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

his own spirit.
    He wanted Clyme to hurry.
    Clyme did not appear to make haste. Nevertheless he had already completed a perfect semicircle. From behind the horses, Covenant could see the spot where he had started. He would reach it in a score of heartbeats.
    Perhaps because Clyme moved with such alacrity in spite of his crouched, crab-wise steps, or perhaps because his circle was so exact, Covenant’s power shone more brightly, promising translation across a greater distance. With the help of the Humbled, he might have been able to travel the Lower Land from border to border in mere hours.
    The thought of such imponderable speed made him dizzy again. If he could stop
turiya
—and if he could do at least
some
thing to help Horrim Carabal survive the Worm’s arrival in the Land—he might actually have time to rejoin Linden. Wherever her own exigencies had taken her, he might be able to find her.
    If.
    Then the enclosure was done. It shone like the
krill
, defining itself against the gloom. At once, Clyme surged upright. Sprinting, he carried Covenant toward their mounts. Before Covenant could regain his balance, he sat in Mishio Massima’s saddle. Branl steadied him while Clyme mounted Hooryl.
    As if he were pitching himself over a precipice, Covenant brought the ring and the gem together above his head.
    He became an instant of wild magic; and reality vanished as the horses sprang into a gallop.
    He could not perceive time. He had no opportunity to draw a breath. His heart did not beat, or he did not feel it measure out his life. The disappearance of the world was as sudden as a blink, complete as soon as it began. Yet time must have passed. When the world reappeared, the horses were running hard, pounding along uneven slopes at the full extent of Mishio Massima’s strength. And the half-light, the gloaming—
    The dusk had deepened. The horses galloped in the core of the
krill
’s illumination; but beyond it, the darkness looked solid as a wall. Covenant and the Humbled had ridden into a realm of shadows, or night had fallen.
    While he reeled, he tried to ask, Now where are we? But his throat was too tight to release words.
    After a moment, however, the horses began to slow; and Branl urged him to cover the
krill
. “When you are no longer blinded by its light, you will perceive that the Sarangrave is nigh. It lies a stone’s throw to the west.”
    “Here
turiya
Herem’s spoor is strong,” added Clyme. His tone was sharper than Branl’s, whetted by anger or anticipation. “Nonetheless it appears that we are belated. The scent enters the wetlands ahead of us. Indeed—” The Master paused as if he were tasting the air. Then he stated, “We discern struggle, a contest of powers. Frenzy lashes the waters at some distance. We deem that a battle has begun.”
    Begun—? Alarm ran like acid along Covenant’s nerves. In an instant, he forgot dizziness, fatigue, depletion. “Hellfire,” he rasped. “This is my fault. I took too long.” Recovering. Thinking. “Now I’m going to have to do this the hard way.”
    Instead of veiling Loric’s dagger, he held it over his head. A beacon—
    Spectral against the coming night, tangled brush and gnarled trees became visible off to Covenant’s left: limbs and twigs that resembled bleached bones in the silver light; clumps of reeds like thickets of spears; dark floating pads with nacreous flowers; noxious scum; troubled waters so black that they refused lumination. The tenebrous air was thick with stagnation and rot, the putrid remains of corpses. The fetor made knots in Covenant’s guts. Instinctively he wanted to shy away.
    Nevertheless the Ranyhyn and Mishio Massima cantered toward the area where
turiya
Herem had entered Sarangrave Flat as if that were Covenant’s truest desire.
    Hell and
blood
. He was not ready for this. Not after everything that he had already endured.
    Even his blunt nerves sensed the inherited dread that gathered in Rallyn and Hooryl.
    “Ur-Lord.” Branl held out his hand, asking for the
krill
as though he believed that he and Clyme could fight for the lurker in Covenant’s stead.
    But Covenant kept his only blade, his only light. He had no intention of risking his companions in the vile marshes of Horrim Carabal’s demesne.
    Far away through the scrub and trees, the scrannel brush and marshgrass, he caught flickers of a diseased silver that reminded him of his one confrontation with the lurker many centuries ago. Instinctively he