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

its completion.”
    Covenant did not glance at the Humbled. His attention was fixed on the end of his leper’s circle, his lurching enclosure. For no better reason than exhaustion, he was holding his breath. His muscles sobbed in protest. He nearly fell through the last few steps.
    The argent would fade quickly if he did not continue to feed it. He did not have time to straighten his back, or breathe, or run to his mount.
    Somehow he had to do it.
    But before he could decide to take the risk, Clyme snatched him from his feet. Cradled in Clyme’s arms, Covenant was carried to his horse, tossed carefully into the saddle. At once, Branl caught Covenant’s arm to steady him while Clyme sprang for Hooryl’s back.
    The world seemed to veer and yaw. There was not enough air, never enough air; or Covenant had forgotten how to inhale.
    “Now, ur-Lord,” Branl instructed him. “It must be now.”
    The enclosure was already starting to flicker and go out.
    Covenant’s companions raised his arms for him. They lifted Loric’s
krill
and Joan’s ring high over his head. Together they helped him strike the dagger’s gem with white gold a second time.
    Just for an instant, the Unbeliever became a conflagration again, a being of fire and theurgy. Then the Ranyhyn and Mishio Massima surged forward—and the world vanished as though it had been erased from existence.

    hen his mount hit the ground at a full gallop, Covenant nearly lost his seat. His feet had not found the stirrups: he could not steady himself. And the after-flash of power filled his head. He flopped in the saddle like a loosely filled sack. Without the support of the Humbled, he would have fallen.
    He had no idea where he was. The
krill
’s brightness effaced his surroundings. It made black night where there may only have been twilight. Illumined by silver, the horses pounded the turf: he recognized nothing else. For all he knew, he and his companions had only traveled a dozen strides.
    But then the Ranyhyn and Mishio Massima began to slow their gallop to an easy canter. Although images of wild magic still spun like vertigo in Covenant’s mind, his body began to recover its center. His extremities were numb: the nerves of his torso and hips and thighs were not. They reacted reflexively.
    By slow increments, he became aware that he was holding the dagger dangerously close to his mount. For Mishio Massima’s protection as well as his own, he flipped the fabric that shielded his hands over the blade; covered the gem.
    At once, darkness swept over him. It felt strangely like solace.
    He almost said, Have mercy on me. Instead he managed to pant, “What happened? Where are we?”
    “It appears, ur-Lord,” Branl replied, “that your efforts have succeeded.” He took the
krill
from Covenant, wrapped it more securely in Anele’s raiment. “We gauge that we have traversed some two score leagues, perhaps more. And our heading is to the northwest. The distance to Sarangrave Flat has been halved.
    “In a sunless world, time is difficult to ascertain. Yet we are able to discern its passage. By our measure, an hour remains ere this gloom surrenders to true night. Our translation hither has not been altogether instant. Nevertheless we have been swift beyond comprehension.
    “Ur-Lord”—for a moment, the Master appeared to hesitate—“if your strength suffices for a second exertion, we do not doubt that we will gain the marge of the Sarangrave. Mayhap we will do so ere
turiya
Herem threatens the lurker.”
    A second—? Covenant groaned to himself. Hellfire! Ask me to bring back the sun while you’re at it. The dusk seemed to wheel around him as if it arose from his dizziness; as if he were the source of the enshrouding twilight. His legs and back would not suffer the strain.
    If he staggered just once—if he pulled the
krill
out of the grass for any reason—he would have to start again from the beginning.
    “Your weariness is plain,” Clyme continued. “But
aliantha
will restore you.” He showed Covenant his remaining treasure-berries. “Then we will aid you.”
    “Aid me?” Covenant asked. Mishio Massima cantered smoothly—and yet he felt that he was seated on rolling logs or a canted boulder. “How?”
    Clyme faced him through the dulled grey of the air. “We will devise a means.”
    Covenant stared. “Well, damnation,” he muttered after a few heartbeats. “Since you put it that way—”
    When had any
Haruchai
ever failed him?
    The Ranyhyn