The Last Dark (70 page)

Then he opened his eyes to see the effects of his efforts.

Linden gasped as she took an unconflicted breath. “Jeremiah,” she murmured. “My God—” Covenant filled his lungs and seemed to stand taller, as if the air had confirmed him. He gave Jeremiah a look like a shower of sparks from a whetstone. Rime Coldspray and Bluff Stoutgirth raised their heads, sampled the spread of vitality. Grins like promises showed their teeth. With gestures and relief, they exhorted their comrades to crowd closer.

As the whole company began to breathe more comfortably, the Ironhand announced, “This is well done, Jeremiah Chosen-son. I confess that I did not foresee it. If you are able to sustain such exertions—”

She swallowed the rest of what she might have said; the questions she might have asked.

“It’ll get easier,” Jeremiah muttered self-consciously. “I mean, I think it will. I’m not used to it yet. I just need practice.”

Chuckling, Blustergale swung a clap at Jeremiah’s back that would have felled him. But at the last instant, the Giant seemed to recall that Jeremiah was little. His hand patted Jeremiah gently and withdrew.

Stave bowed his approval. A tightening at the corner of his mouth hinted at a smile.

Behind Covenant, the Feroce squalled in soft voices, as if they feared to be overheard; but Jeremiah did not know how to interpret their cries.

ow that he had begun to prove himself, he was eager to try the uncertain ascent along the watercourse. But Rime Coldspray reminded him again that he needed food—as did Covenant and Linden. Reluctantly Jeremiah let go of his magicks.

While they ate and drank, the company discussed uncertainties and perils.

This approach to Mount Thunder’s heart was Covenant’s idea, but he did not know whether the path of the Defiles Course within the mountain would prove passable. In the past, he had only entered the Wightwarrens from the Upper Land. Certainly the Giants were skilled climbers and delvers. The
Haruchai
were born to crags and cliffs. And they were adequately supplied for their immediate purpose—or so the Anchormaster asserted. Nevertheless they could imagine obstacles which they would not be able to surmount. Water was water, after all. Under pressure, it could find its way through constrictions which would refuse Giants or
Haruchai
or Feroce.

In addition, the Despiser clearly knew where to look for his enemies; and his servants were many. At any time, he might send Cavewights or stranger creatures to waylay the company. Long ago, horrors had formed a large portion of his forces. The companions could not assume that any stretch of their path would be uncontested.

To all of this, Jeremiah listened without paying much attention. For the moment, at least, he was content with food and the Staff of Law. Finally he knew what he had to do—and how to do it. He had already shown that he could do it. The whole company trusted their lives to him. And Stave had assured him that he would get stronger. He might even learn how to do more than improve the air.

If Lord Foul tried to take him, sixteen Giants, two
Haruchai
, and two white gold wielders might be able to protect him.

So he ate what he was given, and drank water lightly tinged with
diamondraught
, and tried to mask his impatience while he waited for Mom and Covenant to finish this last meal.

At last, the company was ready. Keenreef and several other sailors shouldered packs of supplies. All of their quirts and spears had been destroyed, but most of Stoutgirth’s crew still carried weapons: billhooks, longknives, belaying-pins. The Swordmainnir had their armor and their blades. And the
Haruchai
had set aside the characteristic reluctance of their people to rely on weapons. Branl shouldered Longwrath’s flamberge, while Stave bore Cabledarm’s longsword.

Among such companions, Covenant and Linden looked small, vulnerable. But there was a dangerous promise in Covenant’s eyes. And Linden looked withdrawn. She no longer seemed to care about details like difficult climbing and enemies. Only the way that she twisted her ring around her finger hinted that she was fretting.

Formally the Ironhand drew her stone glaive. Holding it ready, she spoke in a voice of granite.

“Here we surrender every future which we have imagined for ourselves. We have no prospect of return. Indeed, we cannot trust that we will outlive another day. Our doom is this, that we enter Mount Thunder seeking to confront the most heinous of foes—and yet the Worm hastens toward the World’s End many scores of leagues distant, where no deed of ours can thwart it. Thus even the greatest triumphs within the mountain may come to naught, for no life will remain to heed the tale.

“Nonetheless I proclaim”—Coldspray swung her sword once around her head, then slapped it into its scabbard on her back—“that I am not daunted.
I am not daunted
. While hearts beat and lungs draw breath, we seek to affirm the import of our lives. The true worth of tales lies in this, that those of whom they speak do not regard how the telling of their trials will be received. When we must perish, my wish for us is that we will come to the end knowing that we have held fast to that which we deem precious.”

Then her tone eased. “Doubtless this is folly. Yet when have our deeds been otherwise? Are we not Giants? And is not our folly the stone against which we have raised the sea of our laughter? What cause have we to feel dismay and hold back, when we have always known that no anchor is secure against the seas of mischance and wonder?”

Perhaps she would have continued; but the Anchormaster was already laughing. He tried to say something, but the words were lost in broad gusts of glee. For a moment, the other sailors were silent, dismayed by images of futility. But then Baf Scatterwit began to guffaw: the happy mirth of a woman who enjoyed laughing for its own sake. Her laughter broke the logjam of her comrades’ fears. Carried along by her open-heartedness, the crew of Dire’s Vessel roared as if they themselves were an exquisite jest.

The Swordmainnir were more restrained. They had lost too many of their comrades. But when Rime Coldspray started to chuckle, Frostheart Grueburn followed her example, and then Cirrus Kindwind. In their subdued fashion, the Ironhand and her warriors shared the delight of the sailors.

Privately Jeremiah thought that they had all lost their minds. Nevertheless he found himself grinning. He had heard too little genuine laughter in his life; and the mirth of Giants was especially infectious. At least temporarily, it made Lord Foul’s scorn and the
croyel
’s malice seem empty, like taunts from the bottom of an abandoned well.

Long ago, Saltheart Foamfollower had enabled Covenant’s victory over the Despiser by laughing.

As the Giants began to subside, Covenant muttered, “Stone and Sea are deep in life.” He seemed to be quoting. “Two unalterable symbols of the world.” Then he lifted his head to the dark heavens, the decimated stars. From his ring, a brief flash of silver challenged the night. “I can’t help it. I’ve always loved Giants. Any world that has
Haruchai
and Ranyhyn and Ramen and Insequent and even
Elohim
in it is precious. But there really is no substitute for Giants.”

Jeremiah agreed with him.

The Ironhand answered Covenant’s moment of power with a flash of her teeth. “Then, Timewarden,” she said, “let us now vindicate your love.”

With a sweep of her arm, she drew the Swordmainnir and Dire’s Vessel’s crew with her as she started down the side of the valley toward the throat of the Defiles Course.

Jeremiah followed them as if he, too, had been called. With the Staff and his own power, he drew clean air out of the ambient reeks.

After a moment, Cirrus Kindwind came to his side. Frostheart Grueburn now accompanied Linden and Stave, and the Anchormaster had claimed a place with Covenant and Branl. Escorted by Giants and
Haruchai
, Covenant, Linden, and Jeremiah picked their way between craters like maws and past rank corpses toward the cave where the Land’s most ancient waters carried their burden of poisons and spilled evil into the embrace of the Sarangrave.

Apparently the Feroce had anticipated the company’s movement. They already stood on the riverbank within an easy stone’s throw of the cliff, a cluster of ten small creatures with emerald in their hands and naked fright in their eyes. They did not react as the first Giants approached them. Instead they stood in the stench of the Defiles Course, facing each other and quavering as if their deity had declared them expendable.

But when Covenant drew near, they turned away from their communion. Flinching, they spoke in their one voice: an eerie sound like squeezed mud, moist and attenuated.

“We are the Feroce,” they said as if they were on the verge of weeping. “We are only the Feroce. At our High God’s command, we attempt aid. It exceeds us. We will not suffice.”

Covenant regarded them like a man who showed no mercy; but his words belied his manner. “You don’t have to suffice. You just have to try. When you can’t do any more, you’re free to go.”

“Then,” replied the creatures, “we will begin. We have no wish to prolong our failure.”

Together they faced the gaping mouth of the cliff. In a tight cluster, they started toward the deeper dark, a blackness that seemed to mock the
krill
and the company, the night and the forlorn stars. Although no tangible power compelled them, they moved as if they were being scourged.

Covenant watched them, but he did not follow. Instead he rasped to the Giants and the
Haruchai
, “Just remember. White gold is going to be mostly useless, at least for a while. I don’t have much control. I’m more likely to cause a cave-in than accomplish anything useful. Plus I can’t keep my balance worth a damn. And Linden hasn’t had time to learn what she can do. We’ll need all the help you can give us.”

“This we have foreseen, Timewarden,” the Ironhand answered calmly. “If Giants are fools, they are also rock-wise, certain of foot on any stone. With your consent, we will bear you, and also Linden Giantfriend and Jeremiah Chosen-son. In our arms, you will be warded from many perils.”

Now Covenant looked back at his companions. “Linden?”

“I think it’s a good idea.” She made a palpable effort to sound confident; but Jeremiah heard the congested tension in her voice. “Grueburn has carried me more times than I can count. I’m not worried about her. And I don’t like the way that looks.” She gestured at the river mouth. “If nothing else, it’s going to be slick.” Her mouth twisted. “I would rather be carried. If Grueburn doesn’t mind.”

Grueburn’s response was a snorted chortle.

Covenant nodded. “Jeremiah?”

Jeremiah felt a touch of relief. “Mom’s right. I’m not as strong as I want to be. I mean with the Staff. If I don’t have to do my own climbing, I can concentrate better.”

For himself, Covenant did not hesitate. To Coldspray, he said brusquely, “Thanks. I should have thought of that myself.”

Then he made a visible effort to relax as Bluff Stoutgirth lifted him from his feet.

In a moment, Jeremiah was sitting on Kindwind’s forearm with his back against her breastplate. His lightless flames scurried up and down the length of the Staff. They were weaker than they needed to be, but they gathered enough purity to ease the company’s breathing.

From her position in Grueburn’s clasp, Linden glanced at Jeremiah with an expression which he could not interpret. A warning? A prayer? Was she saying goodbye?

She had found her own sense of purpose, but he had no idea what it might be.

One after another, Rime Coldspray and all of the Giants followed the receding green of the Feroce. Holding the
krill
above his head to extend its illumination, Branl walked close behind the Ironhand near Stoutgirth and Covenant. Stave took a position between Grueburn and Kindwind.

Striding as if they were about to burst into song, the Swordmainnir and the sailors left the world they knew. Beside the Defiles Course, they entered Gravin Threndor and darkness.

The Aid of the Feroce

As Frostheart Grueburn carried her into the gutrock gullet of the Defiles Course, Linden lost her last glimpse of the heavens. It was cut off as if the whole of the world beyond the immediate channel, the immediate darkness, had vanished. As if the fate of every living thing, of life itself, had been reduced to this: impenetrable midnight; stone as slick as oil or black ice; Mount Thunder’s imponderable tons, ominous and oppressive. As if she herself had become nothing more than a burden.

The decimation of the stars had been a constant reminder of the carnage which the Worm had already wrought. But what had been lost only made what remained more precious.

Yet she had set aside her responsibility for the world. She had chosen her task. It was necessary to her, the only choice that offered any hope of forgiveness. But it would not stop the Worm. It would not hinder Lord Foul, or save her friends, or spare her son.

At first, the watercourse became narrower, ascending in low stages like terraces or past obstructions like weirs. Beyond the Ironhand—beyond Stoutgirth, Covenant, and Branl—the Feroce clambered, elusive as eidolons, over a tumble of boulders barely wide enough to accommodate the Giants in single file. Long ages of poisons and leaking malice had pitted the stone, cut it into cruel shapes, left it brittle with corrosion. But the waters had also caked every surface with slime like scum. And wherever the tumult of the currents had left gaps, necrotic mosses clung, viscid as wax, treacherous as grease. Touching them would be like trailing fingers through pus.

While the passage narrowed, however, its ceiling stretched higher. Here the Defiles Course ran down a fissure in Mount Thunder’s substance. A few arm spans up the walls, the green of the Feroce gleamed sickly on moisture and moss: the residue of the river’s former flow. Above that demarcation, the
krill
’s argent faded into the dark.

The crevice was old: far older than Linden’s knowledge of the Land. It had endured for eons, perhaps ever since the convulsion which had created Landsdrop. It might continue to do so. Nevertheless the gutrock overhead seemed fragile. The clutter of boulders where the Feroce led the companions demonstrated that stones did fall.

But the possibility that some tremor might release sheets of rock did not trouble her. She had more urgent concerns. More than the mountain or the darkness—more than slick surfaces and vile moss—she feared the air. It was not merely fetid and hurtful: it was thick with leached evils. Every breath brought dire scents from offal and corpses; from strange lakes of lava and ruin arising from the deep places of the Earth; from the detritus of horrid theurgies and delving. From time and rot and distillation.

And from She Who Must Not Be Named. At intervals like the tightening of a rack, Linden tasted hints of the bane’s distinctive anguish, terrible and bitter. She could only bear the miasma which she drew into her lungs because Jeremiah was ameliorating it with Earthpower.

Earlier he had sweetened some of the air in the valley. He could not do as much here. The atmosphere was more concentrated. And the fact that his companions were forced to advance one at a time exacerbated his difficulties. He had to push the Staff’s benefits too far. As a result, Rime Coldspray and the other Giants in the lead had begun to cough as if they were about to bring up blood. Between their stertorous gasps, Linden heard Covenant wheezing. Some of the Giants in the rear retched. The sounds of their distress rebounded from the walls; multiplied upward until they filled the crevice.

The air would continue to deteriorate as the company climbed. Leagues of unknown passages, dangerous footing, and pollution lay between the company and the more tolerable atmosphere of the Wightwarrens. And Jeremiah was already faltering.

He was not ready for this; not ready at all to have twenty-one lives depending on him for every breath.

Instinctively she yearned to reach out for the Staff’s resources; to wield them herself. Jeremiah was not far behind her: only Stave followed Frostheart Grueburn ahead of Cirrus Kindwind. Linden could siphon Earthpower and Law from the wood while he held it. Her chest
hurt
. She wanted good air.

Resisting her impulse to assume the work that she had given to her son was as painful as breathing.

But she had surrendered the Staff because Jeremiah needed it more than she did. Eventually he might need it absolutely. He had to become stronger. If she took back her trust prematurely—if she made his challenge easier from the start—she would undermine his efforts to believe in himself.

Yet the company was struggling. Sweat ran from Grueburn’s face, although the stone and the water were cold as a crypt. Her distress ached through her lore-hardened armor. By degrees, frantic coughing spread among the Giants. In front of Grueburn, Baf Scatterwit was taken by a spasm so fierce that she slipped. She caught herself with both hands, avoided a plunge into the river, but not before her kneecap struck rock with an audible crack. Choking on Giantish obscenities, she hauled herself upright. Then, however, she was forced to halt, hunching over to massage her knee.

From Coldspray or Covenant, ragged murmurs passed Linden’s name back to her; but she did not need to hear it. She understood. Jeremiah had to do better.

“Jeremiah, honey.” She was panting herself. “You’re trying too hard.” He did not know himself well enough yet. “It’s easier than you think. It’s the Staff of
Law
. It was made for this. You don’t have to force it. You just have to encourage it. Guide it. Let it express how you feel.”

“I can’t.” Jeremiah’s protest was thick with dread. “That doesn’t make sense.”

Linden fought for patience. “Try it this way. Close your eyes. Forget where you are. Forget what’s happening. Forget the Staff, if you can. Concentrate on Earthpower and air, clean air, air that keeps you alive. It’s like building one of your castles. You think about what you’re making. You don’t think about how you make it. The Staff is just a means.

“You can do this if you trust yourself.”

She could almost hear his resolve breaking. “That doesn’t—” he began to insist. But then he stopped. “All right,” he said like a groan. “I’ll try building. That worked before. Just don’t blame me if—”

He fell silent.

For a moment, the effects of his theurgy disappeared entirely. Linden drew air like shards of glass into her lungs. All of her muscles seemed to seize at once. Grueburn’s gasps sounded like tearing flesh. Along the line, Giants stumbled to a halt, sank to their hands and knees. The
krill
lit them like spectres, as if they had crossed over into the realm of the Dead.

The Feroce had caused some of Sarangrave Flat’s mud to remember that it was once hurtloam. Covenant had said so. Surely they could do something similar to the air? If he asked them?

Then Linden felt a stronger current of Earthpower emanate from Jeremiah and the Staff. It was tentative at first. It surged and receded. She found one healing breath, lost it again. Nevertheless her heart lifted. His access to the Staff’s potential resembled the chamber hidden in her own mind, the room which could open on wild magic. Learning that the chamber existed had enabled her to locate it again. And each time, the search was more familiar. The door opened more easily. The same could be true for Jeremiah, if he refused to panic.

He was young and gifted. In some respects, his sense of himself was more flexible than hers, less conflicted by an awareness of his limitations. For a heartbeat or two, his power shrank; but it also became steadier. Then better air began to gust outward. Some of it escaped into the empty heights of the fissure. Most of it swept over the company.

Linden snatched freshness into her lungs, fought for it. It was still tainted, but it became cleaner with every breath. Groans of relief spread among the Giants as Jeremiah expanded his efforts. Grueburn seemed to bite off great chunks of air, swallow them gratefully. A fierce grin bared her teeth. Still coughing, Baf Scatterwit started to laugh. One at a time, sailors and Swordmainnir joined her.

“Well done, Chosen-son!” called the Ironhand. “Well done in all sooth! It may be that our cause is doomed. It may be that we will soon perish. Yet miracles abound, and Jeremiah Chosen-son stands high among them.”

Gradually Linden’s companions stood straighter. They began to move again.

The Feroce had not paused. They may not have noticed the company’s difficulties. Or they may not have cared. They had their own fears. Perhaps a stone’s throw ahead of the Ironhand and Covenant, the troubled green passed from sight beyond a corner. Streaks of argent lit the rubble piled along the river as if the stones had tumbled there from Gravin Threndor’s dreams.

As her respiration eased, Linden thought that she heard thunder.

No, not thunder. By degrees, the sound clarified itself. It was too wet, too complex, too constant to be atmospheric. It cast spray into the ambit of the
krill
’s illumination. The company was approaching a waterfall.

Where the spray brushed her cheeks, it stung.

She could not gauge the height of the plunge by the timbre of its muffled roar; but she heard neither warnings nor chagrin from the Giants. The Ironhand did not hesitate as she bore Covenant out of sight, leaving Branl behind to light the way.

In moments, a few sailors and Onyx Stonemage scrambled to Branl’s position, followed by Squallish Blustergale and more of the Anchormaster’s crew. As Grueburn neared the turn, Linden became more confident that the water did not plummet from a great height. Still her anxiety did not relent until Grueburn carried her past the corner. Then she was able to see that the waterfall was no taller than one Giant standing on the shoulders of another.

She could not have climbed it. Perhaps Grueburn could not. But here the river’s diminishment was obvious. A comparatively narrow gush of water pounded into the deep center of the channel. Beside the river on both sides, eons of a far heavier flow had left more gradual slopes. Broken rocks cloaked in mosses like shredded skin mounted upward in possible increments.

A short way up the rise, Coldspray and Covenant waited for Branl and light. Above them, the Feroce scrambled for the rim as if they were in no danger of slipping. Their emerald glow wavered and gibbered on the walls as they scuttled out of sight. Then their fires faded as if the crevice had opened to accommodate a cavern.

Linden looked back at Jeremiah. The radiance of Loric’s gem revealed black tendrils of power like vines curling away from the Staff, making the air precious. As the boy worked, however, a scowl of strain clenched his features, and the wood trembled in his grasp. He was still trying too hard.

“Are you all right, honey?” Linden asked over the shout of the water. “Do you need rest? We should be able to survive for a few minutes.”

“Don’t bother me.” He sounded distant, wrapped in concentration. She barely heard him. “I’m fine.”

“The Feroce act like they’re in a hurry,” Covenant offered, “but I can ask them to wait”—he glanced at the waterfall—“once we catch up with them.”

When Jeremiah nodded, Rime Coldspray continued upward. Behind her, Bluff Stoutgirth gestured his crew forward. Moving as surely as the Giants, Branl passed Grueburn and Linden to rejoin the head of the line.

Accompanied by argent, the Ironhand took Covenant past the lip of the fall, out of the harsh spray. At the rim, Branl waited again. Still in single file, Giants made the ascent. Ahead of Grueburn and Linden, Scatterwit limped over the treachery of the stones. She was obviously in pain, yet she chuckled in short bursts as if her damaged kneecap amused her.

Then Grueburn crested the waterfall; and Linden stared in surprise. Ahead of her,
krill
-light played across the black surface of a lake.

It may have been vast. The height of the cavern seemed to imply that it was; and the darkness beyond the
krill
’s reach concealed the boundaries of the water. Liquid obsidian curved away to Linden’s left, following the cavern wall out of sight. But ahead and to the right, the lake appeared to have no end—or her senses were confused by intimations of power.

It was eerily motionless, as still as stone. Water dripped from mosses high on the walls, where until recently the cavern had been filled. Thin trickles fell here and there across the emptiness, perhaps dribbling from stalactites invisible in the dark. But there were no ripples: none at all. And no sounds. Drops struck the lake and were absorbed seamlessly. Water lay flat as glass against the rocks of the verge.

The Ironhand had halted with Covenant near the curve of the lakefront. One by one, the rest of the company reached them and stopped, peering into the blind depths or the veiled distance. Branl waved Loric’s dagger for a moment, watched silver sweep across the immaculate ebony. Then he stepped back.

A leaden silence ruled the cavern. From this vantage, even the waterfall appeared to make no sound. The Giants seemed unwilling or unable to speak. To Linden’s eyes, the air over the lake looked as condensed and heavy as sweat.