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

waterline, poised with the
krill
and Longwrath’s flamberge. Linden felt a throb of wild magic from Covenant’s ring. Reflexively her wedding band answered his attempt to prepare himself. Imminent heat and argent chased away the things that scurried across her skin. The long arc of the monster’s body continued to flow. If it felt the company’s presence, its awareness was hidden in the depths.
    Linden tried to focus her attention on her ring, seeking to support Covenant; to dismiss the bane’s touch. But she was too close to the Staff. Jeremiah’s power seemed to block her, or she blocked herself. Wild magic and Law conflicted.
    Coldspray and then the Anchormaster rounded the curve. Dire’s Vessel’s crew hurried after them, crowding close to the cavern wall. Weapons ready, both Stonemage and Bluntfist had taken positions like Branl’s near the water’s edge, guarding the rear of the company. Scatterwit whimpered as if she feared to be left behind.
    The Feroce had disappeared again. Had they gone ahead? Linden did not know. She struggled to breathe. A moment passed before she realized that the company’s alarm had pierced Jeremiah’s concentration. He needed help.
    Here she could not call upon the Staff without touching it. The throb and itch of her ring interfered. Trepidation interfered. Leaning away from Grueburn’s arms, she reached for Kindwind and Jeremiah; but she could not stretch far enough. Then Grueburn shifted closer to Kindwind, and Linden gripped the Staff by one iron heel.
    She did not take it. Instead she added her will to her son’s disturbed resolve, reinforced his intentions with her own.
    He gave her a quick glance of thanks. Relieved, he settled back into himself. The pressure of poisons in her lungs eased. All of the Giants seemed to move more quickly. Even Scatterwit’s pace improved.
    “Attend!” Branl called calmly. “The water rises.”
    Linden twisted her head to look.
    Oh, shit. Branl was right. Still motionless, still silent, the midnight lake had begun to devour its borders, fed by some source beyond her discernment. It did not lap or splash against the rocks. It simply covered them.
    Led by the
Haruchai
, Grueburn, Kindwind, and Scatterwit passed the curve at the rear of the company. At once, Branl ran ahead, carrying light. Now Linden saw that the cavern narrowed in this direction. The walls leaned closer to each other until they met in a sheet of running water. At first, the sheet appeared sheer, a straight waterfall thinned by its own width. It would be impossible to climb. And there were no slopes leading up to the tunnel that opened three or four Giant-heights above the lake. The Feroce stood facing the cul-de-sac as if they had been thwarted.
    But then Linden saw that the pour of water reflected argent and emerald in a cascade of spangles. Under the waterfall, the stone was broken in scores or hundreds of places, pitted and interrupted wherever erosion and toxins had found flaws.
    Surely it would still be impossible to climb? The stone would be slick—
    The lake rose. The added water should have drained away as fast as it came, but it did not. Somehow the lurker’s mad god heaved the entire surface higher. Grueburn, Kindwind, and Scatterwit were forced to pick their way closer to the wall.
    Without explanation, Stave sprinted away. Inhumanly sure-footed, he caught up with the Humbled, moved among the Giants. He handed Cabledarm’s sword to the Anchormaster. Linden heard him ask for rope.
    Favoring her knee, Baf Scatterwit stumbled into the edge of the lake. Her right foot went under. The impact of her weight had no effect on the water’s massive lift.
    Linden had no idea what would happen then. The lake’s power defied her senses. But Scatterwit scrambled out again. She tried to limp faster.
    Linden clung to the Staff’s heel, struggled to help Jeremiah clean the air.
    From a sack of supplies, a sailor produced a coil of rope as thick as Stave’s arm. He looped one end twice over his shoulder, secured it by tucking it under itself. Immediately he approached the swift sheet of the cul-de-sac. As if the difficulties were trivial, he began to ascend.
    Water pounded onto him. It splashed past him without affecting the eerie surface of the lake. He was drenched in ancient corrosives, distilled residues. But they did him no apparent harm. His flesh spurned the mountain’s taints.
    “Giantfriend,” Grueburn rasped: a harsh scrape of sound. With her sword, she