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

fingers through his hair, tried to harden his heart. Deliberately harsh, he rasped, “Otherwise you might as well go back into hiding. You’ll be useless.”
    Slowly Jeremiah’s silted gaze settled into focus on Covenant. He seemed to return from some other dimension of reality; some private hell. When it came, his answer was distinct.
    “I don’t want to go back there.”
    Covenant felt like cheering. Grimly he stifled the impulse. “Then trust yourself. Trust the Staff. There’s a way to fight back. You just have to find it.
    “And remember I need you. You might do something better than surprising the Despiser. You might surprise yourself.”
    “Ur-Lord,” Handir demanded, peremptory as a cudgel. “Do you not hear me? Every delay is fatal. You must select a path.”
    Still Covenant ignored the Voice of the Masters. He had to face Linden.
    She was glaring at him, furious and bitter. Her hands clenched as if she wanted to hit him. He had hurt her son.
    Before she could speak, he said harshly, “Maybe I’m wrong.” With the fingers of his halfhand, he massaged the scar on his forehead. “Maybe I’m not. Look at him. What do you see?”
    For a moment longer, her indignation raked Covenant; but she could not refuse him.
    When she focused her senses on Jeremiah, her eyes went wide. Realizations scudded across the background of her gaze. In a startled tone, she breathed, “You brought him back.”
    Covenant nodded. He felt suddenly drained, weak in every limb, as if he had passed a test which might have broken him.
    To Handir, he said in a wan voice, “The direct road. Jeremiah is right. We don’t have time for anything else.”
    He knew what
direct
meant. It would require more killing.
    Rime Coldspray stood over the old
Haruchai
. “If the path is perilous,” she asked, “what form do its hazards take?”
    Handir frowned up at her. “For a portion of its length, Ironhand, we will be exposed to assault on all sides.”
    She snarled a curse. Then she gave Covenant a look full of reflected argent. “Aye, Timewarden. If we must kill and die, then let us do so swiftly and be done.”
    At once, she turned to the sailors. Sure of herself now, she told them to help the Masters guard the rear of the company.
    Branl had retrieved the
krill
. As he restored it to Covenant, he said, “Be wary, ur-Lord. Your son has not yet opposed us.
Moksha
Raver remains. And we do not doubt that Corruption has other servants.”
    With a mental command, Handir sent the newly arrived Masters to support the sailors. Joined by Canrik and Dast, Samil and Vortin, he started along the passage. The Swordmainnir followed at his back. Gesturing for the Cords, Covenant accompanied Branl. Stave urged Linden and Jeremiah forward.
    Through the thick midnight of the Wightwarrens, Covenant bore the only light. He tried to hold it steady, but his arm wavered like his thoughts. Be wary. Roger and Cavewights and
moksha
Jehannum. Cirrus Kindwind. Baf Scatterwit. Scores of slain
Haruchai
. And for what? Not for him. Not even for Linden. Lord Foul was not afraid of them. He believed that he had already triumphed. Nothing that they did could stop the Worm.
    No, it was all for Jeremiah: all the threats and bloodshed, all the striving and woe. So that the Despiser would be able to take him.
    Covenant could only pray that Jeremiah would eventually find a way to resist.

    efore long, the company’s progress became a running battle, frantic and almost continuous. The tunnel branched more frequently, intersected other passages; and at almost every junction, massed Cavewights waited, or small bands of Masters, or both.
    With their acquired weapons—heavy falchions, spears nearly as tall as Giants, axes that Covenant could not have lifted—Handir, Canrik, and their comrades led the way. Deceptively swift, they slipped among their foes, slashing or stabbing at exposed limbs, throats, groins. Together they disrupted one attack after another.
    And behind them came the Swordmainnir. Rime Coldspray and her women fought in a kind of fury, pitiless and brutal. Their blades flung blood. Crimson stained the air, streaked the walls, glazed the floor. They wore it as if it nauseated them, but they did not falter.
    Cavewights went down, screaming or already dead.
Haruchai
fell as well. New warriors joined the company. Together they hastened from one struggle to the next.
    For the time being, at least, Lord Foul’s forces did not attack from the rear. Masters