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

Sarangrave again, he howled, “
I need the Feroce!
”
    He had time to panic—and time as well to admit that behind his alarm lay a secret relief at the possibility that he might be spared.
    Then Clyme nodded once. “Ur-Lord, you are answered.”
    Hell and blood—“Where? I don’t see anything.”
    Covenant expected flickers of green like hints of the Illearth Stone, an approach of power the hue of sick and rotting chrysoprase. But though he searched until his temples ached, he found nothing except
krill
-light and darkness.
    “On other occasions,” Branl answered, “we beheld the Feroce bearing fires in their palms. Yet when the Masters observed them in centuries past, they moved within the Sarangrave without flames—indeed, without any evident magicks. We surmise that they require theurgy only when they are parted from the wetland.
    “Nevertheless we discern them. Two now approach.”
    Two? Covenant stared and saw nothing. Only two?
    Would two be enough?
    At the limit of the light, he spotted a blur of movement. The creatures were stealthy, creeping behind clumps of scrub, stealing through pestilential grasses and mirkweed, crouching among trees that writhed as if they were in torment. He recalled the timidity of the lurker’s acolytes during his earlier encounter with them. They had called him
the Pure One, wielder of metal and agony
, and they had feared him. Without their High God’s command, they would not have dared to enter his presence.
    But he had no time for their craven courage. “I’m
waiting
, dammit!” he shouted. “I made a promise, and I intend to keep it! Your High God
needs
me!”
    Fronds rustled some distance away. Passing bodies contradicted the sluggish distress of the waters. At unexpected moments, the large round eyes of the Feroce caught reflections of silver. They were hardly tall enough to reach Covenant’s chest. And they were desperately afraid. Naked and hairless, clad only in the commandments that ruled their fright, they slipped between patches of cover or ducked under pads and rushes as if they believed that Covenant could extinguish them with a glance.
    But at last they emerged. At the boundary of the marsh, they risked the
krill
’s radiance.
    Flinching, the Feroce brought forth guttering emerald from the palms of their hands. Then they crept onto the mud that marked the border of the Sarangrave. There they stood before Covenant, cowering in supplication.
    “Be merciful!” they whimpered as if they shared one voice; one mind. “You are the Pure One. You wield abhorrent metal and deliver agony. Such agony! Yet you accepted our High God’s alliance. The Feroce surrendered many and many lives to complete his offered service. Take pity upon us now. Become the Pure One who redeems, as you have done before.
    “Our High God cannot withstand the horror that assails him.”
    Their tone was piteous, but Covenant felt too much pressure to respond gently. “I’m not the Pure One,” he retorted. “I’ve never been the Pure One. But I try to keep my promises.”
    In truth, he had not committed himself to fight for the lurker. Deliberately he had withheld that reassurance. As far as he was concerned, however, Horrim Carabal had exceeded the terms of their agreement. And he believed that the lurker had a role to play in the Land’s defense, although he could not name it.
    “Right now,” he continued without pausing, “I can’t. I’m too far away. I’ll fight for your High God, but first he has to help me. He has to take me where I’m needed.”
    “Not?” quavered the Feroce as if they had heard only his denial. “You are not the Pure One? We do not comprehend.” Their protest sounded like the soughing of bogs, the suck of quicksand deprived of victims. “You wield vicious metal. You bring excruciation. You have delivered such agony to our High God that he quails to hear you. You are required to be the Pure One. There is no other.”
    “Stop!” Covenant demanded harshly. “Call me whatever you want. We don’t have time for this.
    “Here!”
    Frantic to show his good faith, he swept cloth around the
krill
’s gem and blade. Instantly the light vanished. Night rushed over the region: it seemed to reel in its haste to fill the void left by covering the dagger. The fires of the Feroce revealed only themselves.
    Urgent and awkward, Covenant thrust the wrapped knife into the waist of his jeans, then jerked Joan’s ring from his finger, looped the chain over