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

believed that the monster was exerting its malevolent theurgies against the Raver. If Horrim Carabal had welcomed
turiya
’s possession, there would be no battle.
    “Ur-Lord?” Branl asked again.
    Bloody damnation! Covenant had to act. He was already late. He chose to believe that the lurker was fighting hard; but as the Raver mastered more and more of Horrim Carabal’s imponderable bulk, the monster’s resistance would weaken. Soon the lurker might begin to submit.
    While the horses closed the distance, Covenant raised his voice. “We need the Feroce! I won’t ride in that marsh. Some of those waters can strip flesh off bones.” This decision, at least, his companions would approve. “And I don’t know how else to communicate with the lurker!”
    “We are come too late,” countered Branl. “Already the Raver lays claim—”
    “But he hasn’t won yet,” Covenant retorted. “Horrim Carabal is
huge
.
Turiya
can’t overrun the whole lurker at once. Parts of that monster must be fighting back.
    “I need to talk to it while it can still resist!”
    If Lord Foul’s servant triumphed, Horrim Carabal would be a horrific foe.
    Clyme’s passion grew stronger, feeding on a private repudiation. “We know not how to summon the lurker’s acolytes.”
    “Then they’ll just have to summon themselves,” Covenant snapped. If they could discern his beacon. If their fear of white gold and Loric’s
krill
alerted them to his presence. “If they don’t, what good is an alliance?”
    The wetland was close: too close for Rallyn and Hooryl. Their fright showed in their flaring eyes; in the tremors which marred their strides.
    “Stop!” Covenant shouted to the horses. “I want to stop here!” Then he swung one leg over Mishio Massima’s back; stood in the stirrup and braced himself to drop to the ground.
    Hooryl and Rallyn complied. With the Ardent’s mount between them, they slowed in sharp jerks, almost locking their knees. Within half a dozen strides, they halted, quivering as if they were feverish.
    At once, Covenant let go and hit the grass, running toward the border of the Sarangrave, and waving the
krill
: a signal to any being or creature capable of noticing him.
    Clyme and Branl accompanied Covenant as if they had expected his unpremeditated rush. In the sweeping wash of argent, they looked as ghostly as the wide wetland; as vulnerable to banishment as the Dead. Still they were
Haruchai
, as solid as their promises. Covenant did not doubt them.
    But now he feared them. Their
ak-Haru
had judged them severely—and they bore an old grudge against Ravers. He shuddered to imagine how they would react when they learned that he meant to leave them behind.
    “I’m here!” he yelled as he hit soggy ground, stopped at the water’s edge. “We made an alliance! I want to keep it, but I can’t if you
don’t hear me
!”
    He needed to know how far into the marsh
turiya
’s possession had spread. And he needed to get there; to the point of conflict, the heart of the struggle. Nothing that he tried would work if he did not first get ahead of the Raver.
    He wanted the power to
forbid
Lord Foul’s servant, the ancient puissance of the Colossus; but that knowledge was lost.
    Thrashed by distant fighting, the water at Covenant’s feet heaved against its scum and muck. Gouts of tiny plant life rose into the air like miniature geysers, then slumped back into the slime. He thought that he heard screaming, inarticulate fury like far-off thunder; but he could not be sure through the slosh and slap of the disturbed wetland. He strained his eyes for hints of the Feroce, but the
krill
’s radiance blinded him to everything beyond its reach. Again he yelled for attention—and still there was no sign that he had been heard.
    “God
damn
it! What good is an alliance if you won’t help me at least
try
to honor it?”
    Nothing.
    “Ur-Lord,” Clyme offered, “we will bear you. We discern the conflict, though it is distant. We will convey you to a place where you may strike with some hope of effect.”
    “
How
distant?” snarled Covenant. “Is it leagues? Can you imagine what will happen to you if you try to carry me through
leagues
of this stuff?” He slapped a gesture at the marsh: bogs and quagmires; quicksand; depths and shallows; poisoned pools as harsh as vitriol. “And
turiya
is going to keep moving. What if he takes possession faster than you can travel? Our lives will be wasted.”
    Facing the