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

servants were many. At any time, he might send Cavewights or stranger creatures to waylay the company. Long ago, horrors had formed a large portion of his forces. The companions could not assume that any stretch of their path would be uncontested.
    To all of this, Jeremiah listened without paying much attention. For the moment, at least, he was content with food and the Staff of Law. Finally he knew what he had to do—and how to do it. He had already shown that he could do it. The whole company trusted their lives to him. And Stave had assured him that he would get stronger. He might even learn how to do more than improve the air.
    If Lord Foul tried to take him, sixteen Giants, two
Haruchai
, and two white gold wielders might be able to protect him.
    So he ate what he was given, and drank water lightly tinged with
diamondraught
, and tried to mask his impatience while he waited for Mom and Covenant to finish this last meal.
    At last, the company was ready. Keenreef and several other sailors shouldered packs of supplies. All of their quirts and spears had been destroyed, but most of Stoutgirth’s crew still carried weapons: billhooks, longknives, belaying-pins. The Swordmainnir had their armor and their blades. And the
Haruchai
had set aside the characteristic reluctance of their people to rely on weapons. Branl shouldered Longwrath’s flamberge, while Stave bore Cabledarm’s longsword.
    Among such companions, Covenant and Linden looked small, vulnerable. But there was a dangerous promise in Covenant’s eyes. And Linden looked withdrawn. She no longer seemed to care about details like difficult climbing and enemies. Only the way that she twisted her ring around her finger hinted that she was fretting.
    Formally the Ironhand drew her stone glaive. Holding it ready, she spoke in a voice of granite.
    “Here we surrender every future which we have imagined for ourselves. We have no prospect of return. Indeed, we cannot trust that we will outlive another day. Our doom is this, that we enter Mount Thunder seeking to confront the most heinous of foes—and yet the Worm hastens toward the World’s End many scores of leagues distant, where no deed of ours can thwart it. Thus even the greatest triumphs within the mountain may come to naught, for no life will remain to heed the tale.
    “Nonetheless I proclaim”—Coldspray swung her sword once around her head, then slapped it into its scabbard on her back—“that I am not daunted.
I am not daunted
. While hearts beat and lungs draw breath, we seek to affirm the import of our lives. The true worth of tales lies in this, that those of whom they speak do not regard how the telling of their trials will be received. When we must perish, my wish for us is that we will come to the end knowing that we have held fast to that which we deem precious.”
    Then her tone eased. “Doubtless this is folly. Yet when have our deeds been otherwise? Are we not Giants? And is not our folly the stone against which we have raised the sea of our laughter? What cause have we to feel dismay and hold back, when we have always known that no anchor is secure against the seas of mischance and wonder?”
    Perhaps she would have continued; but the Anchormaster was already laughing. He tried to say something, but the words were lost in broad gusts of glee. For a moment, the other sailors were silent, dismayed by images of futility. But then Baf Scatterwit began to guffaw: the happy mirth of a woman who enjoyed laughing for its own sake. Her laughter broke the logjam of her comrades’ fears. Carried along by her open-heartedness, the crew of Dire’s Vessel roared as if they themselves were an exquisite jest.
    The Swordmainnir were more restrained. They had lost too many of their comrades. But when Rime Coldspray started to chuckle, Frostheart Grueburn followed her example, and then Cirrus Kindwind. In their subdued fashion, the Ironhand and her warriors shared the delight of the sailors.
    Privately Jeremiah thought that they had all lost their minds. Nevertheless he found himself grinning. He had heard too little genuine laughter in his life; and the mirth of Giants was especially infectious. At least temporarily, it made Lord Foul’s scorn and the
croyel
’s malice seem empty, like taunts from the bottom of an abandoned well.
    Long ago, Saltheart Foamfollower had enabled Covenant’s victory over the Despiser by laughing.
    As the Giants began to subside, Covenant muttered, “Stone and Sea are