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

more; could not advance to threaten Roger or the Despiser. Together they were too strong. Roger’s savagery demanded his utmost, and his utmost was not enough.
    And while he fought to withstand lava and malice, he gave no heed when the boulders against the walls opened themselves and became monsters.
    Two of them. Three.
    Apparently the Despiser was not satisfied. He desired Covenant’s death too much to let Roger fail.
    The stone-things were vacancies. Despite their actinic auras, they were only visible to ordinary sight. Branl did not sense them. His attention was fixed on Covenant’s struggle. One step at a time, he circled obliquely closer to the dais. But he was looking for an opening, a chance to attack while Covenant distracted Roger. He was not watching for other threats.
    As massive as monoliths, and as silent, two of the creatures lumbered toward the Humbled from opposite sides. The third advanced on Covenant.
    Covenant saw nothing except white fire and ruddy brimstone; felt nothing except the tearing heat of Roger’s theurgy. Roger had called him
oblivious
. He was oblivious now. There was no room in his heart or his mind for anything beyond the extremity of his need to hold on.
    But Branl was
Haruchai
. He may have been as transfixed as Covenant; may have felt as desperate. Nevertheless he was a warrior to the bone, defined by combat. A heartbeat before the nearer stone-thing drew close enough to hit him, he saw it.
    Whatever he thought or felt at that moment, he did not hesitate. Spinning away from the dais, he swung a two-handed cut at the side of the creature’s neck.
    The clang of iron shivered among the stalactites. The flamberge bounced back, singing with stress.
    The monster lurched to a halt. A third of its throat had been sliced open.
    Branl needed an instant to regain control of his blade. Then he swung again.
    This time, the creature folded to its knees. Slow as a sigh, it collapsed on its face and became dust.
    Febrile with pain and hate, Roger fed the mounting holocaust. Through the glare, Covenant descried Roger’s features. Their agonized contortion seemed to cry out, wailing of needs and fears that surpassed sound, exceeded the firestorm of powers. Roger’s mouth shaped words which Covenant could not hear.
    Dad, Covenant’s son seemed to be saying, help me.
    Abruptly his own dread and hurt fell away. The burning of his hands lapsed into numbness. His grip steadied the
krill
against Roger’s onslaught. Wild magic rose to a pitch too acute for perception.
Moksha
Jehannum had taken Jeremiah. Covenant did not know what had become of Linden, but he knew that She Who Must Not Be Named was too strong to be defeated. And the Worm of the World’s End was feeding. Forces mightier than Covenant’s struggle shook Mount Thunder to its roots. He was losing everything that he had ever striven to preserve. Nevertheless he was not daunted. He still had something to fight for.
    His son was possessed. Roger bore the immedicable wound of Kastenessen’s hand. He had been a fool—a fool and a coward—but that changed nothing. He had not chosen his parents; had not caused his mother’s weakness or his father’s absence. Now the extravagance of his distress made Covenant’s voluntary hurts seem trivial.
    A different kind of anger dismissed Covenant’s pain; his earlier wrath. This new ire resembled his old, familiar rage for lepers. It was a passion colder, calmer, and more complete than his desire to hurt the Despiser: a sympathy so furious that it felt like exultation.
    Clenching Loric’s dagger, he concentrated his outpouring of fire through the gem. Then he began to force his way toward the dais. One step at a time, he advanced against torrential magma and malevolence.
    “No!” the Despiser shouted. “I will not permit it!”
    While Branl stood over the fallen stone-thing, the second creature came at his back. One sweep of its granite arm smashed his shoulder, flung him at the wall. Noiseless amid the cacophony of magicks, the flamberge clattered to the floor. He struggled to rise, but his legs failed him.
    In that instant, Stave appeared in Kiril Threndor as though he had dropped from the ceiling. Somehow Linden had translated him here. He would not have left her side willingly.
    Nonetheless he was
Haruchai
: he did not need time to gauge what was happening around him. As his feet touched the floor, he dove for Branl’s longsword. A roll brought him upright with the flamberge in his