The Mortal Burden
Book I
Chapter II
The gods had become displeased with Lord Seth’s victory. They could feel the tide turn slowly against their immortal will. A rallying cry to all mortals had enveloped the Earth—the once-mighty torturing grounds of gods and demons. Their victims were becoming strong once more, and their control over corporeal existence was being stripped away by the vast armies of the Titans and the defiance of their slaves. For them, the time to act had arrived—to come out of the shadows to raze the last vestiges of mortal resistance. For if fear of them did not exist, they would simply vanish.
Part VII: Remember
Clayden opens his eyes to a shower of intense light, and quickly closes them, for the light brings pain. “Doctor?”
“Yes,” he faintly hears a voice.
“He’s waking up,” a female voice replies.
He can hear the doctor’s heavy footsteps walk near him, lifting up his arm firmly and checking his pulse.
“How do you feel, Commander Clayden?”
“Thirsty,” he replies weakly, opening his eyes slowly so the light will not harm him again. “How long have I been out?”
“Four days,” the doctor replies.
“Apparently your armor was pierced all the way through by some sort of tiny, poisonous dagger-type weapon. Luckily, you lost a good deal of blood; otherwise, the poison would have killed you. Luckily again, we were able to give you a transfusion just in time,” he pauses.
“You’re very lucky.”
“How many of my unit survived?”
“Three, including you,” the doctor replies solemnly. “Now go back to sleep. When you wake up, I’ll discharge you. You’ll have a long day ahead of you.”
Clayden woke up in his hospital bed. His body was still sore, but his mind had cleared. He almost felt like a new man, with brand new blood for a brand new day. He pushed himself out of bed, swinging his legs to sit.
“Lights,” he ordered to the voice-recognition computer; they switched on. The clock read 11:00 AM.
“I haven’t slept that long for years,” he said to himself as he walked to the bathroom.
He shaved, revealing the two long scars—one on each cheek—given to him maliciously by a follower years prior when he was much younger and more brash. The years of war had quieted him, though, humbling him into a waking trance. His hair was raven black, cut short with the sides shaved. The dark hair complemented his dark complexion, as did his eyes, which seemed to be searching deeply, but became misguided on their journey. He had a soft jawline; he looked kind, wise, deep, and very detached.
The phone in his room rang.
“Hello,” he answered.
“Commander Clayden?”
“Yes,” he replied wearily.
“This is Lord Seth. I’m calling to personally thank you and your men for your act of bravery.” Seth paused, low of voice. “The people consider you a hero, a true warrior, a champion.”
“Lord Seth?”
“Yes.”
“I’m not a hero, nor am I a champion. I lost many good men who had families and loved ones. My best friend died, Sir. I’m just a man,” Clayden finished sadly, not wanting to take the new responsibility of being a hero. It wasn’t like they won some football game where the players received minor injuries. People were disemboweled, blown to pieces, mauled to bits in agonizing pain. This wasn’t some petty game; it was a war for survival.
“I know. But to my army and the city, you are a hero. You now must act like one for the morale of your comrades. Show pride and confidence, even though I can feel that you just want to give up! That’s an order!”
“Yes, Sir!”
“I’m having you picked up at 13:00 hours. We’ll have a light lunch. At 14:00 hours, we will leave for the awards ceremony. After that, you’ll be interviewed by the media.” Seth paused for a moment, clearing his throat. “At 18:00 hours, we’ll go to a dinner dedicated in your honor.”
“My honor? But…”
“No, it must be done. Listen Clayden, I have to talk to you about something very important. I’ll see you at 13:00 hours, Commander.”
“Yes, Sir.”
*Something’s wrong,* as a vestige of primeval fear shuddered through Clayden’s body. Something was definitely not right; he could sense it in every bone in his body.
She lurked on the edge of the swamp, waiting for another mortal to quench her thirst. She usually did most of her business in the cities of the humans, but bad luck and misfortune had deemed that she now stalked her prey on the edge of a swamp by a road less traveled, while she held on to her immortal life. To her, she was still mortal, just dead—except that she had to avoid light, Christian objects, wooden stakes, and decapitation.
She had lived for three hundred years and kept her figure at the ripe age of twenty-three. Tall and slender, pale with flowing black hair, feline grace, and a cat’s-eye grin. She could sense the presence of travelers coming down the trail: two or three. She could take them, that’s of course if they weren’t Followers.
“One, two, three, four,” she whispered to herself. “I hope they’re not clones; their blood has no taste,” she said to herself.
“Damn; they are.” She could see as three expressionless clones, wearing the colors of the obliterated Ramses Titan, walked past her slowly.
She jumped up from behind them. The clones turned their heads, looking at her ample frame expressionlessly, not even aroused by her scantily clad body. They turned their heads and began to walk down the path.
They didn’t make it farther than three feet.
An hour later, she had finished feeding on the last of the warrior clones. Gorged to the point of explosion, she slowly walked back to the decaying, wretched shack that she spent the day in to sleep and recharge her energy for her journey back to the city the following night.
Written ~ 1997. © Jacob A. Pickard 2025. All rights reserved. This work is protected by copyright and may not be reproduced, republished, excerpted, or used for academic, commercial, or derivative purposes without written permission.
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