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

oozed into the drying crust around his eyes and down his cheeks. Falling on rocks and coral had gashed his ribs badly. Some of them were cracked or broken. Splinters of pain gouged every breath. His jeans and T-shirt had been shredded. A lattice-work of torn flesh and more blood marked his arms and chest and legs.
    The
krill
’s heat must have burned his hands; his foreshortened fingers. But that damage, at least, he did not feel. Leprosy disguised his lesser hurts.
    By comparison, the Humbled were almost whole. They, too, had been struck by scraps of flung rock. A cut marred the side of Branl’s neck. Clyme’s arms and tunic showed rents, contusions, small wounds. But they had not shared Covenant’s floundering on the seabed, or felt Joan’s blow. And they were
Haruchai
. They would be able to go on.
    Now they appeared to be watching for some sign that the doomed sun would rise, or that the incremental extinction of the stars would cease. But perhaps they were waiting for the Ranyhyn. If they permitted themselves anything as human as prayer, they may have been praying that Mhornym and Naybahn had survived the tsunami.
    Without mounts, there was nothing further that Covenant or the maimed Masters could do to defend the Land. The Shattered Hills were an indurated barricade thronging with
skest
, masterless and unpredictable. And the distance between him and Linden was impossible; scores of leagues—
    His need for her was just one more wound that could not be healed.
    The gloom lightened until it resembled mid-evening or the last paling before sunrise. But it grew no brighter. All of the illumination seemed to descend from the precise and imperiled stars. It was their lament.
    The Worm was coming—and Covenant had no idea what to do. The light of the
krill
’s gem had gone out. There was no wild magic left in him. Simply staying on his feet required every shred of his remaining strength. He bore Joan’s ring in the name of an unattainable dream.
    Oh, he needed Linden. He needed to make things right with her before the end.
    Such yearnings were as doomed as the stars. The
Elohim
had no hope of escaping the Worm’s vast hunger.
    Time may have passed, but he did not notice it. He did not notice that he was still bleeding. The stab of abused ribs when he breathed insisted that he was alive; but he ignored it. He did not think about anything except Joan and stars and Linden.
    Long ago, he had promised that he would do no more killing. Now he was forsworn, as he had been in so many other ways.
    Eventually Branl spoke. “Ur-Lord, we cannot remain as we are.” Faithful as a grave, he carried Loric’s
krill
clad in the remnants of Anele’s apparel. “We will forfeit our lives to no purpose. If the
skest
do not assail us, privation and your wounds will bring death. We must delay no longer.
    “If the Worm’s advance may be measured by the fate of the stars, some few days will pass ere all time and life are extinguished. While they endure, a reunion with your companions—and with the Staff of Law—may yet be achieved. For that reason, we must abandon Naybahn and Mhornym. We must concede that they have perished. In their place, we must summon other Ranyhyn.”
    After a pause—a moment of hesitation?—he added, “And you must consent to ride. We cannot hope for your healing, except by the succor of the Staff.”
    Covenant meant to say, No. He meant to say, Never. He could not break more promises. But those words eluded him. Instead his knees folded, and he sank to the stone. Some other part of him croaked, “Here’s another fine mess you’ve gotten me into.”
    He did not realize that he had spoken aloud until he tried to laugh. His chest hurt too much for laughter.
    “Unbeliever?” Undercurrents of anger fretted Clyme’s tone. He and Branl had followed Covenant into a
caesure
. They had saved him when he was lost. “Do you accuse us? These straits are not of our making.”
    For a while, Covenant could not imagine what Clyme was talking about. Then he managed to say, “Oh, you.” He dismissed the notion. “I didn’t mean you.” Perhaps he should have laid the blame at the feet of the Creator; but he did not. “I meant Foamfollower. This is all his fault.
    “If he hadn’t insisted on keeping me alive. Making impossible things possible. Laughing in the Despiser’s face. He was always the Pure One, even if he didn’t think so himself. None of us would be here without him.”
    Even the Worm would