The Last Dark

by Stephen R. Donaldson

  They were his—and they were stark black, as dark as ichor squeezed from the marrow of the world’s bones.

  “Jeremiah!” When Linden’s pulse resumed its labor, it pounded in her temples, in her ears, at the base of her throat. “What are you doing?” She had asked him to change the Staff. Instead her own darkness was changing him.

  He did not glance at her. “Don’t bother me.” His eyes echoed the hue of his flames. “I’m trying to concentrate. This is temporary. I mean, I think it’s temporary. I just don’t know what to do about it yet.”

  Scowling to himself, he muttered, “You’re stronger than I thought. I can’t figure out how you did it.”

  Linden meant to intervene. She thronged with objections, warnings, supplications. But Covenant stopped her. With his hand on her cheek, he urged her to face him.

  “Leave him alone for a while,” he advised softly. “He wants to try. Maybe this is how he has to learn. Maybe he has to go through you to get to himself.”

  Covenant may have meant, Maybe he’s starting to face his worst fear.

  Linden wanted to believe him, but she could not. Her father had kept her locked in the attic with him while he killed himself. Her mother had begged her to end her life. Linden had given her Staff to Jeremiah of her own free will; but she did not know how to distance herself from his peril.

  Yet what else could she do? She had already decided to leave him when last came to last. When there was nothing left for her except the dark.

  Instead of stopping her son, she clung to her husband as if he were the only defense she had.

  ut slowly food, diluted diamondraught, and the aftereffects of Earthpower steadied Linden. By degrees, she regained a semblance of calm.

  The same benefits wrought on her companions, the Giants if not the Haruchai, until the frenzy and desperation of battle began to fade. And as the Giants recovered, their need for tales grew.

  Clearly the newcomers and the Swordmainnir were well known to each other. But much had occurred since they had parted: both groups had much to tell, and to hear. In particular, the sailors wanted to understand the confluence of events which had brought about the crisis of the Defiles Course. Because they were Giants, they knew about Covenant and Linden; but everything that pertained to Jeremiah was a mystery to them. And the Swordmainnir were eager to hear how their people had contrived to arrive when they were most needed.

  When everyone had eaten, the sailors bundled up their supplies, leaving out a little food in case Linden or Covenant or Jeremiah wanted more. Then the Ironhand announced that the time had come, and her people gathered around her, aching and ready.

  Linden stood among them with Covenant behind her, his arms around her. Branl joined Coldspray so that the krill would shed as much light as possible for the Giants. But Jeremiah seemed to have no interest in stories or woe. His immersion in his task was complete, as it always was when he worked on his constructs. His eyes watched flames while his hands made them dance and gambol on the Staff, or gave them shapes that suggested Ranyhyn, flickering portals, evanescent Elohim. Gradually he attuned himself. Nevertheless his every expression of magic remained as benighted as the world’s doom.

  Perhaps to reassure Linden, Stave positioned himself near her son; but he did nothing to distract Jeremiah.

  The Ironhand began by introducing the newly arrived Giants, seven men and four women. Hurl Linden had already met. Their leader was the Anchormaster of Dire’s Vessel, the Giantship which had brought the Swordmainnir and Longwrath to the Land. His name was Bluff Stoutgirth, although he was lean to the point of emaciation; and his mien hinted that he was more inclined to hilarity than to command. Here, however, his manner was grave and grieving. His sailors and Rime Coldspray’s Swordmainnir had endured much together during their voyage to the Land. They felt their losses keenly.

  For Linden and Covenant, and for the Haruchai, Bluff Stoutgirth named his comrades—Etch Furledsail, Squallish Blustergale, Keenreef, Wiver Setrock, others—but Linden doubted that she would remember them all. Still she was grateful for the knowledge that they had come from Dire’s Vessel. That detail made the fact, if not the timeliness, of their arrival comprehensible.

  The Anchormaster offered to tell his tale first. It was, he suspected, both shorter and kinder than that of the Swordmainnir, though perhaps no less unforeseen. With Rime Coldspray’s assent, he began.

  After the departure of the Ironhand’s company, Dire’s Vessel had remained in the anchorage of ancient Coercri, The Grieve of the Unhomed. For a number of days, the sailors busied themselves with the mundane tasks of repairing and maintaining their Giantship. Then they began to notice changes in the littoral’s weather, disturbances in the sea. Storms lashed the coast and disappeared again without apparent cause. Downpours drenched Dire’s Vessel out of clear skies. Currents ran awry, heaving the Giantship from side to side until anchors were set at every point of the compass. Still the Swordmainnir did not return. They had vanished among the uncertainties of their quest.

  Five mornings ago, however, the sun astonished the crew—Stoutgirth said this with improbable good cheer—by failing to rise. Stars began to disappear from the firmament of the heavens. Mighty swells from the southeast threatened Dire’s Vessel’s moorings. Such occurrences augured some immense and dolorous ill, but the sailors could not interpret the signs.

  Yet on the following day a new astonishment appeared. Striding forth from tales many centuries old, a man made himself manifest upon the foredeck of Dire’s Vessel.

  That he was a man of immense age was plain. The lines upon his visage were such that they mapped a world. Indeed, his years had been so prolonged that they appeared to erode his substance where he stood. His raiment was ancient, an unkempt robe of indeterminate hue, and his limbs wore hatchments of scars. Yet he bore himself as one who could not be bowed, and his glances had the effect of lightnings.

  Unmistakably, Bluff Stoutgirth announced, the man was one of the Haruchai. Indeed, he was unmistakably Brinn, the companion of the ur-Lord Thomas Covenant and the Sun-Sage Linden Avery aboard Starfare’s Gem: the Haruchai who had become the Guardian of the One Tree.

  The Guardian’s tidings were dire in all sooth, Stoutgirth confessed. “The Worm of the World’s End is roused, seeking the ruin of all things. Therefore the One Tree withers. The life of the Earth nears its close.” Yet when the Giants bewailed their lot, moaning the loss of love and wind and stone, of seas and joy and children, Brinn answered their lament.

  “Yet good may come from loss as it does from gain. The decline of the One Tree has concluded my devoir. I am freed to remember the promises of an earlier age. And the Worm is not instant in its feeding. Life lingers yet in the world’s heartwood. This gift is granted to me, that I may expend my waning strength in the Land’s service.

  “While I endure, I will guide you, for your aid will be sorely needed.”

  None aboard Dire’s Vessel, the Anchormaster continued, could comprehend that need. Yet their hearts were lifted by the thought that they might yet be of use in the Earth’s last peril. In a foreshortened Giantclave, the Master of Dire’s Vessel, Vigilall Scudweather, determined that she and a half portion of the crew would remain to tend the Giantship, praying that events would allow them to serve some worthy purpose in their turn. Bluff Stoutgirth and the others prepared such supplies and weapons as they were able to carry swiftly. Then they followed the Guardian of the One Tree from The Grieve into Seareach, tending always to the southwest toward the toils of Sarangrave Flat and the renowned perils of the lurker.

  For a wonder, they passed into and through the Sarangrave unthreatened. Indeed, their course was eased at every obstacle, though they had no understanding of the magicks which relieved their efforts. In another matter, however, fortune gazed less kindly upon them. The Guardian’s diminishment was unremitting, and no succor of companionship or repast eased it. During the evening of the day now past, he frayed at last and faded, drifting away along the world’s winds.
Then the Giants feared that naught remained to thwart the Worm. Yet they persevered, for the Guardian had led them far enough to descry Mount Thunder. They knew their destination. Therefore they hastened onward, denying themselves all sorrow for Brinn Haruchai, until they beheld turmoil upon the mountain. And at the last, fortune smiled once more. The Giants of Dire’s Vessel did not come too late.

  So Bluff Stoutgirth ended his tale.

  “Joy is in the ears that hear,” Rime Coldspray replied formally, “not in the mouth that speaks. Upon occasion, however, both ears and mouth may know joy, for its causes are plain to all. When we foundered in strife and loss, your coming lifted our hearts. We are Giants and must grieve. Yet we are filled with gladness also. You are a brightness amid the world’s dusk.”

  The other Swordmainnir offered their thanks and pleasure as well. But they fell silent when Covenant began to speak. Holding Linden tightly, he addressed the sailors with a familiar ache in his voice.

  “Brinn talked about a service or boon. Even after he saved my life, he wasn’t done. But he didn’t tell me what he had in mind. Now I know. You’re his last service. His boon. We weren’t enough. We needed help. No matter what happens, we’re going to need more.”

  Linden nodded. Manethrall Mahrtiir had spoken truly. And betimes some wonder is wrought to redeem us. The Giants of Dire’s Vessel had given Covenant time to summon the Fire-Lions.

  But the Swordmainnir did not linger over their gratitude. Their weariness ran deep; and there was much that Stoutgirth and his crew needed to know.

  “As you have surmised,” the Ironhand began, sighing, “our tale is both lengthy and unforeseen. It has cost us lives and blood and sorrow. The worth of our deeds is not ours to proclaim. Yet I will trust that worth resembles joy. It will be found in the ears that hear if the mouth that speaks cannot name it.”

  Then Rime Coldspray gave the Giants of Dire’s Vessel her story.

  At first, Linden listened uncomfortably. The Ironhand described events and purposes in more forgiving terms than Linden could have managed, especially where Linden herself was concerned. She had to stifle an impulse to add her own stringent counterpoint to the arching cadences of Coldspray’s narration. But gradually the Ironhand’s tone filled her thoughts, lulling her until she drifted on the currents of Coldspray’s voice.

  Beyond the reach of the krill’s gem, darkness waited as though the whole truth of the world had become night. Overhead the watching stars seemed too disconsolate to value their hard-earned reprieve. Behind the episodes of Rime Coldspray’s tale, the Sarangrave’s lapping waters muttered reminders of venom and putrescence. Jeremiah’s study of the Staff sent small flames skirling upward, but shed no light.

  Yet within the ambit of the krill’s argent, Bluff Stoutgirth and his comrades were transfixed. Where the Anchormaster and Hurl appeared to suppress jests at every turn of the tale, Keenreef and Squallish Blustergale looked dismayed to the heart. Etch Furledsail, Wiver Setrock, and one of the women—had Stoutgirth called her Baf Scatterwit?—stared at the Ironhand as if nothing made sense. Together Dire’s Vessel’s crew evinced every reaction except joy.

  Nevertheless no one interrupted Rime Coldspray. Even Covenant did not, although he could no doubt have added his own interpretations. Instead he seemed distracted, as if he were thinking about something else.

  Then Coldspray was done. A long silence greeted her, until Stoutgirth announced brightly, “A toothsome tale, Ironhand—a veritable feast of clear peril and ambiguous vindication, strange beings and extravagant exertions. Doubtless we will gnaw upon it, seeking its marrow, while the world endures.

  “Yet you have spoken of worth. For my part, Ironhand, I do not acknowledge it.” He laughed happily. “As matters stand, we resemble sailors snared in the ensorcelments of the Soulbiter. There can be no worth in the tale of those who fail and fall unwitnessed, for their doom is not redeemed by the telling of it. We must have boasting, Rime Coldspray! I will not name the deeds of this company worthy until the World’s End has been forestalled. Only then may the tale be shared with those able to esteem it.”

  Linden frowned, thinking that the Anchormaster had insulted her friends. But the Giants heard something different in Stoutgirth’s assertion; or they heard it with different ears. Several of his sailors laughed, and both Grueburn and Kindwind chuckled.

  “Then,” Rime Coldspray replied, bemused and rueful, “we must endeavor to win free of this Soulbiter, that we may thereafter brag of our survival.”

  The Anchormaster nodded. “And toward that end, Ironhand, there is a matter which you have not addressed. How do you propose to sail these fatal seas? You have overcome the unwelcome of the Haruchai. And your companions are figures of legend, revered among us. Your purpose must be mighty indeed, to gather such a congeries of valor and puissance.

  “Ironhand, what is your intent?”

  Coldspray opened her mouth to answer, then closed it. With a bow, she stepped aside, referring the question to Covenant; or perhaps to Covenant and Linden.

  Covenant’s arms tightened momentarily. In Linden’s ear, he whispered, “This is the hard part of being a leper. I’m going to need your help.”

  Startled, she turned to him with questions in her eyes; but his only response was a twisted smile as he stepped away from her. The sailors and the Swordmainnir towered over him, yet he faced them as though his stature equaled theirs.

  “I hope you aren’t expecting me to be sure of anything. We have too many enemies, and they have too much power. And all I really know about the Worm is that we can’t stop it. But I don’t want to just sit on my hands waiting to die. The Despiser started all this. Him I think we might be able to stop. I want to put an end to his evil.”

  He pointed at the mouth of the Defiles Course. “I want to get into Mount Thunder. Up into the Wightwarrens, if that’s even possible. That’s where Lord Foul is. I want to go find him.”

  Briefly his shoulders hunched as if he were strangling his fears. “But there’s something else I want to do first.”

  While the Giants studied him, he gestured Branl to his side. Taking the krill, he held it up in his halfhand by its wrapped blade. Within its silver, he continued.

  “The Ironhand told her story. The Swordmainnir have been through hell and blood ever since they left you. Fighting Longwrath, fighting for Longwrath, they lost Scend Wavegift. Against the skurj, they lost Moire Squareset. And eventually Kastenessen killed Longwrath. All of that was bad enough. But now the toll is even higher.” Although Coldspray and Stoutgirth had already acknowledged their dead, Covenant insisted on the names. “Latebirth, Stormpast Galesend, and Cabledarm died for us, and Dire’s Vessel lost a man I never even met. You called him Slumberhead, God knows why. He sure as hell wasn’t dozing when he gave his life.

  “It’s too much. You’re Giants, all of you. You can’t ask yourselves to carry around that much grief indefinitely. You need a caamora. How else are you going to face what’s ahead of us?”

  The Ironhand glanced at her surroundings. “We have no fire,” she said harshly, “if we do not sacrifice yet another tree.”

  All of the ironwoods set ablaze by the skurj had burned down to ash, or had been extinguished by rain. There was no flame in the valley apart from Jeremiah’s experiments.

  “And I won’t ask you to do that,” Covenant assured her. “I promised you a caamora. I intend to keep that promise.

  “When I made it, I thought I could use Longwrath’s body. That seemed like a kind of acknowledgment. A way to make something good out of what he went through. But the Giants we’ve lost here have been mangled by the skurj. They already look desecrated. It seems disrespectful to use them.

  “So I’m going to burn myself.”

  To the sudden alarm of his companions, he added quickly, “I mean with wild magic. I’m going to light myself and hope that I can burn hot enough to console you.

  “It’s wild magic. It drains me. Hell, it even terrifies me. But it won’t hurt m
e. The only danger is that I’ll lose control. Too much might do more harm than too little.”

  Then he turned back to Linden. “That’s why I need your help. Your health-sense. I want you to watch out for me. If I start to go too far, I want you to stop me.”

  Seeing the raw need in his scowl, she felt a hammer pound in her chest. How could she stop him? Oh, she believed that he would not be harmed physically. His power was him. But the cost to his spirit might be extreme. His reluctance was necessary to him. It counterbalanced his extravagance: it was his way of managing his fear that he might commit havoc. If he damaged his friends—if he damaged anything—he would not be able to forgive himself.

  How could she stop him, except by possessing him?

  But he did not give her a chance to protest, or to ready herself. He ignored the apprehension of the Giants, the doubts. Before they could say that they did not want him to take this risk, he touched his wedding band to Loric’s cut gem.

  In the space between instants, he became fire.

  She could still see him. He stood incandescent in the core of a silver conflagration, a blaze like a bonfire barely contained, bound by force of will in the shape of a whirling pillar as tall as any Giant. As he burned, the krill fell from his fingers: he no longer needed it. Flames seemed to burst from every inch of him. They looked pure enough to render his flesh from his bones. Yet he was not consumed. Instead his magicks appeared to exalt him. With wild magic, he could have brought life and time to an end without the aid of the Worm.

  Nevertheless his power was also a howl. It tormented him. It was the contradiction which lay at the center of his plight in the Land, the one word of truth or treachery. Without wild magic, nothing could be redeemed. With it, everything might be damned.

  In spite of her dismay, Linden understood. With wild magic, destruction came easily. That she knew to be true. She had seen it in caesures; in the reaving of Cavewights. With fire, Covenant looked capable of ripping the stars out of the heavens. She did not know how to watch without weeping.