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

lies within your compass.”
    “Like what?” Jeremiah asked. Stave’s manner seemed to banish scorn.
    “Chosen-son,” Stave returned, “your senses are acute. And you will comprehend that our intended ascent into Gravin Threndor must present grave obstacles. Of these, the first is plain. The air is noisome. It discomfits us where we stand. It will become unendurable within the mountain.
    “The Timewarden conceived that the Chosen would cleanse the air. However, the Staff of Law has now been entrusted to you.” Stave stooped, retrieved the shaft, held it up. “Therefore the task falls to you—the task and the opportunity. An increase of strength comes from the use of strength.”
    As Stave spoke, bursts of surprise like little explosions ran through Jeremiah’s veins. He clutched at the Staff. “The
air
,” he breathed. To his nerves, the atmosphere was as distinct as Earthpower. Its insidious taints were so clear that they were almost tangible. He had wasted so much time and effort. “Why didn’t I think of that?”
    Stave shrugged. Finally he released Jeremiah’s arm. But Jeremiah hardly noticed. His mind raced. How had he let himself believe that he had to fail? Did the
croyel
still have that much power over him? Did Lord Foul? Had he simply
assumed
that the small flames which he could raise from the Staff were trivial? Ineffective because he did not know how to make them clean? Had he
tested
them?
    He had not. Instead he had let the Despiser and the Worm and even Linden’s encouragement distract him. A stupid mistake, as stupid as breaking his own neck by not watching where he put his feet. And stupidity was worse than failure. It was worse than terror: it made him useless.
    The purpose of life
, Cirrus Kindwind had once assured him,
is to choose, and to act upon the choice
. If he could not do what Linden had asked him to do, he could do something else.
    He could do
something
that had to be done.

    efore long, Covenant started back up the valley, trailed by a cortege of Feroce with their nauseous emerald fluttering like banners. Along the way, Branl unveiled the
krill
. At the same time, Rime Coldspray, Bluff Stoutgirth, and the Humbled made their way down from the ridge of Mount Thunder’s calf. Silver spread across the sleeping Giants as the Ironhand and the Anchormaster began to rouse them.
    Far back in Jeremiah’s thoughts, images of the Worm squirmed. When they broke through his concentration, they stung his heart. Now he thought that he recognized the confluence of the Black River and the Mithil. If so, the Worm had crossed much of the South Plains. Furious as a perfect storm, the incarnate cataclysm flared and thundered ever closer to the hills which had once formed the boundary of Garroting Deep. And beyond the region of the lost forest stood
Melenkurion
Skyweir. The companions did not have much time left. They had probably rested too long.
    But now Jeremiah could push those nightmare visions away. The fangs that were Lord Foul’s eyes, and the memories of the
croyel
’s feeding, no longer consumed him. He had a job to do, a job he understood. In some ways, it resembled making one of his constructs: it involved pulling bits of good air toward him and rejecting poisons; forming a kind of breathable edifice. That may not have been how Linden cleaned the air, but he knew how to do it. The real challenge would be to
keep
doing it. It would erode constantly: he would have to rebuild it constantly. And the erosion would get worse as the company moved. Still Stave’s suggestion gave him hope. Watching Covenant’s approach, Jeremiah felt almost ready.
    Above and around him on the slope, the Swordmainnir shrugged their shoulders into the armor, examined their weapons. Without prompting, Wiver Setrock and the woman called Keenreef portioned out another meal, although their supplies were dwindling. Other sailors complained or jested. Of no one in particular, Baf Scatterwit asked where she was. Sounding sincerely confounded, she wanted to know where Dire’s Vessel and her other friends had gone. But when Stoutgirth replied with instructions rather than answers, she complied as if she had forgotten her confusion.
    “She is easily bewildered,” one of the men—Squallish Blustergale?—remarked casually to Jeremiah, “yet she is an adroit sailor, quick in every exigency. Aye, and doughty withal. None will outlast her on the sheets, or strive more fiercely when there is need. Also she is