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

drained eastward in ramified channels like the branches of an immense tree. Among them had stood islands of unpalatable grass, tormented eyots of brush, clusters of hoary cypresses and other marsh-trees like sentinels watching over a sargasso. But such things were gone now. Indeed, every feature of the delta had been inundated or swept away. The mounting seas flailed in all directions, tearing apart or dragging under everything that defined this region of Horrim Carabal’s realm. The portion of Lifeswallower that Covenant could see had become indistinguishable from the ocean’s violence.
    The sight made him shiver as if vertigo had already wrapped its cold fingers around his heart. Grinding his teeth, he turned to the east.
    At first, he could not gain a view of the sea. Too many protruding rocks rose too high. But when he leaned to one side of his covert, he found an opening. There ages of wind and weather had scalloped the sides of several stones. And one slab of basalt had lost a substantial section of its center: it resembled a cripple hunching over a collapsed chest. The result was a window like an oriel, a gap that revealed an arc of the Sunbirth Sea.
    Through the window came flicks and slaps of wind, occasional stings of spray; but Covenant was able to endure them for a few moments at a time.
    At that distance, he could not discern any specific swell or cross-current. The whole ocean looked like a darker and more troubled iteration of the sunless sky. Even the horizon was no more than a smear of grey. If the Worm were coming from that direction, he saw no sign of it.
    Blinking hard, he moved back into shelter. With a gesture, he asked Branl to watch for him. Then he lowered himself to the grass and tried to believe that he had not come so far for nothing: that when the Worm arrived, he would know what to say.
    Branl scrutinized the east for a while; turned his attention briefly to the ruined delta in the north. Then he shook his head.
    “Ur-Lord, I judge that the Worm is not imminent. I know nothing of its speed, but I will believe that a span of time remains to us. We are granted a respite.” He removed the
krill
from his tunic. “Should you wish it, I will prepare
ussusimiel
.”
    Covenant nodded. “Sure. Why not?” He needed strength. When the Worm came, he would have to flee, whatever happened. If he and Branl died here, their lives would be truly wasted.
    Uncovering only the dagger’s blade, the Humbled deftly took a melon, sliced it into sections, cut out the seeds. The pieces he handed to Covenant one at a time.
    Covenant ate until only rinds remained; but he did not notice the taste, or attend to what he was doing. He was listening to the unsteady ululation of the wind, trying to decipher its oblique message. Its salt tang and its keening were auguries that he did not know how to interpret.
    Branl offered to prepare another melon. Vaguely Covenant declined. He was not conscious of hunger; or he was not hungry for that kind of sustenance. He wanted the richer nourishment of an
answer
.
    After cleaning the blade, Branl put the
krill
away and resumed his study of the east.
    Wind and salt. The ravage of the delta. The Worm of the World’s End. Kastenessen. She Who Must Not Be Named.
    And Linden, who was so far away that only Rallyn would know how to find her. The thought that he might not see her again before the end made Covenant’s chest ache like a wound to the heart.
    Branl stepped back to gaze around the stones. After a moment, he said, “Attend, ur-Lord. The Feroce approach.”
    Jerking up his head, Covenant spotted glints of emerald on the rocks. Fires guttered; flared more brightly; receded. Soon two of the creatures brought their flames and their timidity to the border of the grass. Two or three more Feroce followed behind them. Their eyes cast echoes of their theurgy into his shelter.
    In their damp, squeezed voice, they asked, “Pure One?”
    Covenant faced them until he was sure that they did not mean to say more; that the two words of their question sufficed for them. Then he looked at Branl. “What time is it?”
    The Humbled was a thicker shadow in the gathering murk. “Evening becomes night,” he answered. Responding to Covenant’s underlying query, he added, “I do not yet descry the Worm. Though its coming is plain, it remains beyond my discernment.”
    And mine, Covenant sighed. Tightening his grip on himself, he turned back to the Feroce. “Is the havoc close? The