Time to reset the odds.
'Cherabael!' I commanded.
It had been drifting high above the gorge, trailing us like a kite, but now it descended, gathering speed, beginning to shine.
I had been much more careful in my design of this daemonhost. Elaborating on the basic and hasty ritual construction Aemos and I had wrought in those last few minutes aboard the Essene, I had supplemented the wards and rune markings on its flesh to reinforce its obedience. This daemonhost would not be permitted to have any of the capricious guile of the previous versions. It would not rebel. It would not be a maverick that had to be watched at all times. It was bound and locked with triple wards, totally subservient. I liked to think I could learn from my mistakes, at least sometimes.
Of course, there was a price to pay for such security. This Cherubael could manifest much less power, a direct consequence of its reinforced bindings. But it had enough. More than enough.
It swept down the gorge, warp-flame trailing from its upright body, and demolished one group of attackers in a blurry storm of aether. To their credit, the Vessorines didn't scream. But they broke and started to fall back.
The ogryn fired his heavy weapon at the incoming host. The impact fluttered off Cherubael like petals. It punched its talons into the squealing abhuman's chest and lifted the big brute off the ground.
And then threw him. The ogryn went up. Just simply went up and kept
going.
Cherubael changed direction and skimmed across the gorge towards the retreating meres. Our guns had whittled their numbers down by then and we were in pursuit, though Eleena had stayed with the sprawled, cursing
Nayl.
I noticed something else about this new Cherubael. It didn't laugh any more. Ever. Its face was set in an implacable frown. It showed no signs of taking any pleasure in its slaughter.
I was pleased about that. The laughter really did used to get on my nerves.
It was going to take a while to get used to Cherubael's new face, though. Once installed within the flesh host, the daemon had made its usual alterations – the sprouting nub horns, the talons, the smooth, glossy skin, the blank eyes.
But it had not entirely erased the features of Godwyn Fischig.
It killed the last of the ambushers, all save one who reached the gorge wall and accessed the dimension trap they had emerged from.
'Hold it!' I ordered. 'Hold it open!'
Cherubael obeyed. It atomised the last mere as the trap blinked open and then braced its arms wide, preventing the trap from closing. Even for Cherubael, this was an effort.