Everyone froze. Oliver had Phillip pinned to the wall next to the Resonance Ore band from before, his fingers digging into either side of the mage’s trachea. His eyes were on Erwell though, betraying a mix of surprise, shame and anger. Phillip was also staring at Erwell, except his face showed only wide-eyed terror and desperation.

“Spymaster, what the fuck is going on here?” Erwell asked, dropping his hand to his sword. Olic shifted Groth’s weight across his shoulders and reached for his blade as well.

Oliver licked his lips, his eyes darting between the two men. “Damnit. I told you to bury the tunnel, Phillip. Now look what’s happened? Such an awkward moment. I hope you’re happy with yourself.”

“Oliver…” Erwell growled.

“Alright, alright. I confess, I tried to get Phillip here to collapse the shaft, trapping you lot in there with whatever’s coming.”

Conniving bastard, Erwell thought as a vein started throbbing in his temple.

“That raises a few questions,” he said, his words slow, carrying terrible weight. “But I guess the first one is; why didn’t you, Phillip?”

“Uh… I wanted to use the failsafe device,” he said, using his chin to gesture at the band arcing above his head. “It’s part of a network. It’ll collapse the mountain, more or less. No one will ever find what we built down here. But this… Oliver, said he’d gut me if I did that. He just wanted a smaller blockage, one that could be excavated again. But he doesn’t know what’s down there!” he said, his voice abruptly rising in pitch and tempo. “A plague will descend on the world! Every man, woman and child-”

“You answered my question. You can shut up now,” Erwell said, the mage snapping his mouth closed as the captain turned his attention back to Oliver. “As for my second question. Why bury us? And why not bury this place completely?”

Oliver shook his head, the manic shine from earlier creeping back into his expression. “Because they built a weapon, Erwell! One that could make Calandor the greatest military power in the world!”

“It’s a portal to the realm of the damned!” Phillip squeaked, his legs kicking as Oliver unconsciously tightened his grip on the mage’s throat.

“Any weapon can be dangerous to the wielder, but with appropriate precautions…”

“You think these bastards didn’t have any precautions? They had an army a thousand strong, and it disappeared in minutes!” Erwell replied.

“And this, right here, is why I wanted to bury you. I knew you wouldn’t understand. I knew you didn’t have the stones to do what needed to be done!”

“This is what you meant when you said you would do whatever it took for victory, wasn’t it?”

Oliver set his mouth in a hard line as he nodded. “It doesn’t bring me any joy, Captain. But sometimes the few must be sacrificed for the many.”

“I can’t accept the King authorised this.”

Something flashed across Oliver’s face then.

Doubt.

“The King will understand when I explain it to him.”

“He doesn’t know?”

“No one does. I was approached by a… let’s call it a source. He told me what these idiots had built. It was too fanciful to believe, but now that I’m here? I heard the sounds coming from the tunnel. I’ve seen what they can do to an army.”

“What are you on about, man? What ‘source’?”

“It doesn’t matter. What matters is stopping these things here. At least until we can come back, better prepared.”

“You’ve lost your mind, Oliver,” Erwell said, drawing his sword. He took a step forward but pulled up when the spymaster whipped out a stool leg, aiming it square at Erwell.

“It’s not as good as the real thing, but I can still control the spread of the flame to an extent. I’ll consume you all with one blast.”

“Then why don’t you? Or,” Erwell paused, taking in the slight shake of Oliver’s hand. “Can you not bring yourself to kill a loyal servant of the Crown either?”

Rage flashed across Oliver’s features as he was struck by the parallel to when they had been on the run, and his grip tightened around the furnishing. “I hoped I could finish my service without needing to. But I’ve never shirked my duty because it was unsavoury before, and I will not falter now. Not when I’m so close to ensuring Calandor’s safety for ever!”

“I won’t let you!” Phillip squealed as he kicked Oliver between the legs. The spymaster’s eyes bulged, and he dropped the mage to better cup his bruised manhood. Free of his foe, Phillip threw himself against the arch, slapping his palm against the Ore.

For a few seconds, nothing happened. And then the mountain started to shake. Just a slight tremor at first, though it was soon followed by a much larger one. The men looked around, expressions ranging from anger, to confusion, to unadulterated fear, all thoughts of fighting put on hold while the mountain groaned. The spell was broken when a block of stone as big as Groth fell from the ceiling. “Oh, Pit,” Oliver said, wheezing as he straightened upright. “What did you do?”

“Saved the world, arsehole!”

The terrified look in the mage’s eyes was gone now, replaced with grim determination. It lasted until Oliver drew his sword and rammed it through Phillip’s stomach.

Then the terrified look came back.

He blubbered as he looked down at the blade sticking from his belly, then up to the spymaster, before his eyes rolled into the back of his head and he crumpled to the ground.

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“Now, to deal with the rest of you,” Oliver said, turning to Erwell and raising the stool leg, but another tremor sent them all stumbling. Erwell tried to turn his stumble into a charge, but a crack opened in the ground underneath his feet and he fell, twisting his ankle. He struggled upright only to dive aside as the ceiling caved in, dumping gods only knew how much stone and dirt into the cavern.

“Gods damnit!” he swore, struggling back to his feet. He reflexively clenched his fist around the hilt of his sword, only to realise his hands were empty. He looked about, no trace of his blade in sight, until his eyes settled on the pile of rubble where he had been standing.

“Shit.”

No way he was going to dig that out before he’d need it. Instead, he spun, squinting against the stinging haze of grit that had filled the air, trying to gain his bearings, but the dust was too thick.

“Olic?” he called out.

“Sir? Where are you? I can’t see shit!”

A whoosh from behind the curtain of brown and grey gave away Oliver’s location next as a jet of fire lanced towards Olic’s voice, the intense heat creating a blast of wind that cleared the air. As his vision cleared, Erwell saw Olic dive behind a boulder to escape the blast, while Oliver stood a few metres away, turned side on to the captain.

Erwell charged, crashing into the spymaster. They went down in a tangle of limbs and fitful spurts of fire, Erwell managing to grab a fistful of hair as they fell. He used their momentum to drive Oliver’s head into the ground and the spymaster went limp, the leg slipping from his fingers.

“You traitorous bastard,” Erwell snarled as he climbed on top of the spymaster, fist cocked, ready to rain bloody fury on his foe, but before it could fall, Oliver recovered, swinging a rock at Erwell’s head. The captain flung himself back, the improvised weapon narrowly missing, but the spymaster wrapped his legs around Erwell’s exposed throat and slammed him back into the dirt. The two men scrambled to their feet, spitting and swearing as they circled each other.

Oliver glanced at the ground between them, and Erwell followed his gaze, finding the all important stool leg in the dust. They locked eyes again, for a moment, and then leapt into action. Oliver went for the leg.

Erwell went for Oliver.

The spymaster dived, getting a hand on the leg before Erwell’s boot crunched down on top of it. The spymaster yelped, his hand pinned, but he used it as an anchor point to spin, kicking Erwell’s legs from under him. Erwell fell hard on his back, feeling a rib crunch, but he couldn’t indulge the lance of pain that shot through his torso. He rolled onto his knees and awkwardly leapt, crashing into Oliver as he rose, taking them to the ground again, both trying to wrestle the leg from the other.

Oliver let go with one hand and swung a haymaker at Erwell. It had force, but the technique was sloppy and telegraphed. Erwell ducked his chin to his chest and tensed his neck, bracing for the blow. The fist crashed against his forehead and the dark tunnel grew darker as the force transmitted through his skull, rocking the squishy grey matter inside. He teetered back, falling onto his arse, blinking stupidly as he tried to get his thoughts back in order. Gradually, his sense returned, along with a high-pitched wail punctuated with profanities. He glanced up and saw Oliver seated with his back against the wall, cradling his hand.

See, people who aren’t used to throwing punches always overestimate their effectiveness. They can be fantastically useful, true, but the key is to punch something with less structural integrity than your fist. A lesson Oliver had just learnt, as the tiny, interconnected bones comprising his hand shattered one after the other on meeting the thickest part of Erwell’s skull.

“Don’t look so smug,” the spymaster said through his grimace, beads of sweat cutting furrows through the thick layer of dirt coating his face. “You might have the leg, but I bet you’ve got no idea how to use it, right?”

Erwell looked down at his hands, registering with mild surprise that the leg was now somehow in his possession. Oliver was right though, he had never had anything to do with Resonance Ore before now; he knew non-mages could use some devices, but he personally had no idea how. He turned it over in his hands, finally getting a good look at it up close.

It was a fairly standard looking leg. About a foot of oak, sanded smooth, with a small metal screw sticking out of the top to affix it to the seat. He squinted closer at the screw, noting its odd brassy sheen, and he realised it was the Resonance Ore part of the device! The bastard had literally taken the most valuable metal known to humanity and used it to make a furniture fixture joint.

He laughed. It started as a quiet chuckle, but quickly built to a crescendo that still struggled to make itself known over the growing sounds of the mountain tearing itself apart.

“What are you laughing at? I didn’t think you were capable of mirth, Captain,” Oliver said, spitting a pulpy mass of phlegm and dirt onto the floor between them.

“I’m not a big proponent, to be honest. But how can I not laugh at this? Two men, about to be buried under a mountain, fighting over the most valuable chair leg in the world so they can kill each other with it first. It’s utterly ridiculous!”

“I see your mind has snapped then.”

“Not at all, Spymaster. But I always swore I’d face death with either a war cry or a laugh. And I’d just look a fool screaming at a mountain, wouldn’t I? So laughter it is.”

Oliver glared at him, giving a disdainful huff as he clambered back to his feet. He let his shattered hand flop to his side, while the other fiddled with his belt.

“What are you up to now?” Erwell asked with a sigh. “Let me guess, hidden knife in your belt?” Sure enough, within a few seconds Oliver had pulled a small punch dagger from a hidden compartment, the little remaining light glinting off the steel as the spymaster brandished it.

“I may be buried by the mountain, Captain. But as long as my enemy stands before me, I will not suffer them to live.”

“By the Pantheon, Oliver! Just give it up! We’re both dead. What’s the point in making me kill you?”

Oliver barked a short laugh. “You think you’ll win? I’ll back my blade over your piece of furniture.”

“I’ve wrestled drakes and won. I butchered a Jarl’s personal guard single handed. And I just killed one of the finest duelists Tok Risim can produce in single combat. Don’t do this, Oliver,” Erwell said, a warning in his voice as he squared up to the spymaster. They glared at each other, Erwell steady with the stool held before him, Oliver licking his lips, the crazed light in his eyes betraying his intent.

He charged, a desperate scream on his lips as he swung the dagger. Erwell swayed to the side, the dagger passing harmlessly by. He retreated a few paces but Oliver attacked again, another wild swing that Erwell easily side stepped.

“Last chance, Oliver,” Erwell growled.

The spymaster stopped and snarled, spraying spittle foam from his lips as his teeth ground so hard they nearly cracked. Erwell shook his head sadly. Oliver was too far gone to back down. It was time to end this.

When the spymaster attacked a third time, Erwell didn’t bother to dodge. Instead, he smashed the stool leg against Oliver’s thumb, the hard wood shattering the knuckle joint. Oliver yelped and staggered back a step before lurching forward again, his dagger held limply in his hand. Erwell caught his wrist, pulled him off balance, and rammed the table leg into his throat.

Oliver’s eyes went wide as the screw punctured the soft skin beside his trachea, tearing through the carotid artery. He staggered back a pace, the punch dagger clattering to the ground as he brought his hands to his neck, trying to stem the bleeding.

He looked Erwell in the eyes, his mania quickly fading to fear, before he wobbled once, and fell to the ground.

The captain looked down at the dead spymaster, his face a blank slate. It wasn’t intentional, his brain just couldn’t decide which emotion to plaster across it. Was it anger at the bastard? Regret that he had to kill a servant of the Crown? Fear of becoming entombed, alone in this hill to slowly starve to death? In the end, he settled on weary, and dropped to the ground, leaning back against the tunnel wall and wincing as it aggravated his bruised rib.

And there he waited, while the mountain struggled through its death throes, chimney after chimney collapsing until, finally, the last channel to the outside world collapsed, and his world become dark.