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

reply. He had forgotten himself and did not remember what was at stake. He was simply at peace. The only part of him that seemed to have an independent existence was the part that regarded the Worm. Yet that sight conveyed neither dread nor anticipation. It had no personal implications. It merely
was
: a fact as real as possession, and as inevitable.
    Moksha
did not prod him. Patient as the ages, the last of Lord Foul’s Ravers waited as if together he and Jeremiah could take all the time in the world. When moments or hours or years had passed, and still Jeremiah had not stirred from his relief,
moksha
Jehannum looked away as if he were mildly interested in the fate of Coldspray and Grueburn and Canrik.
    In spite of their exhaustion, Jeremiah’s companions fought. With a shout that seemed to rend her heart, Frostheart Grueburn succeeded at toppling her foe. But the stone-thing twisted as it fell, pulled her beneath it. When it landed on her, the impact broke her cataphract as if it were dried clay, tenuous and brittle. Air burst from her lungs.
    Nevertheless she rolled away as the monster shifted to strike her. Its blow shook the floor; or the Worm’s feeding did. A fretwork of cracks marred the rough surface. Gasping frantically, and shedding shards of armor, she regained her feet.
    The other creature flailed blindly, trying to fling Canrik from its back. But its arms could not reach him. Somehow he kept his hands over its eyes. It could not see Coldspray. Through
moksha
, Jeremiah heard or felt the wail of pain from Coldspray’s damaged knee. Still she was the Ironhand. She did not relent. She kicked the stone-thing in the chest again; growled through clenched teeth; kicked again. At the same time, Canrik exerted all of his strength to drag the creature’s head back. Off balance, the creature stumbled toward the wall.
    When it hit, Canrik would be crushed.
    They were Jeremiah’s friends. Even Canrik—
    Samil was already dead.
    A vague unease drifted through the boy’s tranquility. He felt himself or the Raver frowning.
    To
moksha
, Jeremiah admitted, I don’t know how.
    How? asked the Raver. He sounded bright as new coinage: shining gold stamped with Lord Foul’s feral eyes.
    I don’t know how to be a tool. He hardly heard himself. I don’t know enough. I’m like a knife that’s too dull. I haven’t been sharpened. I’m not ready.
    Well said.
Moksha
Jehannum’s approval had a salacious tinge; a hint of slaver. All implements must be refined to their purpose. The Despiser’s intent is glorious beyond utterance. No mortal born is apt to his hand. You must become greater than the greatest of your former aspirations. You must transcend every demand placed upon you by those lesser beings who sought the profit of your gifts, misnaming their desires love. By submission, you will attain the stature of eternity and awe. The Raver chuckled: a sound like the jaws of a trap closing. As will I in the perfection of my service. Then his attention became more acute. For that reason, I am within you.
    Cruel blue silhouetted the fighting beyond Jeremiah. The monster with Canrik on its back appeared to recognize its opportunity. It heaved its granite mass at the wall. But at the last instant, Canrik sprang away. He uncovered the creature’s eyes just in time to let the stone-thing see Rime Coldspray thrust her glaive at its throat.
    Blue glared like delight. Her blade’s point splintered: her sword skidded aside. Fragments as keen as poniards scattered to the floor. Weakness and her own force dropped Coldspray to her knees. Despair gripped her features like nausea.
    Frostheart Grueburn did not hazard another clinch with her foe. Evading heavy blows, she retreated, circled. As soon as she could, she dove to retrieve her longsword, rolled back to her feet. An instant of consternation twisted her mien when she saw the notch that her first blow had left in the iron. But she had no other weapon. Parrying frantically while the metal shivered and shrilled, she retreated again.
    Reason? asked Jeremiah.
    Indeed, the Raver answered. Take no offense when I observe that you are sadly ignorant. There is no fault in you. The
croyel
was sent to teach rather than to torment you. Alas, it was a petty being, seduced by its own desires. It did not prepare you. Therefore I have intervened.
    My task is to whet the dull blade. Yet you are not mere iron. Neither force nor fire will refine you. You require knowledge.
    That knowledge I