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

water viscid as oil, putrid as excrement, ran from a gaping wound in the cliff between the mountain’s knees. At one time, the river had thundered from that wound, flushing the bowels of Mount Thunder with the combined waters of the Upper Land, emptying the effluvium of banes and charnels, of disused Wightwarrens and discarded corpses and lakes of acid, into the welcome of the Great Swamp. But now the level had fallen far below the bed’s rims. Even augmented by the streams, the Defiles Course barely carried enough water to cover the slimed rocks of its bottom. The wound in the cliff gaped like a waiting maw.
    Insects hummed with hunger past Linden’s head. Some of them stung. Swarms of midges swirled here and there as if they fed on the odor of excreted toxins. As she rode downward, the cypresses appeared to rise up until they towered above her, avid and polluted. The ironwoods looked mighty, although they would surely have grown taller and broader in a kinder setting. Above them, the cliff extended itself to giddy heights.
    Even from lower ground, she could see that the exposed gutrock of the cliff was little wider than the valley between the mountain’s calves. Slopes spread up at awkward angles from Mount Thunder’s thighs into its back. There the mountainsides were rugged and threatening, riddling with clefts and flaws as if they had been hacked by gargantuan blades: they looked impassable. Nevertheless she suspected that Rime Coldspray and her comrades might be able to climb there, given time—and perhaps rope. Stave and Branl could certainly do so. But Linden herself could not. For her, the higher sides of Mount Thunder were unattainable.
    Here she had no choice except to follow Covenant, unless she turned Hyn and fled, taking Jeremiah with her.
    In the valley bottom near the trunk of an ironwood, Covenant finally halted. He handed the
krill
to Branl; but he did not dismount. Instead he waited, peering into the gullet of the mountain, for the rest of the company to close around him. The tension in his shoulders, and the clutch of his hands on the saddle horn, told Linden that he was holding himself in his seat by force of will. His eyes bled tears as if the stink of the Defiles Course burned them; as if the fetor were remorse.
    While their respiration eased, the Swordmainnir scanned their surroundings anxiously, considering possible attacks or escapes. In contrast, the
Haruchai
gauged the terrain with their characteristic dispassion. Alone among their companions, they remembered this place. No doubt their communal memories included recollections of the Defiles Course at its torrential height, when the flood in the lower end of the valley would have reached at least partway up the trunks of the cypresses. But Jeremiah did not lift his head or look around. Muttering to himself, he studied his hands and scowled as if their emptiness angered him.
    When he had regained his balance, Covenant announced, “This is it. I guess that’s obvious. We should rest while we can. I’m not sure we’ll get another chance.” Coming here had been his decision. Nevertheless his tone was thick with doubt. “And we should send the horses away. They can’t help us now.
    “When we’re ready, I’ll try to get the attention of the Feroce. I’m hoping they can guide us at least part of the way.”
    Forestalling an objection which no one expressed, he added, “Not that I think they’ve ever been
in
Mount Thunder. But they’re creatures of water. And not just any water.” He gestured at the river. “They thrive in this stuff. Plus they don’t need light. Maybe they can lead us far enough to find the Wightwarrens.
    “After that,” he finished trenchantly, “we won’t need to know where we’re going. We’ll just have to fight. Eventually the way Foul defends himself will show us where he is.”
    He may have meant, Show us or herd us.
    While Linden tried to gather herself, Jeremiah glared at Covenant under his eyebrows. “It’s a waste of time,” the boy rasped. “I’m starting to recognize some of the landscape. The Worm is on the Upper Land. Beside a river. We’ll still be groping around like we’re lost when it reaches
Melenkurion
Skyweir.
    “And what makes you think you can trust the Feroce?” He clenched his fists, apparently trying to muster flames. But his access to Earthpower eluded him. Perhaps visions of the Worm blocked it. “You had an alliance while the lurker was scared. Now the Worm is