The Last Dark (94 page)

Soon the
krill
would start to melt. It had to. Nothing mortal-made could endure Roger’s virulence, or Covenant’s wild response.

Upright beyond the ceiling and the stalactites, the breaking gutrock, Lord Foul watched. His eyes gnashed approval.

Blasts like magma knocked Covenant’s weapon from side to side. Feral heat chewed into his hands, gnawed at his arms. And his dead nerves betrayed him. They spared him from the worst of the pain, but they also weakened his grip. The hilt twisted. The skin of his fingers seemed slick as spilth. He could not hold.

He had to hold. The moment of his last crisis was upon him. Catastrophes burned in the bones of his forehead. Everything that he required of himself while life remained in his body depended on his ability to grip and hold.

Somehow he withstood Roger’s assault. He had more than the
krill
: he had wild magic. In some sense, he
was
white gold. The power possible for him was limited only by his humanity, his flesh and sinew and passion. Loric’s dagger was not melting. Even Covenant’s hands were not. They were preserved by the theurgies that saved and damned; by the contradiction of renewal and ruin that formed the keystone of the Arch of Time. As long as he did not let go—

But he could not do more; could not advance to threaten Roger or the Despiser. Together they were too strong. Roger’s savagery demanded his utmost, and his utmost was not enough.

And while he fought to withstand lava and malice, he gave no heed when the boulders against the walls opened themselves and became monsters.

Two of them. Three.

Apparently the Despiser was not satisfied. He desired Covenant’s death too much to let Roger fail.

The stone-things were vacancies. Despite their actinic auras, they were only visible to ordinary sight. Branl did not sense them. His attention was fixed on Covenant’s struggle. One step at a time, he circled obliquely closer to the dais. But he was looking for an opening, a chance to attack while Covenant distracted Roger. He was not watching for other threats.

As massive as monoliths, and as silent, two of the creatures lumbered toward the Humbled from opposite sides. The third advanced on Covenant.

Covenant saw nothing except white fire and ruddy brimstone; felt nothing except the tearing heat of Roger’s theurgy. Roger had called him
oblivious
. He was oblivious now. There was no room in his heart or his mind for anything beyond the extremity of his need to hold on.

But Branl was
Haruchai
. He may have been as transfixed as Covenant; may have felt as desperate. Nevertheless he was a warrior to the bone, defined by combat. A heartbeat before the nearer stone-thing drew close enough to hit him, he saw it.

Whatever he thought or felt at that moment, he did not hesitate. Spinning away from the dais, he swung a two-handed cut at the side of the creature’s neck.

The clang of iron shivered among the stalactites. The flamberge bounced back, singing with stress.

The monster lurched to a halt. A third of its throat had been sliced open.

Branl needed an instant to regain control of his blade. Then he swung again.

This time, the creature folded to its knees. Slow as a sigh, it collapsed on its face and became dust.

Febrile with pain and hate, Roger fed the mounting holocaust. Through the glare, Covenant descried Roger’s features. Their agonized contortion seemed to cry out, wailing of needs and fears that surpassed sound, exceeded the firestorm of powers. Roger’s mouth shaped words which Covenant could not hear.

Dad, Covenant’s son seemed to be saying, help me.

Abruptly his own dread and hurt fell away. The burning of his hands lapsed into numbness. His grip steadied the
krill
against Roger’s onslaught. Wild magic rose to a pitch too acute for perception.
Moksha
Jehannum had taken Jeremiah. Covenant did not know what had become of Linden, but he knew that She Who Must Not Be Named was too strong to be defeated. And the Worm of the World’s End was feeding. Forces mightier than Covenant’s struggle shook Mount Thunder to its roots. He was losing everything that he had ever striven to preserve. Nevertheless he was not daunted. He still had something to fight for.

His son was possessed. Roger bore the immedicable wound of Kastenessen’s hand. He had been a fool—a fool and a coward—but that changed nothing. He had not chosen his parents; had not caused his mother’s weakness or his father’s absence. Now the extravagance of his distress made Covenant’s voluntary hurts seem trivial.

A different kind of anger dismissed Covenant’s pain; his earlier wrath. This new ire resembled his old, familiar rage for lepers. It was a passion colder, calmer, and more complete than his desire to hurt the Despiser: a sympathy so furious that it felt like exultation.

Clenching Loric’s dagger, he concentrated his outpouring of fire through the gem. Then he began to force his way toward the dais. One step at a time, he advanced against torrential magma and malevolence.

“No!” the Despiser shouted. “I will not permit it!”

While Branl stood over the fallen stone-thing, the second creature came at his back. One sweep of its granite arm smashed his shoulder, flung him at the wall. Noiseless amid the cacophony of magicks, the flamberge clattered to the floor. He struggled to rise, but his legs failed him.

In that instant, Stave appeared in Kiril Threndor as though he had dropped from the ceiling. Somehow Linden had translated him here. He would not have left her side willingly.

Nonetheless he was
Haruchai
: he did not need time to gauge what was happening around him. As his feet touched the floor, he dove for Branl’s longsword. A roll brought him upright with the flamberge in his fists. His momentum carried him into a straight lunge at the creature which had struck the Humbled.

In spite of its antiquity, the blade retained some vestige of Kasreyn’s lore. It drove deep into the monster’s chest. When Stave wrenched out the longsword, the stone-thing toppled to one side. Dying, it turned to powder and drifted away.

Reflections of brimstone and wild magic flashed in Stave’s eye as he hastened to stand between Covenant and the third monster. His mien was a taut mask of outrage and grief.

Linden, Covenant thought. Oh, God. What have you done?

But he did not stop fighting.

“No!” Lord Foul roared again. “I will not
permit
it!”

Scourged by his possessor, Roger shifted his aim. Fierce as a scream, he turned his power away from Covenant.

A mistake—In the space between instants, Covenant thought that the Despiser had misjudged his foes—or had simply been overcome by his own fury. The
Haruchai
could not oppose him. Covenant was the real danger.

Then, however, Covenant saw the frenzy in Roger’s eyes—saw the Despiser’s bitterness dulled by a more human anguish—saw Roger hurl coerced scoria, not at Stave, who shielded Covenant, but at Branl, who could not.

The Humbled lay gasping against the wall. One shoulder had been shattered. Other bones were broken. His legs refused to hold him. Still he managed to wrench himself aside.

Roger’s blast did not destroy him. Instead it made a smoking ruin of his wrecked arm, stripped the flesh from his ribs. Even that lesser damage might have killed him; but Roger’s attack cauterized as it burned. Branl was stricken unconscious: he did not bleed. His chest still heaved for air.

Roger had done that:
Roger
. It was as close to an act of mercy as he could manage. In spite of Lord Foul’s mastery, Roger had left Stave alive to protect Covenant.

And Covenant—

Covenant recognized his chance.

In a stumbling rush, he ran at Roger, gained the dais. Faster than he could think, he slashed with the
krill
.

One swift stroke severed Kastenessen’s hand.

The hand exploded; or Lord Foul’s presence in Roger did. The concussion tossed Covenant away. He hit hard enough to crack his skull. A whirlwind of little suns wheeled across his mind. He lost the dagger somewhere. Blood started from his eyes. It ran from his ears. He could not feel his arms, his legs. A gyre of disconnected instants sucked at the verges of reality.

“
You
,” raged the Despiser, “will not
prevail
!”

A clutch of theurgy yanked Covenant from the stone, threw him farther. He skidded like scattered bones over slabs and fissures.

He had no strength, no weapon. He might as well have had no limbs. Another throw would finish him.

Sightless and desperate, he answered with wild magic. His mind became white fire. Violent flames poured from every part of him that still had living nerves and could feel pain.

“You bastard.” Roger seemed to be shrieking at Lord Foul, but Covenant heard only whispers. “You lied to me.”

“And do you now take offense, little man?” snorted the Despiser. “I do not regard your umbrage. I do not speak lies. If you heard falsehood, it was of your own making. Now you will suffer the outcome of your folly. Take comfort in the knowledge that your abjection will be brief.”

Radiating fire like waves of fever, Covenant tried to blink the blood out of his eyes; struggled to see.

He lay on a canted sheet of basalt. Vaguely past its rim, he glimpsed the unharmed dais, the broken clutter of stalactites. The furious shape of Lord Foul still dominated the chamber, too immense to be opposed or endured.

Branl lay where he had been struck. Stave had vanished or fallen. Had he confronted another monster? Covenant had no idea how many stone-things still moved in Kiril Threndor.

But over there, to the left of the dais, stood Roger, unpossessed and human. Fountains of blood had streaked his clothes, stained his face. Facing the Despiser, he huddled over his pain with his gushing wrist clamped under his arm to slow the bleeding. He glanced at Covenant; at Covenant’s undifferentiated, useless flail of power. Then he turned back to Lord Foul.

Tremors ran through the floor. They staggered Roger, rocked Covenant mercilessly. The Despiser and the dais they did not affect.

Lord Foul’s biting eyes loomed over Covenant. “As for you,” he sneered, “beaten Unbeliever, impotent Timewarden, I have reconsidered your doom. Though I hunger for your death, I also crave your despair. Therefore I have asked of myself which end will wound your spirit more grievously, a death in agony at my hands, or an occasion to witness the final devastation of all that you hold dear. Remain as you are, and you may observe my return to majesty. Continue to oppose me, and I will snuff your frail life as you would a lantern.”

Squinting, Covenant located the
krill
. It was too far away.

Grip and hold.

Try it, he panted, although he could not speak. See what happens. He could hardly move. You haven’t won yet.

Nevertheless his shining faltered. He let his power fall away.

Then he found himself rising to his feet. Stave lifted him from behind, supported him when he could not stand alone.

The last of Lord Foul’s stone defenders was gone.

The chamber juddered as if it had been struck by the leading edge of a tsunami. Covenant’s guts and chest knotted, threatening to retch blood. But Stave’s arms sustained him.

Softly Stave breathed, “
Moksha
Jehannum has taken the Chosen-son.” He had dropped the flamberge. He had no more use for it. “Canrik cannot succor him. The Ironhand and Frostheart Grueburn cannot. Samil has been slain.”

“Linden?” Covenant coughed: an effort that seemed to grind the broken ends of ribs against each other.

“I know not.” Stave did not disguise his bitterness. “She cast me from her ere she was claimed by the bane. I desire to hope that she lives, yet I cannot.”

A moment later, the former Master whispered, “I do not comprehend, Timewarden. Time comes unbound. Soon it will unravel entirely. Why does Corruption remain?”

Through a mouthful of blood, Covenant panted, “He’s enjoying himself too much.” After uncounted millennia of imprisonment—“He knows he’s already won. He’s just waiting for Jeremiah.”

And while Lord Foul waited—

Covenant wanted to strike. He ached for the strength to stop the Despiser. But he was too weak. Too badly hurt. Sick with grief for Linden and Jeremiah. He had nothing left except waiting.

Roger deserved a better father.

Roger was crying. He may have wanted words, but he could only manage sobs. A young man who had dreamed of eternity—

“Timewarden,” Stave demanded, uncharacteristically urgent, “some deed we must attempt. We cannot condone this doom.”

I know, Covenant thought dimly. I just need a chance to breathe.

He needed something to believe in. Something to hope for.

What kind of idiot thinks he can save the world by himself?

He had forgotten how seductive despair could be.

“Hear me, Timewarden,” ordered Stave. “I will endeavor to retrieve the
krill
. Should I succeed, you must wield it. You must—”

Covenant gripped Stave’s arm weakly; tried to restrain the
Haruchai
, although of course he could not. Spitting blood, he croaked, “Wait. He wants Jeremiah. We still have time.”

Too much wild magic would only hasten the fall of the Arch. It would ease the Despiser’s departure.

Stave did not move. He may have trusted Covenant. He may have simply hesitated.

Lord Foul’s gaze had turned away. He appeared to peer through rock toward the cave where Covenant had left Jeremiah. His eyes dripped eagerness. He was as vulnerable as he would ever be.

We still have time.

Covenant had abandoned Linden’s son to
moksha
Raver.

Suddenly the Despiser’s eyes flared. They blazed like torches. His outrage stunned Covenant’s ears. Kiril Threndor lurched in the mountain’s chest as though Mount Thunder had suffered a fatal crisis.

Stave said something. He may have been shouting, but Covenant could not hear him.

Roger was moving.

Broken as a derelict, as the wreckage of his dreams, Roger stumbled toward the dais. He crouched. When he rose again, he clutched High Lord Loric’s dagger.