The Dark Tower (The Dark Tower, #7)

by Stephen King

With the taste of blood in his mouth, all interest in foreplay departed Mordred. He was reduced to his central core, which was mostly appetite. He pounced upon Randall Flagg, Walter o’ Dim, Walter Padick that was. There were more screams, but only a few. And then Roland’s old enemy was no more.

I’d have you see them like this; I’d have you see them very well. Will you? They are clustered around Suzie’s Cruisin Trike, embracing in the aftermath of their victory. I’d have you see them this way not because they have won a great battle—they know better than that, every one of them—but because now they are ka-tet for the last time. The story of their fellowship ends here, on this make-believe street and beneath this artificial sun; the rest of the tale will be short and brutal compared to all that’s gone before. Because when katet breaks, the end always comes quickly. Say sorry.

Eddie smiled. “We had . . . some times.” Roland nodded again. “You . . . you . . .” But this Eddie couldn’t finish. He raised one hand and made a weak twirling motion. “I danced,” Roland said, nodding. “Danced the commala.” Yes, Eddie mouthed, then drew in another of those whooping, painful breaths. It was the last. “Thank you for my second chance,” he said. “Thank you . . . Father.”

“Oh, no!” he screamed. “Please, not again! Have pity! Have mercy!”