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

your bereavement. Nonetheless you are the Anchormaster of Dire’s Vessel, and you have not been relieved of command. Storms do not abate when a Giant falls from the rigging. Nor is our peril eased by the loss of comrades precious among us.
    “The world’s ending will be
caamora
enough for any woe. You will not hazard your life for a corpse.”
    “Will I not?” Stoutgirth did not meet her gaze. “Is this your word, Rime Coldspray? Do you speak thus, you who have lost five of your Swordmainnir, and have seen the purpose of your striving across the seas fail? Ironhand, your heart is stone. Mine is water.”
    Coldspray clenched her fists: anger glared in her eyes. Before she could retort, however, he jerked up his head, laughed like a loon. Two strides took him to the edge of the chasm. There he crouched, braced his arms under Hurl’s body, and heaved it into the depths.
    Laughing or crying, he said, “Hurl I give to the river. May it bear my heart to the surcease of seas, as it does him.”
    His wracked mirth rose until it seemed to fill the crevice: a broken man’s threnody for the world’s fallen. But he did not permit his rue to hold the company back from the ropes.

    hen Covenant reached the higher ledge, he had to sit down. Freed from his knotted cradle, he collapsed against one wall of the crude tunnel leading away from the crevice; drew his knees to his chest and hugged them urgently; hid his face. He felt unmanned by vertigo, by impossible demands and contradictions. He had barely known Hurl. He could not even remember the names of the other slain sailors, Giants who had lost their lives without striking a blow in their own defense. And his decisions had led them to ruin. It was his responsibility to make their deaths worthwhile.
    It could not be done. Nothing that he ever did would assuage Lord Foul’s countless victims. Nothing would suffice to honor the valor of those who still struggled for the Earth.
    Still Covenant had to try. He had to close his ears to the siren song of dizziness and futility. He had to believe—
    There is no doom so black or deep that courage and clear sight may not find another truth beyond it.
    He was a leper. Surely he could believe whatever he chose? As long as he was willing to pay the price?
    Fortunately he was not alone. In the Land, he had seldom been alone; but this time he had been given more than companionship and aid. Linden was coming toward him. He did not need health-sense to recognize the love in her eyes, the raw concern. Jeremiah followed behind her, clutching the Staff of Law as if his sanity depended on it. Stave brought the light of Loric’s
krill
into the tunnel. Branl had gone to extremes that still appalled Covenant. Two Masters—Ard and Ulman?—stood on the ledge, helping with the ropes. And there were still Giants.
    God, Giants—Five of Rime Coldspray’s comrades: four of the Anchormaster’s sailors: all gone, as lost to the world as Lostson Longwrath. Nevertheless those who remained outnumbered the dead.
    And two hundred Masters had come to the Wightwarrens. Two
hundred
—
    If Covenant’s ability to choose what he would and would not believe was one side of being a leper, this was the other: he did not know how to bear such abundance. He had spent decades in one world and millennia in another learning how to stand alone.
    Yet he could not pretend that he was not grateful. When Linden sat down beside him and slipped her arm over his shoulders, he found that he was able to meet her gaze.
    “It isn’t all bad,” he said roughly. “At least we’re still together. Some of us made it.”
    He meant, I love you, Linden Avery.
    Her hug seemed to say that she understood.
    Blinking uselessly, he looked around. “How are we doing?” Shadows and stark silver confused the shapes gathering around him. “We can’t stay here.”
    “We’ll be ready soon,” she told him. “Some of the Giants need help.” Cirrus Kindwind and Onyx Stonemage. Baf Scatterwit. Squallish Blustergale. Etch Furledsail. “They’re being hauled up now. That only leaves Canrik and Dast.”
    Of course, Covenant thought. Naturally the Masters would insist on coming last.
    Two hundred of them were in the Wightwarrens somewhere. Against how many Cavewights? He had no idea. Roger had had plenty of time to summon every living creature in Mount Thunder. And
moksha
Raver remained a threat. He might still be able to command any number of Lord Foul’s servants. Covenant was not