads and bow their backs in order to balance the roof stones. That posture constricted their breathing. Their heavy muscles quivered on the verge of collapse. Any sudden shift might scatter them like dying leaves. Sweat streaming from their faces spattered the dirt, made marks like cries. Their staring eyes showed white like terror in the enclosed gloom.
    Nevertheless Coldspray and Bluntfist forced the remaining stones upward. Somehow Cabledarm and Kindwind bore those added loads. Somehow they managed to turn and twist—lowering one shoulder, raising another, shifting their feet incrementally—so that the slabs fit where they had to be.
    Jeremiah supervised all of this without thinking about it. He could not afford to regard the sufferings of the Giants, and nothing else required his consideration. As soon as Cabledarm and Kindwind achieved the right positions, he dashed out of the temple with the Ironhand and Halewhole Bluntfist at his back.
    Stave waited there as if he were deaf to the desperation of the Giants. Shredded gales as fragmentary as the rocks of the construct gusted around him and away, but did not move him.
    Fighting for breath, Coldspray and Bluntfist paused briefly; braced their trembling hands on their hips; straightened the cramps out of their backs and legs. Then Rime Coldspray nodded to Jeremiah and the
Haruchai
.
    “Ready yourselves,” she warned the other Swordmainnir as if she wanted to scream and did not have the strength. “The end is near. One exertion remains, the last and the worst.”
    At once, she grasped Stave and wrenched him into the air. He landed on the roof as if he were as weightless as dust.
    Then it was Jeremiah’s turn. He held his breath while Bluntfist lifted him; placed him beside Stave.
    With his bare feet, he felt the ordeal of the Giants. The surface of the roof resembled strewn rubble. It shifted under him when he moved. The women were only moments from absolute exhaustion. The roof might yet cave inward. And there was one more rock—
    If Coldspray and Bluntfist could even raise that piece. If Stave could manage it alone in spite of his wounds.
    If.
    Entire realities rested on one small word.
    “Hang on,” Jeremiah croaked. “We’re moving as fast as we can.”
    He was sure only of himself. The temple had been built correctly: it was exactly what it needed to be. When the capstone sat in its proper position, the whole edifice would become secure. Even rested Giants might not be able to knock it down.
    Stone was not bone: he could not fuse it. Nevertheless there was power in shapes: the right shapes, the right materials, the right fit. The right words. The right talent. Even the right Earthpower. Such things could change the world.
    Praying, Jeremiah watched Stave at the edge of the roof. Coldspray and Bluntfist would have to do more than lift the last stone. They would have to hold it over their heads for the
Haruchai
. If he had to reach down for it—if he could not crouch under it—even his great strength would not suffice.
    Groaning like women whose hearts were about to burst, the Ironhand and Halewhole Bluntfist heaved. In their extremity, they half threw their burden at Stave.
    Jeremiah did not understand how Stave caught it. He did not know why Stave’s bones did not break; why Stave’s muscles and heart did not rupture. The former Master was not breathing. He had no pulse. A convulsion seemed to stop his life.
    The roof where he stood tilted. The stones on either side of him swayed fatally. Giants groaned in dismay.
    He stayed upright, but he did not move. He looked like he could not. Every sudden thrash of wind threatened his balance.
    Then Coldspray and Bluntfist reentered the temple to help their comrades. Together they steadied the roof.
    Slowly, as if he thought that he could live forever without air or blood, Stave turned away from