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

to bear Covenant farther than he would have thought possible.
    Now the Feroce were fighting for the spirit of their High God with the only power they had: the power to impose memories. Frantically they struggled to help the lurker recall freedom.
    That effort, too, was doomed.
Turiya
Herem was stronger.
    Nevertheless the effects of emerald worship and panic granted Covenant a little time to gather himself.
    He could not help the lurker as he was, trapped in the tentacle’s coils. But he had only one way to communicate with the monster, to explain his needs and intentions; and the turgid atmosphere resisted every breath. His gasping did not bring in enough good air to support a shout that the Feroce might hear.
    He tried anyway.
    “Listen,” he croaked: a sound too small to pierce the forlorn shrieking; the savage slash and pound of tentacles; the turmoil of bright water. “I want to fight, but I can’t move my arms. I have to reach the
krill
. And your High God has to work with me. We have to fight together.”
    His flawed sight detected no sign that any of the creatures had heard him.
    Still the lurker of the Sarangrave feared possession more than pain. Doubtless the monster did not understand what Covenant had said. Yet it recognized that he had spoken. Perhaps it had felt his resistance as he squirmed against its coils.
    Abruptly a fourth arm reached out of the scourged pool. It snatched up a cluster of the Feroce. Wrapping them like Covenant, the massive appendage lifted them until he could look straight into their appalled eyes.
    “Listen,” he panted again. “I need my arms. I have to reach my knife.” It was likely that the Feroce did not know Loric’s dagger by name. “And your High God has to carry me to the right place. The place where I can cut off the horror, all of it.
    “Make him understand. We have to do this
now
.”
    Turiya
did not fear the lurker, but he would fear the
krill
. He would fear wild magic.
    Round eyes gaped at Covenant as if they had been blinded. The creatures had been crying out continuously. They did not stop. And there was no difference between the wailing in front of Covenant and the shrieks from below. All of the Feroce had one voice, the same voice. They uttered only anguish.
    Yet the grip of the lurker’s arm loosened. Its fingers shifted the coils lower on Covenant’s chest.
    Still he could hardly breathe. The air was too damn thick—
    With all of his insignificant strength, he tried to grasp the
krill
.
    The tentacle moved farther. After a moment that made dots of weakness dance across his sight, his halfhand found the dagger.
    Now, he thought. Hellfire!
Now
.
    Holding his weapon for his life, he drew it free. Dropped its covering. Raised it over his head in both hands.
    “I’m ready,” he gasped. “Do it!”
    With actions as plain as language, Horrim Carabal chose agony. Any maiming was better than possession. In an instant, the monster stopped fighting itself. With a ponderous heave of its possessed tentacle, it extended the boundary between itself and
turiya
Herem’s mastery higher and then higher; away from the corrosive waters; closer to Covenant’s elevation.
    As if Covenant were an axe, the lurker swung him at a section of the massive arm which
turiya
had not yet claimed.
    In every limb, Horrim Carabal had the strength of half a dozen Giants. It struck with the force of frenzy. Covenant whipped forward like the crack of a flail. When his blade bit flesh, any ordinary weapon would have been ripped from his clutch. But wild magic whetted the edges of Loric’s
krill
. Spitting flames, the dagger cut. Covenant hardly felt the impact.
    His blow sliced partway through the tentacle. Vile blood fountained from the wound. It stank like distilled corruption. The whole of the Sarangrave seemed to erupt in an excruciated howl as if every leaf and stem and bog, every current, every swath of scum gave voice to the lurker’s pain: a howl so vast that it effaced the thin shrieking of the Feroce.
    But the tentacle was not severed. It was far too thick to be lopped off by a single slash. Through the gush of blood and the yowling, Covenant felt
turiya
hesitate in alarm; draw back. In another moment, however, the Raver would surely control his fear. He would rush to pass beyond the cut deeper into Horrim Carabal.
    “Again!” Covenant rasped, although he could not hope to be heard. He could not hear himself. He needed the lurker to understand that if it did not