Covenant doubted that his mount would last much longer. He doubted that he would. His trek to Foul’s Creche long ago had taught him that the Hills were a hazardous barrier. And they probably stretched right to the cliffedge. Beyond them, of course, the way was easier. At the base of Ridjeck Thome’s promontory, the Shattered Hills were cut off by cooled lava where Hotash Slay had once moiled and poured. There he would be able to walk. He had done it before. But here—

A glance at the sky told him that midafternoon had passed. Under the loom of the Hills, night would fall early.

He tried to assure himself that he and his companions had made good progress. Certainly the charger had endured more than he could have expected. When he asked the Humbled, however, they informed him that the igneous boundary of Hotash Slay was still two leagues away.

Meanwhile his mount was stumbling, unable to drag its hooves clear of the uneven ground. And the gap between the sudden upward lurch of the Hills and the sheer plummet of the cliff had become little more than a taunt. On foot, Covenant could have crossed it in four strides. For safety’s sake, Branl had to ride ahead of him on one side, Clyme behind him on the other.

He remembered nothing about this part of the coast. Living, he had never been here before. The jheherrin had guided him with Foamfollower beneath the Shattered Hills from a different direction. He and his last friend in that time, the last of the Unhomed, had bypassed most of the bitter maze; had emerged from the passages of the soft ones only a short distance from Hotash Slay. But other things he could not forget—

Foamfollower in vast agony carrying him across the boil of lava. Foamfollower sinking horribly beneath the molten stone. Foamfollower reappearing from his caamora in time to clear Covenant’s way into Foul’s Creche.

Foamfollower laughing with unfettered joy at Lord Foul’s malice.

Ah, God. The Giants. They were all of them miracles, every one whom Covenant had known: Pitchwife and the First of the Search, Grimmand Honninscrave and Cable Seadreamer, the Ironhand and her comrades: they were all instances of the transcending valor that made the Land and the Earth precious. Too precious to be surrendered. Joy is in the ears that hear—Any world which nurtured such beings deserved to live. Any world which gave birth to people like Berek Heartthew and High Lord Mhoram, Sunder and Hollian. Any world so rich in wonders that it could transform the dark Weird of the ur-viles.

This world deserved to live.

Engrossed in remembrance and useless remonstration, Covenant was surprised when the horses stopped.