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

ceasing to be who he was.
    Rime Coldspray was waiting. Her comrades were waiting. He had to say
some
thing: something that was not more self-recrimination. He had done enough of that. It served no purpose.
    And Linden was not here to heal or curse him.
    Goading himself, he rasped, “You already know some of my story.” The Swordmainnir had heard his challenge to Kastenessen. “Joan is dead. I rode the Harrow’s horse until I killed it. We almost lost Mhornym and Naybahn. But they saved me. Then we went after
turiya
. Branl and me. And Clyme.”
    Now that he had made a start, he meant to continue. But Coldspray held up her hand, asking him to pause. Other Giants were coming closer. Limping arduously, Frostheart Grueburn led the way with Latebirth and Cirrus Kindwind at her back. Onyx Stonemage and Stormpast Galesend moved like cripples, supporting Cabledarm between them. Wheezing, Halewhole Bluntfist labored after them.
    As the women gathered beside the Ironhand, Covenant went on.
    “Some things I have to guess,” he admitted, “but I gather Linden had a run-in with the lurker. You were probably there. Whatever happened, it got that monster’s attention. Apparently Horrim Carabal can feel the Worm coming. It doesn’t want to die. It needs more power. But it couldn’t beat Linden—or you and Linden. So the Feroce found me.” They had accused him of being the Pure One. “They offered us an alliance.”
In pain and desperation
—“Mutual help, safe passage, that sort of thing.”
Already he suffers the presence of one who wanders lost within his realm
—“That must be how Longwrath got here. The lurker let him through. And dozens of those little creatures died helping us get to Joan.”
    His listeners nodded again. Silver reflected like keening in their eyes. Longwrath’s attack on Kastenessen must have astonished or appalled them. They had tried so hard to follow his
geas
with him until he found peace. But they did not interrupt.
    “After that,” Covenant said, fierce and quavering, “I wanted an alliance myself.” He dreaded memories like this one. They were as piercing as images of Joan. “It isn’t hard to imagine we’re going to need all the help we can get. And I was afraid
turiya
would take the lurker.” He did not mention the former Guardian of the One Tree. The Swordmainnir would recognize Brinn’s name; but Covenant had no courage to spare for that explanation. “Once I learned how to jump across leagues, we went after the Raver.
    “We didn’t catch up with him until he was in the Sarangrave. I tried to kill him, but I couldn’t. Clyme and Branl did it.” In spite of his private horror, he could not gloss over this detail. The Giants needed to hear it. They would understand. And the Humbled deserved at least that much homage. “Clyme let
turiya
possess him.” Like Honninscrave in Revelstone. “Then he held the Raver while Branl cut him to pieces.” Covenant remembered hacked flesh, severed bones, blood. “
Turiya
wasn’t just rent. He’s gone. There isn’t anything left.”
    The distress of the Giants showed in the way they looked at Branl; in glances teary with compassion and dismay. Perhaps more than any other living people, Coldspray and her comrades knew the cost of causing a Raver’s end. Yet Branl’s gaze gave them nothing. He was
Haruchai
and did not accept grief.
    Covenant considered that rigidity a weakness, not a strength. He believed that forgiveness began with sorrow. But perhaps he was wrong. Perhaps a man who grieved would have spared Clyme. Then
turiya
Herem would have lived. Eventually Horrim Carabal would have been lost—and the Worm might have made its way, unresisted, to Mount Thunder.
    Grinding his teeth, Covenant went on.
    “When Branl and I got out of the Sarangrave, we probably weren’t all that far from where we are now. But the Feroce told us the Worm was getting close. That’s when I sent my message. Then I wanted to see it for myself. We went to look.
    “Now the Worm is here.” He bit down on his voice to hold it steady. “I can’t describe it. I’m not going to try. But I can tell you this.” Facing the clenched apprehension of his audience, he said, “It wasn’t headed
here
,” toward Jeremiah’s fane and the sealed
Elohim
. “It was going west. Straight at Mount Thunder. At She Who Must Not Be Named.
    “That scared me,” he growled. “Lord Foul likes convoluted plots. Every trap you face has another one hidden inside. If