The noises of the ongoing banishment filled the house with a stomach-turning concoction of rushing, roaring flames, the screeches of the Lingering, and a strange, echoing creek like something you’d hear on an ancient ship on stormy seas. There was no way of hiding the fact that something big was happening, although Alter doubted anyone would be able to guess exactly what it was they were doing. Suffice to say, the enemy knew their leader was a captive, and that the room they knew he was being held in now sounded like an opera about axe-murderers set in a wind tunnel. If there was ever going to be a call for some desperation plays, then it was now, and surely any attempts would not be far behind.

  Fortunately, their stranglehold over this section of the building remained strong. The Houseguards assigned to the downstairs entrance had not reported any contact yet. Most of the squad had bunkered up in the elbow of the main corridor, nothing was getting through them. Boozehound and Vangroover had been reinforced by the Silver Wolves, who at this time were busy barricading the other doors to the lounge. Finally, Boats roved between both sets, scanning the outside for any signs of activity. He reported seeing no further reinforcements attempting to enter the main house, although he thought he could still see flashes of movement from one of the other buildings. Occasionally, the sound of heavy, urgent footsteps from above would manage to cut through the sonic barrage of the banishment. The enemy would try something soon, it was only a matter of how and where. The answer to these questions was revealed barely a second after they had been internally voiced. Through the din, the sound of splitting wood could be heard from a handful of points in the ceiling.

  “Here comes their latest trick. Stabbing at us from below didn’t work, now they’re going to try the opposite direction.” Vangroover remarked to Alter as the pair watched the metallic gleam of an axe head slice its way into view above them.

  “Well, you’ve got to give them credit for using all available directions, I suppose. Do you think our rifles have the penetration to nip this in the bud?” Alter frowned up at the frantic effort.

  “There’s only one way to find out, isn’t there?” Vangroover shrugged.

  The rifleman raised his weapon and sent a pair of shots thudding into the ceiling towards where he estimated the axe’s owner to be standing. Sadly, the feverish hacking continued as if nothing had happened.

  “Huh, I guess not.” Vangroover pondered as a forearm-sized section of the attacked ceiling gave way, its fall muted by the thick carpet below.

  Squinting upwards, Alter could barely make out a slither of light grey that must be the ceiling of the upper floor, but neither weapon nor face was pointed back down at him. A moment later, the axe renewed its work on a spot a couple of meters away. Broken splinters began to fall all across the lounge like timber rain. Soon a dozen or so holes had been made, and the chopping stopped. The defenders shifted uneasily between the newly made gaps, eyes, swords and rifle barrels ready to meet whatever was going to come down at them. Suddenly, a flash of movement in the corner of Alter’s eye revealed their intent. One of the Silver Wolves’ faces contorted in pain as he dropped to one knee, an arrow protruding from the back of his calf.

  “Murder holes, I should’ve figured as much.” Alter growled as the struck man was dragged towards the relative safety of the corridor with Boozehound close behind.

  “Have any of the holes opened up near Pinfario? He can’t move now that he’s begun.” Oliver called over to him.

  “I don’t think so, but that doesn’t mean one of them won’t have a tight angle on the man. How do you want to handle this? Shall I send a team up there and flush them out?” Alter picked his way carefully over to where the lord was standing.

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  Oliver glared up at the slits with enough venom to make the boards knit themselves back together out of raw fear, but then he slowly shook his head. “There’s little point. They’ll just withdraw the moment you start climbing the stairs, hide, then come right back as soon as you leave. Besides, they want us to divide our forces so they can pick us off in isolation. I’m not risking your unit in such a manner, not today when we’re so close.”

  “I see your logic but are you certain? Just because they’ve stopped opening holes doesn’t mean they won’t start up again. Right now they can pick their engagements, that’s an advantage we need to take away as soon as possible.” Alter’s point was punctuated by another arrow that fizzed into view and struck the ground between Vangroover’s legs.

  “If you don’t want to risk your elites, then send someone a little more expendable. I know you loath to take additional risks, Sir. But in these decisive moments you must be proactive. I shall lead the Wolves on an assault on the floor above. Give the order.” Raymond stood before Oliver and looked him straight in the eye. His voice was calm and respectful, but there was a weight behind each word that stood no disagreement.

  Oliver’s brow furrowed deeply, eyes squinting as he conducted the deadly mathematics of military risk. However, it didn’t take him long before he relented, and Raymond was given the nod to lead a strike, but only after he promised to be careful. Taking over half of his men, Raymond’s departure was punctuated by gunfire as Vangroover managed to catch a peaking archer before they could launch an arrow in return. A victory that was followed by a spiteful middle finger and an unsuccessful attempt to spit upwards through the gap. A handful of short bursts from Pavjack’s machinegun pulled his attention away for a moment, although a quick thumbs up from Walross told him there was nothing to be overly concerned about. Alter completed a full three-sixty-degree spin on his heels as more gunfire from within the lounge flared up, the different pitch telling him that Boats was engaging a target. The marksman had fired a trio of shots out of the window, but from the way he was back up and looking around, something was wrong.

  “Fucking hell, guys it’s one of those Unlimited bastards, and this one is ready for a fight!” Boats shouted across the room.

  Alter’s blood ran cold for a moment as he processed what he’d just heard. His eyes flashed over towards Bertrand and the priest, however the Lingering was still clearly visible and fighting. Swallowing a mouthful of saliva, Alter danced his way between ceiling holes until he joined Boats, with Oliver close on his heels. Hurriedly, he looked down and immediately swore to himself.

  Standing in the gap between the two structures was a man of unnatural size, an Unlimited, much akin to the giant of a man they had fought all the way back in the Adderbite Badlands. But this was no bandit chieftain, no shirtless brute that reeked of stale alcohol and was so hungover they could barely tell what was happening five metres in front of them. This was a walking tank of interlocking steel plates, with not a single patch of exposed skin to be seen. A knight of titanic proportions. The armour was adorned with a tabard the size of a full banner, bright yellow with the Masserlind coat of arms in pride of place at the centre. One arm held aloft a thick, round shield which also sported the same coat. The other hand was grasping the handle of a mighty, single-headed axe, a great slab of sharpened metal you could park your car on top of. The Unlimited raised their head towards the window as a more normal-looking arm reached out and pointed up at them from the other building. Invisible eyes behind the closed helm seemed to pierced through the watching men, and the axe began to move.

  “Shit, get back!” Alter roared, pulling Oliver and Boats away from the window as he flung himself backwards.

  A moment later, there was a great crash as the axe ploughed its way through the fragile glass, taking a deep bite into the floor and causing a small section of the wall to collapse inwards. With a heave, the Unlimited ripped their weapon free before sending the axe crashing through the rest of the windows in a horizontal sweep. Then slowly, an enormous gauntleted hand reached upwards and grabbed a hold of the broken windowsill, before starting to pull. Like the beginning of a terrifying puppet show, the Unlimited’s head began to slowly rise into view, and a wordless roar of challenge joined the screeching of the Lingering in a blood-chilling duet of pure sound. In desperation, every member of the squad that could see the Unlimited brought their weapons to bear. While the impenetrable helmet suffered nothing but scratches and sparks, the Unlimited released their grip and dropped back down out of sight. Feeling an emotion somewhere between despair and mirth, Alter turned to the others.

  “How the ever-loving fuck are we going to deal with him?”