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

his heart suggested that he had undergone an obscure ordeal. Nevertheless it reassured him. It confirmed that time endured, unbroken; that one thing led to another. The Law that constrained and enabled life held true.
    When he felt ready, he rolled onto one side, forced his arms and knees under him, pushed himself upright.
    God, the wind—He could barely stand against it; had to squint at the sting of tears. Without Branl’s support, he might not have been able to move.
    Blinking, he scanned his surroundings. He had the visceral impression that he was standing on the highest peak of the world. But of course that was nonsense: this was not a mountain. Rather he had arrived downhill from the wedge-tip of the headland. To the east, the sea thrashed at the Land’s last rock. He smelled salt on the blast. If he could find the vantage he sought, he would be able to see the surge of waves.
    Around him, the headland was a jumble of protruding stone, granite and basalt weathered smooth; gnawed across the millennia into shapes that resembled anguish and intransigence. Some of the rocks wore fringes of moss in the lee of the wind. Others had acquired threadbare cloaks of lichen.
    Peering behind him, he thought at first that the slope sank lower indefinitely. But when he squeezed the wind from his eyes and looked harder, he realized that the westward hillside was cut off by a line of darkness in the distance. There lay the Great Swamp, sweeping around the headland toward the sea. He could not smell Lifeswallower. The wind tore away the swampland’s complex fetors. But below him the waters of the delta reflected a faint shimmer.
    After a moment, he spotted the horses. They were cantering down the slope, keeping their distance from the wetland as they descended. Apparently Rallyn believed that the riders had no immediate need of their mounts. And naturally both Rallyn and Mishio Massima wanted water as well as forage.
    Then Covenant noticed the emerald fires, small as dots, ascending slowly toward him.
    He watched the creatures briefly. But they were still far away; and he had nothing to say to them. Turning back toward the tip of the promontory, he went upward with Branl’s aid until he glimpsed the darker grey of the sea beyond the headland’s rim. There he stopped.
    The waves heaved frantically against their own weight, hacking across each other, rising into sudden breakers, erupting in spume. Some mighty pressure disrupted the normal scend and recession of tides. The seas were flung in frenzy at the cliffs, where they rebounded, smashed together, became chaos. The wind assailed Covenant’s ears with their clamor as if the headland were under siege.
    Gripping his companion’s arm, he asked, “Can you see anything?”
    Branl studied the sea. “I do not doubt that the Worm comes, as the Feroce have declared. In turmoil, the waves contradict themselves. Some cataclysm goads these waters. But its source is too distant for my discernment.”
    “How much time did we lose?”
    A slight frown of concentration or surprise disturbed Branl’s mien. After a moment, he replied, “It appears that our final passage was prolonged. Mayhap the Worm’s approach misleads my senses. Nonetheless I gauge that evening is nigh. Ere long, this dusk will turn toward true night.”
    The coming of night after a second sunless day felt like a bad omen. Covenant had no power against the World’s End.
    Nonetheless he had made promises—
    “In that case,” he told Branl, “I need to get out of this wind. Can you find a place where I can watch the sea and Lifeswallower? A place with some shelter?”
    Nodding, Branl drew him toward the stones which cluttered the corner of the headland. In the lee of a blunted fang as tall as Covenant, the Humbled urged him to sit and rest. Then Branl left. Still bearing his net of melons as well as Loric’s
krill
, he disappeared among the twisted shapes of basalt and granite, the motley of lichen and moss.
    Covenant sagged against the fang; rubbed his stiff cheeks with his insensate fingers; wiped away residual tears. Reflexively he confirmed that Joan’s ring still hung under his T-shirt. The wind moaned miserably past the rocks, a raw sound like keening, but he tried to ignore it. Tried to think. Wind was only air in motion, he told himself. It merely reacted to forces beyond its control. If he heard lamentation in it, or auguries of havoc, he was misleading himself. The world did not
care
: the natural