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

Bluntfist went next with Setrock and Furledsail. Cirrus Kindwind carried Jeremiah after them. Then it was Frostheart Grueburn’s turn. As Linden scrambled onto Grueburn’s back, she saw a rope trailing from the crevice: a lifeline. Onyx Stonemage gripped the end while someone—Bluff Stoutgirth or one of his sailors—pulled it taut. Muttering her approval, Grueburn held the line to steady her as she bore Linden into the crevice with Stave behind her. Squallish Blustergale supported Scatterwit. Stonemage brought up the rear.
    The lifeline was necessary. Somewhere beneath Grueburn’s feet, there was stone: there had to be. But long turbulent millennia had deposited thick layers of silt as cloying as quicksand. The water pounding against Grueburn’s thighs was not the greatest obstacle to her ascent. The silt was worse. She sank to her calves and higher in muck that dragged at every step. While she hauled one foot out of the mire, her weight drove the other deeper. She needed the rope.
    For that reason, any Giant above her who happened to find secure footing paused to anchor the line. The result was progress in arduous surges as sailors and Swordmainnir pulled themselves or each other from one patch of solid ground to another.
    How the
Haruchai
managed to ascend, Linden could not imagine. Glancing behind her, she sensed an uncharacteristic frown of vexation on Stave’s visage. The strain in his muscles was as palpable as Grueburn’s. At intervals, he clutched at the lifeline, obviously reluctant to require its aid.
    How long could he continue? How long could the Giants? Linden had often been amazed by their endurance, but still—The crevice was too narrow for the companions to assist each other side by side, and the silt was
deep
. Each new step seemed to demand more effort than the one before.
    A call from above warned the company that Stoutgirth had floundered into a pit where the mire seemed bottomless. His sailors dragged him back; but then everyone else was forced to wait while the Giants in the lead probed for a way past the pit.
    Linden felt a flutter of panic. The walls seemed to be leaning in. Surely the crevice was becoming narrower? The current boiling past Grueburn’s legs carried glints of She Who Must Not Be Named like flakes of shed malice: lightless, invisible, yet distinct to Linden’s nerves.
    If Frostheart Grueburn lost her balance—If Linden plunged into the water—
    Apparently Stoutgirth’s fall and rescue had released gases trapped in the pit. Heavy as fog, sulfur and putrefaction rode the stream. They burned Linden’s eyes, stung her nose, bit into her chest, until the tug of running water took them away.
    She could hear Covenant swearing at his helplessness. Jeremiah jerked his head from side to side, flung black fire along the river. Spray stood like sweat on his skin.
    Then the Anchormaster reported success. The line began to lurch forward again.
    In their turn, Kindwind and Grueburn reached the pit. Now Linden understood Stoutgirth’s mistake. Her health-sense could not measure the varying depths of the silt. It was all so old, so laden with refuse and minerals, so full of the aftereffects of dire theurgies, that it refused percipience.
    Helped by Bluntfist and Furledsail, Cirrus Kindwind bore Jeremiah around the rim of the pit: a narrow path. Linden shifted until she hung from Grueburn’s shoulder; dangled over the pit as Grueburn forced her way around it. Stave crossed by floating on his back and pulling himself along the rope. Grueburn and Kindwind waited while Blustergale ensured Scatterwit’s safety. Then Blustergale sent Scatterwit ahead. He stayed behind to assist Onyx Stonemage.
    In heaves and sags, the company struggled upward. Aching for Grueburn, and for Jeremiah, Linden concentrated on clinging to Grueburn’s armor—and on holding still so that she would not disturb Grueburn’s balance.
    Here the air was definitely better. It became cleaner, demanded less from Jeremiah, as the river dragged its atmosphere with it. Hints of the bane persisted, but they were diminished.
    On into darkness, interminably. The fissure became wider. It narrowed again. At intervals, indurated juts of stone interrupted the silt. For long stretches, the muck seemed deeper. The Giants fought for breath to feed their straining muscles, their accumulating exhaustion. Their gasps filled the crevice above the rush of water. Linden could not remember when they had last rested.
    Then the rope