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

death, I also crave your despair. Therefore I have asked of myself which end will wound your spirit more grievously, a death in agony at my hands, or an occasion to witness the final devastation of all that you hold dear. Remain as you are, and you may observe my return to majesty. Continue to oppose me, and I will snuff your frail life as you would a lantern.”
    Squinting, Covenant located the
krill
. It was too far away.
    Grip and hold.
    Try it, he panted, although he could not speak. See what happens. He could hardly move. You haven’t won yet.
    Nevertheless his shining faltered. He let his power fall away.
    Then he found himself rising to his feet. Stave lifted him from behind, supported him when he could not stand alone.
    The last of Lord Foul’s stone defenders was gone.
    The chamber juddered as if it had been struck by the leading edge of a tsunami. Covenant’s guts and chest knotted, threatening to retch blood. But Stave’s arms sustained him.
    Softly Stave breathed, “
Moksha
Jehannum has taken the Chosen-son.” He had dropped the flamberge. He had no more use for it. “Canrik cannot succor him. The Ironhand and Frostheart Grueburn cannot. Samil has been slain.”
    “Linden?” Covenant coughed: an effort that seemed to grind the broken ends of ribs against each other.
    “I know not.” Stave did not disguise his bitterness. “She cast me from her ere she was claimed by the bane. I desire to hope that she lives, yet I cannot.”
    A moment later, the former Master whispered, “I do not comprehend, Timewarden. Time comes unbound. Soon it will unravel entirely. Why does Corruption remain?”
    Through a mouthful of blood, Covenant panted, “He’s enjoying himself too much.” After uncounted millennia of imprisonment—“He knows he’s already won. He’s just waiting for Jeremiah.”
    And while Lord Foul waited—
    Covenant wanted to strike. He ached for the strength to stop the Despiser. But he was too weak. Too badly hurt. Sick with grief for Linden and Jeremiah. He had nothing left except waiting.
    Roger deserved a better father.
    Roger was crying. He may have wanted words, but he could only manage sobs. A young man who had dreamed of eternity—
    “Timewarden,” Stave demanded, uncharacteristically urgent, “some deed we must attempt. We cannot condone this doom.”
    I know, Covenant thought dimly. I just need a chance to breathe.
    He needed something to believe in. Something to hope for.
    What kind of idiot thinks he can save the world by himself?
    He had forgotten how seductive despair could be.
    “Hear me, Timewarden,” ordered Stave. “I will endeavor to retrieve the
krill
. Should I succeed, you must wield it. You must—”
    Covenant gripped Stave’s arm weakly; tried to restrain the
Haruchai
, although of course he could not. Spitting blood, he croaked, “Wait. He wants Jeremiah. We still have time.”
    Too much wild magic would only hasten the fall of the Arch. It would ease the Despiser’s departure.
    Stave did not move. He may have trusted Covenant. He may have simply hesitated.
    Lord Foul’s gaze had turned away. He appeared to peer through rock toward the cave where Covenant had left Jeremiah. His eyes dripped eagerness. He was as vulnerable as he would ever be.
    We still have time.
    Covenant had abandoned Linden’s son to
moksha
Raver.
    Suddenly the Despiser’s eyes flared. They blazed like torches. His outrage stunned Covenant’s ears. Kiril Threndor lurched in the mountain’s chest as though Mount Thunder had suffered a fatal crisis.
    Stave said something. He may have been shouting, but Covenant could not hear him.
    Roger was moving.
    Broken as a derelict, as the wreckage of his dreams, Roger stumbled toward the dais. He crouched. When he rose again, he clutched High Lord Loric’s dagger.
    As he raised his arm, fresh blood pumped from his severed stump. Red splashed across the stone like an accusation.
    His screaming seemed soundless as he hammered the blade into Lord Foul’s impalpable shape.
    A puny attack, too low and frail to accomplish anything. And the Despiser was mighty: he was scarcely physical. Nevertheless wild magic coruscated in the dagger’s gem. Loric had forged his blade to mediate between irreconcilable possibilities. It was the highest achievement of his vast lore. Somehow it
hurt
—
    In spite of Lord Foul’s vast power, the
krill
appeared to nail him where he stood; fix him in one place. He gathered his fury into a fist. With a single