Defection - (ON HOLD)

1. Orders

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1. Orders

In all of his six thousand years of service to the Prince of Hell, Hale Caradoc had never, not once, been summoned to Asmodeus’s Great Hall. Up until this point, all correspondence with Hell had been through a messenger—and as long as he sent his quota of souls Hell’s way, he was good to go.

But now here he was, summoned ‘cum festinatione’, and it was the most nerve-wracking experience of his life.

It’s about that fucking war! he thought angrily as he glided down the corridor toward the Hall. Ever since that devil of an idea had been planted, the seed had taken root and now it was a bloody full-grown tree: war was knocking on his doorstep. He hadn’t asked for this and he didn’t want this.

‘Make love, not war’ was his motto and it had served him well so far. He had been named employee of the century after the unfortunate demise of the millennia’s reigning champion, Karl Versuchung, and if you believed the rumours, the title had earned him an entire wall in the Hall.

That was why, when the summons had first come, he had ignored them. He had hoped they’d go away, but they were like a constant ringing in his ears, tempting him to come, until he finally relented.

Asmodeus was the father of them all; the incubus that none could refuse.

Hale’s agitated stride had shortened what should have been a five-minute walk into mere seconds. He was standing before the majestic, wooden doors of the famed Hall before he realized it.

He gulped, gathering his courage. Even the doors of the Hall were intimidating. Embellished with rubies, sapphires and emeralds, and inlaid in gold, they did not inspire confidence in the benevolence of the ruler within.

He took in a few deep breaths — for all the good they did — and finally pushed the doors of the Hall apart.

A haze of red blinded him for a moment, before his vision adjusted to the lighting in the Hall.

Well, more of a ballroom, he observed as he ventured further inside.

The room was red. Everything was coloured in various shades of red — deep, luscious, inviting, tempting — with the occasional gemstone, strategically placed to offset the monotony.

I definitely need to hire his designer to look into redecorating my flat, Hale mused.

The carpet beneath his feet yielded like the finest wool, impossibly soft but firm. Huge tapestries hung from the sidewalls and, he realized, the rumours were partly true: half of the right wall housed a ‘Hall of Fame’, with the biggest space reserved for Hale’s achievements and statistics.

Of course that place belonged to him. How he wished, today, that it hadn’t. Then he wouldn’t have been forced to be here, to take part in these futile games.  

However, even as the thought crossed his mind, Hale rejected it. Being the best had come naturally to him. Ever since he’d been a wee spawn, he’d only ever sought to be at the top of the pyramid; the highest ranked, the brightest, and the most powerful.

A candle flickered to life upon a metallic object, before promptly blowing out. It had only been lit for a second, but that second had been enough to gain Hale’s attention. His feet instantly began moving toward the object, which seemed to be floating above a glass table of its own accord.