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

Named. Remembered Elena—
    Entering the maw at the base of the cliff would resemble falling from the Hazard.
    Swearing to herself, she called Earthpower from her Staff to heal her little hurts, chase away the insects and the worst of the stenches; cleanse the recall of maggots and lice from her nerves. Then she extended the same small benison to her companions.
    Jeremiah ignored her gift. Trapped in his own thoughts, he did not appear to feel any physical discomfort. Perhaps the same inheritance which protected him from cold and preserved his bare feet also warded him from stings. Whenever Linden thought that she should talk to him, she discovered that she was not ready. What could she have said? His ability to watch the Worm’s progress was a wound for which she had no salve.
    Like her companions, she refreshed herself at the stream, ate her portion of the treasure-berries. Then she shared a hug with Covenant; leaned against the stubborn bones of his chest while his stubbed fingers ran awkward reassurance through her hair.
    As the tenuous afternoon dwindled toward evening, vapors began to rise from the waters of the Sarangrave. At first, they were vague, visible only when they caught the light of the
krill
. But gradually they thickened into blots and tendrils of fog. By degrees, opaque arms and sheets found their way into the valley, traced the Defiles Course toward the sides of the mountain. Before long, the fog was a softly roiling wall that veiled the Flat. If it continued to expand, it would soon fill the valley.
    As strands of fog coiled among the sparse ironwoods, the horses took their departure. Mishio Massima simply trotted away, tossing its head as if it had exhausted its patience for riders. The Ranyhyn were more formal. First they gathered around Covenant. As one, they reared, pawing the air as if he had won their approval. Then they separated, Hynyn toward Stave, Rallyn to Branl, Hyn and Khelen to Linden and Jeremiah. Hynyn nuzzled Stave while Stave stroked the stallion’s nose. Khelen offered the same gesture of affection to Jeremiah. For a moment, Jeremiah appeared to rebuff the Ranyhyn. Abruptly, however, he flung his arms around Khelen’s neck: a boy who did not want to be forsaken.
    Branl answered Rallyn’s whinny with a salutation as old as the Lords. To Linden, Hyn lowered her head to the ground, bending one foreleg like a curtsey. “No,” Linden breathed as she hugged the mare, “please. We’re past that. I should be bowing to you.”
    Hyn replied with a soft nicker. The look in her gentle eyes implied sadness, pride, affection, regret, even an atavistic alarm. Nonetheless it seemed to aver that she had not lost faith.
    In homage, the Giants drew their swords. Holding their blades high, they saluted the fidelity and service of the great horses.
    As one, the Ranyhyn turned away. Together they followed Mishio Massima into the fog. If they neighed any last farewells, their calls were swallowed by the brume.
    The stars were gone; masked. Damp vapors blurred the shape of the watercourse. The cliff lost its definition, its implacable rigidity. Around the companions, the
krill
’s argent reflected back from the fog until they seemed to stand within a cynosure. A beacon. Beyond the light, the rest of the world was reduced to a slow seethe of blankness, moist and clinging.
    Linden regarded the fog with fresh apprehension. It seemed to imply perils which would strike without warning.
    “What does it mean?” demanded Jeremiah hoarsely.
    “It means,” Covenant replied, a low growl from the back of his throat, “we’ve waited long enough.”
    Suddenly brusque, he claimed the
krill
. With Branl at his side, he headed down the valley toward the Sarangrave. Loric’s dagger thrust illumination ahead of him. At his back, fog crowded in to enclose the company. Where he stopped, the outermost twigs and boughs of cypresses were visible; but Linden could barely distinguish her companions.
    “I’m here.” Covenant appeared to shout, but the fog muffled some sounds while it accentuated others. The distant plash of water carried more distinctly than his voice. “You called me the Pure One. We made an alliance. I’ve been keeping my part. Now we need to talk. I want the Feroce.”
    Wrapped in that fug, Linden found it impossible to believe that any of the Sarangrave’s ears would hear him.
    Droplets beaded on her skin. The damp seeped through the flaws in her shirt. With her nerves rather than her