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

upon us. We dare the Worm at our peril. We must trust that the Forestal who was once our friend and companion will not fail.”
    More firmly, she ordered her Swordmainnir to reclaim their armor and weapons. While Linden tried to break free of the spell which Caerwood ur-Mahrtiir had cast on her, the Giants gathered up their stores of water and
aliantha
. Then they ran from the bower.
    Covenant came to her with pride in his eyes. Wrapping his arms around her, he assured her softly, “We can do this. Somehow we can do it. We just have to get started. As long as we’re together—”
    He steadied her. Somehow we can—If the Forestal was strong enough.
    After a moment, she nodded.
    With an air of regret, Covenant released her.
    A heartbeat later, Stave put his hands on Linden’s waist and boosted her unceremoniously onto Hyn’s back. As her muscles settled into their familiar places astride the mare, the former Master went to help Jeremiah mount. Covenant heaved himself into Mishio Massima’s saddle. Stave sprang for Hynyn.
    Before Linden was ready—before she could possibly be ready—the riders surged into motion.
    An alteration in the Forestal’s music parted the canopy to the northwest, opening a path out of the bower. Together Covenant and Linden, Jeremiah and Stave rode from shelter and solace into the bleak dawn of a sunless world.

    eaving the protection of the willow and Caerwood ur-Mahrtiir was like passing from Andelain into the virulence of the Sunbane. Linden and her companions staggered to a halt. The Ranyhyn flinched; rolled their eyes. Mishio Massima shied and crabbed, nearly unhorsed Covenant. Caerwood ur-Mahrtiir’s music had concealed the extent of the peril. Outside the bower, the storm’s scale was unveiled.
    It was enormous.
    During the night, the blast of presage had reconciled its confusion. Instead of writhing from one direction to another like a beast in agony, it had become a stiff assault from the northeast; a gale arising from the heart of the utter blackness that now loomed into the heavens like the front of an atmospheric tsunami. Eerie ululations like the anguish of ghouls sounded in the distance. Scourged gusts scooped groans from the craters that littered the ground; scaled into wailing on the ragged edges of the belabored ridge. If the Forestal’s theurgy had not protected the willow, its leaves would have been torn away, scattered like debris. Boughs would have split like screams.
    That was bad enough; but there was worse—
    The core of the storm was a blare of
might
that defied perception: too loud to be heard, too dark for vision; too savage to register as anything except horror. But at the fringes of the Worm’s approach, thunder crashed, a wild barrage like a convulsion that would never end. It seethed like the collapse of cliffs. Within it, armies of lightning stalked the plain, hammering the earth until the very dirt seemed to erupt and burn. Sudden and erratic, flashes lurid as bruises punctuated the blackness. On either side of the advance, desolations writhed like orgies, articulating the Worm’s hunger.
    God in Heaven! Linden had never—
    Instinctively she snatched fire from her Staff. The sheer force of the blast threatened to extinguish her mind. But Earthpower sharpened her senses, made her more vulnerable. It seemed to
expose
her, as if the magnitude of the storm served to measure her inadequacy.
    She had unleashed this doom.
    Her strength left her. Her power became dust and ashes in her veins. Her heart lurched to a halt.
    Cowering into herself, she did not feel the Giants running toward her. She hardly noticed them as they joined her. Their cataphracts would not protect them. Their swords were useless. She could not hear herself gasping, “Oh, God. Oh, God.”
    In size, the Worm may have been
no more than a range of hills
, but it had enough raw force to rive the world.
    How close was it? Two leagues? Three?
    Distance meant nothing to such a creature. It was already too near. It would arrive more swiftly than any Ranyhyn.
    Then one of the Swordmainnir shouted, “Behold the Forestal!”
    Like a strike on an anvil, Linden’s heart beat again. It began racing.
    Mahrtiir!
    Behind her, Caerwood ur-Mahrtiir emerged from his bourne. Bearing his staff like an emblem of defiance, he strode to meet the gale.
    He did not go far. Less than a stone’s throw from the battered drape of the willow, he stopped; prepared to make his stand. He must have been singing,