The Last Dark (24 page)

Desperately he stared past the rim of precipice, praying.

Branl put a hand on his shoulder. “Rallyn comes. We must ride.”

The Humbled could have coerced Covenant; but Covenant ignored his companion. “Look!” Flailing one arm, he indicated the delta. “
Look!
Tell me what you see!”

Instead of pulling Covenant away, Branl moved to stand at the Unbeliever’s side.
Your task is mine
. Leaning forward, he studied the thrash and clash of the flood.
I am alone and have no path other than my chosen service
. For a moment, he did not speak. Then he announced through the gale, “Ur-Lord, you are answered.”

Answered?

“The lurker gathers beneath the waters. Its bulk is immense. I cannot gauge its full extent. At present, it does not rise. It merely gathers. Yet I deem that it will heed your wishes. Its presence serves no purpose else.”

“Tell me,” Covenant panted. “Tell me when it moves.” The growing might of the Worm’s aura snatched the air from his lungs. He struggled for every breath. “I can’t
see
.”

Luminescence shone through the stones, but it did not affect the Humbled. He seemed impervious to fog and catastrophe. He sounded more stolid than granite.

“Ur-Lord, there is more.”

“More?” Hellfire! “Tell me!”

The Worm was coming closer. In all the world, only a few moments remained; a handful of heartbeats. If the Worm passed the lurker toward Mount Thunder, nothing would stop it.

“The lurker begins its rise,” reported Branl impassively. “It is not alone.”

Covenant fought to see; fought to breathe. At first, he could only discern the tumultuous scourge and moil of seas, the accumulating pressure of the Worm’s advance. But then he thought that he saw darkness swell near the boundary between the delta and the ocean. The waters there piled higher as if they were surmounting an obstacle.

“Do you descry them, ur-Lord? They cling to the lurker’s sides.”

Covenant shook his head. He was sure of the monster now. In the center of his vista, it burst above the waves. Like a tectonic plate thrusting upward, the lurker jutted into the air. Breakers slammed against Horrim Carabal and were flung aside. Brandishing scores of tentacles like threats, it stretched higher, taller than any Giantship. Its central mass was a match for the Worm’s. And it spread itself wide, wider than the coming catastrophe: a barricade against havoc. Clearly the monster understood its task.

But
them
? Clinging to the lurker anywhere? No. His eyes were too weak.

The lurker was too weak as well. In spite of its size and muscle, its emanations did not reach Covenant. He felt every surge of the Worm’s approach; felt the harsh chill of the fog and the static charge of lightnings. But Horrim Carabal was nothing more than a shape in the distance, scarcely visible: too mortal to hinder the World’s End.

Nevertheless the Worm slowed. Apparently it could sense the lurker’s presence, although Covenant could not. A wall of malign toxins had arisen from the waters. The Worm slackened its haste as if it had become uncertain.

Them?

Covenant tried to plead for an explanation, but he had no air and no words.

Yet clearly Branl had not forgotten the effects of Kevin’s Dirt on Covenant. The Humbled answered Covenant’s soundless query. “Ur-Lord, they are ur-viles. They are Waynhim.”

Covenant stared, and panted, and could not think. Ur-viles and Waynhim? Here?

Why?

Branl pitched his voice to pierce the blast’s lurid wail. “I gauge that every surviving creation of the Demondim has come to oppose the Worm. Holding to the lurker’s flesh, they wield their lore. Black theurgies with the appearance of corrosion spread from hand to hand among them. These magicks are not liquid. Rather they resemble strands of incantation. As they expand, they take the form of a web.”

Covenant cursed his inadequate sight. He ignored the shudders rising through the headland. Fervently he concentrated on Branl; listened as if he were counting every word.

“This web the creatures extend across the monster where it fronts the Worm. The sorcery of the web is fierce and bitter, rife with the unnatural fury of the Demondim, and of the Viles. I do not doubt that Linden Avery would name it
wrongness
. Yet the lurker takes no notice. Clearly the web does not pain the High God of the Feroce.”

Covenant groaned and swore because he could not
see
it. He recognized only Horrim Carabal’s bulk rising like midnight in the Worm’s path. If the glow of the Worm’s lurid aura glistened on the lurker’s exposed flesh, or on the weird theurgy of the ur-viles and Waynhim, those sights lay beyond his reach.

Like the world at the mercy of its own death, he was mostly helpless, yet not helpless enough to be spared the burden of bearing witness. And he was not blind to the Worm. Its power shone, vivid as etch-work, through every crouched or yearning menhir around him. It shone through the flesh of his arms and chest, lit every bone. He was as vague to himself as mist. Without Branl’s solidity at his side, Branl’s uncompromising substance, he might have been torn apart and scattered by the gale.

If he could not see the lurker distinctly—and could not see the creatures or their lore at all—he could still watch the approach of the World’s End.

“It appears,” Branl said, “that your ploy may accomplish its intent. The lurker and the Demondim-spawn present a barricade of ill and evil, of ancient poisons and unnatural knowledge. It does not bar wind and storm and seas, though the lurker’s form does so. Yet it disturbs perception. It would offend Linden Avery’s percipience. It defies my efforts to name its essence.”

And it was working. Covenant felt that in every nerve of his disease-ridden body. It was
working
.

Like the lurker itself, the strange theurgy of the web confused the Worm’s senses. In spite of their fluid shapes and their arrogance, the
Elohim
were beings of Law. They existed in accordance with the strictures of the Earth’s creation. But Horrim Carabal was a perversion of Law. And the weird powers and comprehensions which the ur-viles and Waynhim had inherited or gleaned from their makers seemed to render Law meaningless. Together, the monster and the Demondim-spawn masked the scent of food.

Baffled, the Worm slowed again. Gradually it heaved to a halt.

A small tsunami pounded against the lurker, slashed at the web of sorcery. From border to border, the delta convulsed as if its foundations were vomiting. But Horrim Carabal withstood the assault. And the Demondim-spawn knew what they were doing. Their lore did not falter.

The Worm’s storms and streamers searched to one side, explored the other. But the lurker had made itself
wide
. And the net of dark magicks covered Horrim Carabal from edge to edge. The webbing throbbed with acrid implications. The Worm’s hunger hunted—and did not find.

This eerie equipoise between ruin and darkness would not last: Covenant knew that. The Worm was too powerful to be stymied indefinitely. The lurker or the Demondim-spawn might flinch at any moment. They might all die. But they were holding
now
. If they could stand until the Worm detected the spoor of some other
Elohim
—or until its primal needs urged it toward
Melenkurion
Skyweir—

A turn in the direction of the EarthBlood would bring the Worm straight at Covenant and Branl.

Clutching his companion, Covenant gasped, “Let’s go! While we still can!”

His unlikely allies had achieved a tenuous pause. If the Land needed more time, Linden or some other power would have to provide it. Thomas Covenant had come to the end of what he could attempt as he was.

Promises Old and New

The twilight did not change as Linden’s company rode. A harsh grey held the landscape, a half-light without the softening of dawn or the soothing after sunset. It might have been the gloom before the onslaught of a storm, but there were no clouds. Despite the intrusion of Kevin’s Dirt, the sky remained clear, fretted with doom, drawing the bright plaint of the stars closer, etching their deaths vividly against the fathomless abyss of their firmament. Linden could have believed that the Arch already trembled on the verge of collapse; but her health-sense insisted otherwise. The long strides of the Ranyhyn and the hoarse panting of the Giants insisted. Even in the absence of natural day, her pulse continued to measure out her life. And the blurred terrain continued to modulate around the company: a sign of movement that was also an affirmation that Time endured.

Riding with the Staff of Law and Covenant’s white gold ring into the last dusk of the world, Linden tried to think of the unrisen sun in terms that did not terrify her. After all, the sun was simply another star. The Worm’s power to affect or even extinguish it made a kind of sense. And did not the gloom itself assert that the sun was not altogether destroyed? The final dark had not yet claimed the Earth. Even in this crepuscular blight, hope might be possible.

Kevin’s Dirt asserted the contrary. Indeed, it seemed stronger here than it had on the Upper Land. Even now, no more than an hour or two after the failed dawn, the vile fug had begun leeching the sensitivity from Linden’s nerves, blunting her ability to discern the conditions of her companions and even the nature of the terrain; promising failure.

Accentuated by the dull light, the bloodstains that darkened the bottoms of Jeremiah’s pajamas seemed to creep higher, opening like jaws to swallow him.

But the Ranyhyn ignored Kevin’s Dirt. Running at a canter that accommodated the ragged endurance of the Giants, the horses had left behind the mounds surrounding the gully and the stream. Now they measured out the leagues across a hammered plain that appeared to stretch endlessly into an obscured future. Gloaming effaced the details of the landscape, rendered it effectively featureless in every direction. Still the eaten chart of the stars and Linden’s tarnished health-sense confirmed that the horses had not altered their heading. They reached for the northeast with every stride, never hesitating.

Yet they did not neglect the needs of the Giants or their riders. In spite of Jeremiah’s impatience, they paused at every clump of
aliantha
, every thin rill and brackish pool. At such times, the boy refused to dismount. Instead he sat chafing until the company was ready to run again.

By mute agreement, Linden, Stave, and Mahrtiir drank little and ate none of the treasure-berries, leaving them for Coldspray and her comrades. Nonetheless it was clear that the Swordmainnir were suffering. Linden heard an ominous wheeze in Latebirth’s respiration, and in Cirrus Kindwind’s, and occasionally in Stormpast Galesend’s. The others heaved for breath against the weight of their armor and weapons. Their faces were grey with exertion.

At a time that should have been mid-morning, Manethrall Mahrtiir brought Narunal to Hyn’s side. “Ringthane,” he called over the clatter of hooves, “we must consider what we do. If we do not soon gain our aim, the Giants will be too weary to aid your son. That they have come so far at such a pace bespeaks both great strength and great valor. Yet they are mortal withal. Ere long, even they must falter.”

“What do you suggest?” Linden could sustain the Swordmainnir with Earthpower for a while. But repeated infusions of imposed energy would exact a price. The women might well be left utterly prostrate when her assistance finally lost its efficacy. Earthpower and Law were only Earthpower and Law: they could not counteract the organic need for food and water and rest indefinitely. And Linden was reluctant for other reasons as well. Speed might be Jeremiah’s only defense. “Of course they need rest. We all do. But the Worm is coming. You said it yourself. We have to hurry.”

Mahrtiir faced her with disgust in his mien, but it was not directed at her. “For that reason, Ringthane, I deem that we must part again. While you accompany your son with Stave, I will remain to guide the Giants at a slower pace. Their aid may be much delayed, but they will rejoin you
capable
of aid.”

As if he expected Linden to demur, he added harshly, “I serve no other purpose in this company. But I am able to ride brave Narunal, and to obey him—aye, and also to comprehend his wishes. Therefore I await your consent.”

Linden saw that Jeremiah was listening; felt protests rise in him. She phrased her reply for his sake as much as for Mahrtiir’s.

“That makes sense. Exhaustion won’t help any of us.” She forced a wry smile. “And if anyone can convince Coldspray to be reasonable, you can. Maybe Stave and I can help Jeremiah make a start without you.”

Jeremiah brandished a fist in approval.

But Mahrtiir hesitated. “Then I crave a boon of you, Ringthane,” he said after a moment. “Restore my discernment to its fullest, that my use to the Swordmainnir may be prolonged. It will not endure. Of that I am aware. But I yearn to postpone the return of complete futility.”

In spite of herself, Linden was loath to comply. She did not want to raise black fire in a lightless world. The prospect felt like a violation. Yet she could not refuse the Manethrall. Had her fears been his, he would have faced them at once, eager for struggle and combat.

Adjusting her grip on the Staff of Law, she reached for Earthpower.

As she had expected or dreaded, her flames were barely visible. Their force was palpable enough, and to an extent comforting. But they were the hue of Jeremiah’s fouled pajamas, the color of deepest night, and they seemed to thicken the gloom around them.

Nevertheless her magic was an expression of Law. Its inherent beneficence had not been altered. She had turned the wood to ebony in battle under
Melenkurion
Skyweir. In the graveyard of Jeremiah’s mind, she had become a form of blackness herself. If her power disturbed her now, it did so because it told the truth about her.

As if she were abasing herself, she covered first Mahrtiir and then herself in cleansing theurgy. And when her senses had recovered their acuity, she extended fire to the Giants, gifting them with all of the vitality that she could provide.

Then Linden quenched her Staff. Slumping on Hyn’s back, she told Mahrtiir weakly, “Be safe. Catch up with us when you can. We’ll need you.”

Clarion as a whinny, the Manethrall replied, “Fear nothing, Ringthane. We will come.” Then he drew Narunal back from Linden’s side so that he could speak to Rime Coldspray.

Hyn, Hynyn, and Khelen seemed to understand what had been decided without any word from Linden or Mahrtiir—or indeed from Stave. Running like water on a smooth slope, they extended their strides into a full gallop. In the lead, Jeremiah yelled his excitement at the heavens. Then he settled himself along Khelen’s neck as if he sought to increase the young stallion’s speed.

In moments, the Giants were no longer visible behind Linden. For a short time, she continued to feel their presence. Then the Ranyhyn outran the range of her health-sense, and she was alone with Stave and Jeremiah once again.

rom the plain, the riders entered a region of jagged stones piled against each other like the detritus of a mountain broken by earthquake or cataclysm. Some of them resembled the riven limbs and torsos of megalithic titans. Others were towers about to topple, or raw chunks of granite and obsidian the size of Giantships, or splinters as sharp as spears. Among them, the footing was treacherous, and the horses were compelled to pick their way at a gait little quicker than a trot. As if in compensation, however, springs and streams became more plentiful. Most were too thick with minerals and old rot to drink; but a fair number were merely brackish, and a few ran clear, gurgling untainted from some buried source. As before, Linden and her companions had left all of their supplies with the Giants and Mahrtiir; but they found more than enough good water to appease their thirst.

Pausing at a stream where the Ranyhyn drank as though they did not expect to discover more water for a long time, Linden asked Stave where they were. Sure of himself, he replied that they were approaching a region like an isthmus of the Spoiled Plains between Sarangrave Flat to the north and the Shattered Hills in the southeast. She had guessed as much; but she was relieved to hear that the marge-land was ten leagues wide or more, and that beyond it the Spoiled Plains expanded to fill the Lower Land between the Sarangrave and the Sunbirth Sea. If the horses kept to their present heading, they would have nothing to fear from the lurker.

“Come on,” Jeremiah muttered. “Come
on
.” Then he sighed. “I’m hungry. I hope we find
aliantha
soon.”

Sternly Stave remarked, “In the ages of the Lords, there were no
aliantha
on the Lower Land to the south of Lifeswallower. We are fortunate that they have taken root here during more recent millennia, sparse though they may be. But we cannot know how they were spread, or by whom. If we have ridden beyond their extent, we have no redress for their absence.”

“That’s easy for you to say,” Jeremiah retorted; but he sounded impatient rather than irked. “You’re
Haruchai
. I’m not. If we don’t find treasure-berries, I hope you can think of something else for us to eat.”

Stave’s only reply was a shrug.

Soon the Ranyhyn were in motion again; and shortly after midday, they left that wrecked region behind. Now they ran, fleet as coursers, along a comparative flatland that lay at the foot of a long incline like the rim of a tectonic upheaval. There the running was easy, and the strides of the horses overcame distance as though the leagues were trivial.

Still the stars died overhead. Like Jeremiah, Linden was hungry. But in addition, she was beginning to share his frustration. A part of her did not want to discover malachite. It did not. Her reluctance was a thin whimper in the background of every thought. More would be required of her than she could bear to contemplate. Nevertheless the plight of the stars—and of the
Elohim
—infected her with urgency. The prospect of a lightless sky appalled her. Much as she disliked or even loathed the
Elohim
, their peril seemed more important than her personal fears.

The grey gloom wore on her like an old sore, immedicable, weeping vital fluids. While Hyn’s muscles flexed under her, and the mare’s sweat soaked into her jeans, irritating her legs, Linden began to wonder whether night would ever come again—and if it did, whether the Ranyhyn would allow themselves and their riders to rest. If Time remained essentially intact, surely some form of circadian cycle continued to rule the world? What would it mean if night did not come?

Her private dread seemed to grow more petty with every surmounted league, every troubled thought. Now she wondered how anyone could refuse to take the innominate risks that lay ahead of her. How could she? If she ever hoped to hold up her head in front of Jeremiah and Covenant again?