The Last Dark

by Stephen R. Donaldson

  After a moment, Jeremiah nodded reluctantly. “Sure. Why not? What else are we going to do?”

  Bracing himself on the former Master’s dispassion, he filled his hands with fire. Earthpower might serve to sharpen his health-sense. And if it did not, it might comfort him anyway.

  Together Jeremiah Chosen-son and Stave of the Haruchai began the tedious task of scrutinizing the rockfall from every angle.

  or Jeremiah, time crept by in an ocean surge of frustration, inexorable as a tide, rising and falling from one moment to the next, but always climbing higher. An accumulating sense of futility lured his attention into darker places. His flames changed nothing, and he let them go; immersed himself once more in the world’s darkness. Occasionally his heart rose at the glimpse of a deposit. When he saw that the amount of malachite was too small, his spirit sank again.

  But Stave was always at his side, always calm—and steadier than Jeremiah’s pulse. Over and over again, Jeremiah swallowed his alarm and kept going for no better reason than because Stave was with him.

  Stealthy as betrayal, dawn came closer; and still Jeremiah could not find what he sought. An hour before the moment when the sun should have risen, he and the Haruchai completed the first stage of their search. They had looked everywhere. They had looked at everything. Now nothing remained except the imponderable labor of digging into the rockfall.

  High up on the slope, Jeremiah collapsed on a slab of granite with his elbows propped on his knees and his face hidden in his hands. He was tired now, worn out by defeat. Everything that felt like excitement or hope had drained out of him. No doubt Stave would go on searching. Jeremiah could not.

  The Haruchai remained standing nearby, glancing here and there with apparent unconcern. He may have been waiting for Jeremiah to recover. After a few moments, however, he said, “Set aside discouragement, Chosen-son. Hope remains.”

  The flatness of his tone made him sound reproachful.

  Jeremiah jerked up his head. As aggrieved as a child, he burst out, “It does not! We’ve looked everywhere! And I don’t care what you say about taking this rubble apart. Sure, we can look deeper that way. But we only have eight Giants—and they don’t have any food. They’ll have to shove rocks out of the way for days while they starve. The world is going to end, and it’ll break Mom’s heart, and we’ll still be here just digging!”

  “Softly, Chosen-son,” Stave replied as if he were commenting on the condition of Jeremiah’s pajamas. “The time has not come to rouse the Swordmainnir. Doubtless they would answer your urging, but we have no cause to summon them. In one respect, you are mistaken. We have not extended our search to its boundaries.”

  Jeremiah stared. He wanted to shout something vicious, but Stave’s manner stopped him. Briefly his mouth and throat worked without producing a sound. Then he asked hoarsely, “What’re you talking about?”

  “Chosen-son,” Stave stated without hesitation, “you have not turned your gaze upward.”

  Still Jeremiah stared. What, upward? At the stars?

  “Consider the ridge,” explained his companion. “Consider the wound which the Chosen has made. Your discernment exceeds my senses, but to my sight it appears that there is a source of malachite above us.”

  Jeremiah sprang to his feet as if he had been stung, flung his gaze at the source of the rockfall.

  At first, he found nothing except blunt granite, blind basalt. Apparently every bit of green had already fallen.

  But Stave was looking higher, studying the hollow near its ragged upper rim.

  A tall slab stood there, a monolith heavy enough to resist Linden’s detonation. To a quick glance, the stone resembled granite or schist. But when Jeremiah looked harder, he saw that the slab was actually a flawed mix of igneous rock and more porous sandstone supported by rigid shafts of flint.

  And enclosed within the monolith were signs—

  “Really?” he breathed. “Are you sure?”

  Was that his capstone? Exactly what his temple needed?

  If so, it was inaccessible. Completely out of reach. Perhaps Linden could have used her Staff, caused the slab to topple somehow. Her son could not.

  With enough rope—

  The Giants had no rope.

  Scowling, Jeremiah clenched his fists until his fingers ached. “I can’t tell. It’s too far away.” Then he beat his knuckles against his thighs so that his frustration would not erupt into the night. The monolith appeared to lean as if it were taunting him; daring him to believe that it would topple. “But even if it’s enough, it’s useless. We can’t get at it.”

  “Chosen-son.” Now Stave’s tone was unmistakably a reprimand. He regarded Jeremiah as if the tugging of the fractured gale did not touch him. “You judge in haste. Therefore you judge falsely. Have you come so far in Linden Avery’s care and failed to learn that despair gives poor counsel? If the needed stone lies beyond your grasp, withdraw. Retreat to the foot of the rockfall. Acknowledge this truth, that you are not alone.”

  Jeremiah opened his mouth; closed it. A mordant voice inside him snarled, What’re you going to do? Fly up there? I dare you. But that reaction arose from memories which he strained to suppress. He would have pulled down the ridge gladly to bury them. And Stave was impervious to Jeremiah’s galled incredulity. Withdraw. Fighting himself, Jeremiah moved backward under the pressure of Stave’s severe gaze. Retreat.

  Mom! Where are you? I don’t know what’s going on.

  Retreat from what?

  Awkward as a youth who had never been sure of anything, Jeremiah went down the rubble as quickly as he could manage.

  When he reached bare dirt, he peered upward. Just for a moment, he could not locate Stave. But then a suggestion of movement snagged his attention. Squinting, he spotted a hard shape like a piece of condensed midnight untouched by starlight. Stave had already climbed beyond the top of the rockfall. Now he hung splayed against the ridgefront, searching with his fingers and toes for holds which would enable him to lift himself toward the immense hollow cut by Linden and Earthpower.

  He must have been creeping: he hardly seemed to move at all. Jeremiah could not imagine how he found cracks and rims still solid enough to support him. Yet Stave did move. Sudden jerks conveyed the impression that a grip had failed, or a toehold. He appeared to swing from side to side, hanging by one hand; perhaps by one finger. Uncertain as hallucinations, bits of debris dropped away. But he did not fall.

  He was Haruchai, born to the crags and precipices and flensing winds of the Westron Mountains.

  If he gained the gouge, he would be able to climb more easily, at least for a while. Its lower surface was not vertical. He would be halfway to the monolith.

  The monolith itself was three times his height, many times heavier. It could have served as a monument for a Giant. He would not be able to dislodge it by simply throwing rocks at it. His only choice would be to work his way higher.

  But toward the back of the hollow, the ascent would become steeper. Then the harmed stone above him would tilt outward. There the slab he strove to reach stood on a crude protrusion like a snout. That formation multiplied the hazards. He would have to climb beneath it, hanging precariously in the air—

  Jeremiah heard one of the Swordmainnir moving toward him, but he could not look away from the small flutter of darkness that represented Stave. Over and over again, he held his breath as if he believed that his own tension might protect the former Master. The whole night had come to this: the little increments, barely perceptible, of Stave’s efforts.

  Wrapped in winds, Rime Coldspray towered out of the night to stand beside Jeremiah. The Ironhand had left her armor and sword behind, but she moved as if she still carried them—and had another Giant sitting on her shoulders. That she had slept was plain. But she needed more than rest. She needed sustenance. Above all, she needed relief. She and her comrades had known little except struggle and strife since they had first approached the Land.

  Briefly she regarded Jeremiah
. Then she lifted her gaze toward the ridge and Stave.

  He had almost reached the hollow. Holds broke in his hands; but he cast those shards away and hunted for better grips. Occasionally Jeremiah heard the clatter as rocks hit the slope. At other times, gusts carried the sounds away, and Stave seemed to climb in a preternatural silence, fraught as a clenched breath.

  “Stone and Sea,” murmured Coldspray. “If this is not madness incarnate, it serves some purpose which I do not discern.”

  Jeremiah pointed. “He’s trying to reach that slab. It has malachite I need. But I don’t think he can even get there. He won’t be able to break it loose.”

  “Ah.” The Ironhand released a sigh. “Now I comprehend. The malachite itself is vague to my sight. But consider the stone within which it is concealed.” She stared hard under her heavy brows. “If distance and darkness do not mislead me, the stone stands somewhat apart. A cleft or flaw has detached it from the ridge.

  “Stave Rockbrother will endeavor to dislodge it.”

  Jeremiah did not believe that Stave could do it.

  As if to herself, Coldspray added, “When it falls, he will also. Then he must perish. Though he is Haruchai, his flesh is not iron. His bones are not. They will not withstand an impact from that height.”

  While pressure mounted in Jeremiah’s chest, Stave’s unyielding shape crossed into the gouge. There he rose to his feet and paused, secure against the battering of the wind. For a few moments, he appeared to study the challenge ahead of him. Then Jeremiah saw the former Master wave one arm: a gesture of reassurance so unconvincing that it made Jeremiah wince.

  This was impossible. It was all impossible. What Stave had done was already insane—and there was worse ahead of him. When it falls, he will also. Jeremiah had not thought that far ahead.

  Then he must perish.

  Abruptly Jeremiah wheeled on Rime Coldspray, clutched at her arm. “Do something,” he panted. “He’s Stave. Mom will never forgive me if he dies.” Because he was pleading with a Giant, the Ironhand of the Swordmainnir, he tried to tell the truth. “I’ll never forgive myself.”

  Without turning her head, Coldspray answered, “This choice was not yours to make, young Jeremiah. It belonged to Stave Rockbrother. It remains his. He will suffer the cost because he chooses to do so.

  “At present, his peril is diminished. Later it will become extreme. Should he fall within the hollow, we can do naught to aid him. We must trust his skill and agility to preserve him.

  “The achievement of his purpose is another matter.”

  Still watching Stave’s wary ascent, she called, “Ho, Swordmainnir! Bestir yourselves! You will wish to witness Stave Rockbrother’s valor. And he will have need of you!”

  At first, there was no response.

  “Frostheart Grueburn!” shouted the Ironhand. “Latebirth!” She sounded more relaxed than Jeremiah felt; far more confident. “Cabledarm! Onyx Stonemage! Hear me! Hear and come!”

  After a moment, a bleary voice answered, “We hear you.” Grueburn. “The very stars hear you.”

  If she said more, gusts carried the words away.

  For a while, Stave moved more easily. But soon he reached the steeper recesses of the wound, where the stone had more cracks. He was forced to resume his earlier care, testing each handhold, each support for his feet, each small ledge and crack and bulge, before he committed his weight to it.

  Yawning, Giants approached Jeremiah and Coldspray. He recognized them without glancing at them. Only Stormpast Galesend and Halewhole Bluntfist lagged behind—or they were still asleep.

  While Stave crawled up the back of the hollow and began to creep toward the granite jut which supported the monolith, often hanging by his hands alone until he found places to anchor his feet, Coldspray explained his intentions to her comrades. Then she said, “He is Stave Rockbrother, able and stalwart as the Haruchai of old. He will not fail.”

  “When he succeeds,” muttered Grueburn, “he will fall. He must.”

  “And he will perish,” Stonemage added grimly.

  “Therefore,” concluded the Ironhand, “we must intervene.”

  Considering the problem, her comrades nodded.

  Jeremiah wanted to ask, Intervene how? But Grueburn, Latebirth, Stonemage, and Cabledarm were already moving away. Apparently they did not need Coldspray’s instructions. As they started up the rockfall, they separated. Grueburn and Latebirth on one side, Cabledarm and Stonemage on the other, they labored toward the ridgefront.

  At first, Jeremiah could not imagine what they had in mind. Then he understood. They aimed to bracket the slab’s likely path when it toppled. Clearly they meant to position themselves on either side of that path. If they could avoid being struck, they might have some chance of catching Stave.

  If he did not fall first. If he managed to shift the monolith. If loosened rocks did not hit anybody. If just one of the Giants was quick enough to intercept his plunge. If his impact in her arms did not kill him as surely as the jagged rubble. If it did not break or kill her—

  Jeremiah was holding his breath again. He thought that he saw Stave’s arms flailing. Dislodged debris spattered like rain into the hollow.

  But Stave’s indistinct form still clung to the rock. One grip at a time, he eased upward.

  Cirrus Kindwind left the Ironhand’s side, strode some distance up the rockfall. When she had climbed atop an especially tall boulder, she stopped to study the ridgefront. Then she raised her voice in a shout.

  “Grueburn! Latebirth! Alter your heading!” She waved her arms, directing her comrades to the left. “You will be struck!”

  The two women did not respond to Kindwind’s hail; but they must have heard her. They shifted their course.

  Unfortunately now they were no longer clambering up the rockfall’s spine. Instead they were forced to straggle along the side of the slope. If Stave came down toward the crest of the rubble, they would not be able to reach him without sprinting upward—and they were fatally weary.

  Still Stave made his way by undetectable increments. Only the erratic spatter of stones and the wind-torn fall of dirt showed that he was still moving. But he was moving. One hand or foot or finger or toe at a time, he worked his way closer to the bulbous rock supporting the slab.

  Jeremiah hardly dared to estimate the distance. Involuntarily he imagined Stave’s fingers bleeding, his muscles trembling—

  Rime Coldspray rested a gentle hand on Jeremiah’s shoulder. “Remember that he is Haruchai,” she murmured. “He has performed wonders ere now. Mayhap he will surpass our fears yet again.”

  “But he’s in trouble either way.” If Stave failed to shift the slab, he would never be able to climb back down. “Can they”—Jeremiah meant Grueburn and Latebirth, Stonemage and Cabledarm—“actually catch him?”

  “We are Giants.” The Ironhand’s reply was softer than the wind. “Often we have been tested. Often we have prevailed.”

  For a time, Stave seemed to vanish. Hidden by the shape of the bulge, he had become indistinguishable from the stone.

  In alarm, Jeremiah blurted, “Where is he? What’s happened?”

  “Gaze more closely,” Coldspray advised. “You will perceive that he is safe for a time. One arm he has wedged into the cleft between the monolith and the cliff. While he remains thus secured, his peril is diminished. Now the uncertain balance of the stone is the gravest threat. Should it tilt suddenly, catching him unprepared—” She allowed herself a sigh. “In that event, opportunities to affect his fate will be slight. Far better for him if he must exert his full strength to shift the stone. Then his efforts will carry him outward, away from the precipice and ruin.”

  As she spoke, Jeremiah caught an image of Stave dropping like more rubble. Spinning out of control. Hitting the ridgefront over and over again until he was mangled beyond recognition.

  The former Master had made his own choices—but Jeremiah had inspired them. His whole body ached with a futile desire to keep Stave saf
e.

  Still resting her hand on Jeremiah’s shoulder, Rime Coldspray continued, “For the moment, I am primarily concerned by the width and depth of the cleft.” She sounded deliberately casual. “At this distance, I cannot gauge it. If the stone does not stand free of the cliff, it is unlikely to fall. And if the cleft will admit no more than Stave’s arm, he will have scant leverage. Then the bulk of muscle which he will require might exceed even a Giant.

  “No, we must hope that he will contrive to force his arms and chest—indeed, his body entire—into the cleft. For him as for us, that will be the most favorable circumstance.”

  She may have been trying to soothe Jeremiah by focusing his attention on practical details.

  To an extent, she succeeded. As if involuntarily, he found himself imagining Stave squeezed behind the slab; Stave straining to shift the monolith. While Stave did such things—if he did them—he would not fall.

  Wind stung Jeremiah’s eyes. His pajamas fluttered around him in tatters. He ignored Stormpast Galesend and Halewhole Bluntfist as they drew near. Instead he watched Grueburn and Latebirth, Stonemage and Cabledarm. They had reached the places where they meant to wait for Stave. Now they stood motionless in the night. They were not immediately below the slab, but they were close enough to be struck by debris—or by the slab itself if it bounced crookedly against the ridgefront. Still Jeremiah thought that they were too far from the cliff—and too far from each other. He could not believe that they had a prayer of saving Stave.

  The three Swordmainnir with Jeremiah studied the monolith and its pediment. From her boulder, Cirrus Kindwind did the same. Winds flailed like indignation in all directions, outraged by affronts too distant to be answered.

  Without warning, Kindwind shouted, “Ware, Frostheart Grueburn! The stone shifts toward you!”

  It might move in that direction if Stave could use only one arm. Or perhaps the rim of the bulge above Grueburn’s position was simply weaker.

  Faintly through the tumult in his heart, Jeremiah heard Grueburn reply, “I have seen it.”