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

themselves with necessary tasks. They had refilled most of their waterskins. Now they moved among the shrubs, gathering treasure-berries which they placed in the last two waterskins so that the company would not go hungry for a while.
    To Linden, Stave bowed without any visible stiffness. After a moment’s consideration—or consultation—he announced, “Chosen, the storm of the Worm draws nigh. And its course lies directly toward us. We must depart.”
    Ah, God. Linden tightened her grip on the Staff until her hands ached. She was not ready—and she had not eaten. Jeremiah had not.
    But Hyn gave a soft whinny as if to confirm Stave’s assertion. Facing Jeremiah, Khelen tossed his head and stamped one hoof. Restive and proud, Hynyn waited behind Stave.
    In contrast, the Ardent’s spavined horse, with its distinct ribs and slumped back, paid no heed to anything except grass. And Rallyn had already left the bower, presumably to join Branl.
    Studying Jeremiah, Covenant’s expression settled into its familiar strictness, as exigent as a prophet’s. “I’m sorry, Linden,” he said, muted and grim. “We have to get out of here.”
    Before she could force herself to move, however, the Forestal spoke. He did not change his stance or gaze at anyone; but his song became words, as peremptory as commands. As if he were encouraging haste, he said, “I have no staff.”
    He startled Linden; perplexed her. Fortunately Rime Coldspray seemed to understand him instinctively. Without hesitation, she replied, “Great one, your lack is plain. If you will condone it, I will sever a branch to serve you, though I am loath to harm the loveliness and shelter which you have provided.”
    Caerwood ur-Mahrtiir hummed to himself. After a brief pause, he answered, “Do so. All of the world’s woods know that boughs must fall like leaves—aye, and the grandest of monarchs also—when there is need.”
    The Ironhand bowed. Hurrying, she thrust her way between the hanging branches and lights to retrieve her stone glaive.
    Would a staff be enough? Would the ur-Mahrtiir himself suffice? Linden wanted to believe that. Long ago, the forbidding of the Forestals had blocked the Ravers along the whole length of Landsdrop. But the Worm was immeasurably greater than Lord Foul’s most potent servants.
    Her hands on the Staff were suddenly damp. Sweat ran like spiders down her spine; like centipedes and maggots. Her flesh had not forgotten She Who Must Not Be Named. Nevertheless the Land’s peril compelled her.
    Her voice shook as she asked the Forestal, “Do you need any help?” She had assured Jeremiah that she would not give up. “Is there anything that I can do?”
    “There is.” Caerwood ur-Mahrtiir’s music gathered around her. “The approaching puissance is vast. As I am, I cannot withstand it. I require your strength.”
    Involuntarily she quailed. Her old friend might need more from her than she knew how to give. But Caerwood ur-Mahrtiir wove the many strands of his music into a soothing counterpoint. He stood directly in front of her now. And as she regarded him, another face seemed to emerge within his, softening his unanswerable visage. Like shadows, blurred and tenuous, the former Manethrall’s features joined those of the Forestal.
    Humming in a more human voice, he said, “Yet I have not forgotten you, Linden Avery, Ringthane and Chosen. You bear dooms greater than the fate of the
Elohim
, or indeed of the world’s remaining trees. You must not perish in my aid. I ask only your blessing.”
    My blessing? She mouthed the words, but made no sound. Oh, Mahrtiir! My
blessing
?
    Caerwood ur-Mahrtiir unfurled ancient tunes around him, verse and refrain. “This invoked bourne of verdure and health is small. By the measure of the world’s end, it is little more than vainglory. But I will not have it so. I will not. Here stands the forgotten truth of wood, just as the fane which preserves the
Elohim
expresses another truth also forgotten. While my bourne endures, it affirms that the Worm and death are not the sum of all things.
    “Linden Avery, Ringthane, friend. Bless this beauty with your strength. Nourish it, that I may suffice in its defense.”
    Now she understood. Relief and sorrow clogged her throat as if she had inherited them from Caerroil Wildwood and his gibbet. She could not speak. But she understood. At one time—a time as forgotten as other truths—she had been a healer. Behind the wrath of the olden