The Mortal Burden
Book I
Chapter II
Part VIII: Gods of One
Necrem sulked on his throne in his underworld dimension, surprised at the humans’ victory over the Titan.
“I need to find out how this happened,” he said to himself as he extended his immense arm to scratch his spiked brow.
Around him, skulls and bones littered the ground. Torches lit the cyclopean throne room with shadows, twisting and contorting reality.
“Necrem,” one of his winged servant demons said.
“Yes?”
“An ambassador of the Dominia Tharaxia is here to give you a message,” the graying, gargoyle-like demon replied.
“Let them in!” Necrem growled angrily, standing up to exercise his immense and extensively long bat-like wings. His body was covered by skin that had the pitch of the void, the glossy blackness of doom.
An exotic woman wearing a bright white robe walked elegantly into Necrem’s throne room. Her long black hair, curled into a snaking braid, slithered down her back. Eyes of obsidian black stared at the true god of the underworld.
“Speak, ambassador,” Necrem commanded as he tested the sharpness of his left fang with one of his fingers.
“The human race has won a decisive victory.”
“I know,” the demon-god replied.
“This represents a threat to our continued existence, as I’m sure you know,” the ambassador added.
Necrem nodded in agreement, a small grin crawling onto his face.
“Without the mortals’ fear of us, we are nothing. The humans’ fear of the Titans is more than their fear or love of the gods. Even the immortals of light have lost their meaning, as well as the immortals of darkness. Millennia ago, the promise of a heaven or the promise of a hell was enough. The mortals now could care less,” she paused, then Necrem interrupted her.
“What’s your point?” Necrem hurried her.
“The point is that soon mortals will no longer have a need for us. If they lose all their fear or their faith, we will cease to exist—as if we had never existed. We must band together and put the fear back into mortality. The centuries of mortal warfare with the Titans have caused the mortals to evolve. Soon they will no longer need us.
They must be suppressed, or we will all die!” The ambassador finished passionately.
“You want me to help you then?”
“Yes,” she answered.
“In what way?”
“We want you to raise an army of mortals. This will allow you to gain numbers and strength in order to defeat the Titans and drive the mortals back into our control,” she finished, with sweat beading down her forehead. The throne room’s temperature was very humid, hot like within the depths of a feral rainforest.
“Why should I raise a gigantic new army when there are numerous war gods to choose from? Anyway, I’m through with armies… I’ll stick to good old-fashioned possession and pestilence,” he stopped, unconvinced and annoyed.
“We want you because you and your lower demons create the most fear to the mortals,” she paused. “A few war gods will be assigned to help you raise the army. You see, when the mortals see your banners on the battlefield, followed by a horde of millions of bloodthirsty followers and the Titan technology we shall capture and control, nothing will stop our onslaught. Not even the Titans themselves will stop us,” she paused again, wiping her brow. “The Titans will die, and the mortals will be devolved back into the Bronze Age!”
Necrem fell back onto his throne, staring down at his clawed feet, twirling them in the bones.
“I’ll help you,” he said, leering at her with blood-red eyes.
“Good. Start making preparations. We shall contact you later,” she said, exiting the throne room.
How he hated his fellow gods, spoiled by immortality and their almost boundless power of sheer will over the immaterial and material planes of existence. Did he really care if they ceased to exist? No, he did not. Just as he did not care if he also ceased to exist, but this campaign might prove itself interesting, and he himself was curious about what the outcome would be.
– – –
Lord Seth’s home was at the direct center of the city, on the top of the megacity’s highest tower. It was almost a symbolic location: as the populace looked upon him as an almost godly figure—the tyrant of their city—he was worshipped in an unofficial manner, for every person found their salvation from him. Lord Seth was the center of their culture.
Clayden arrived promptly at 13:00 hours, being let into Lord Seth’s living room. The room was decorated warmly, unlike the rest of his brethren, who would litter their homes with their war trophies, decorations, and honorable citations. Lord Seth had no need; he had nothing else to prove.
“Please be seated,” one of Seth’s personal guards stated, suited in his glossy black body armor, as he stepped behind Clayden.
“Thanks,” Clayden replied warily, having no idea that Seth would be so cautious in his own city. The guard repositioned himself by the door. Clayden was wearing his dark gray dress uniform. The jacket was fully adorned with his accommodations and citations, weighing down the material. He chose not to wear his hat; he hated the thing, and he felt that being a hero, as people saw him, would now give him the choice not to wear the stupid thing.
Lord Seth gracefully walked into the living room from the dining room, which was adjacent and to the left of the living room.
“Sir,” Clayden jolted up and saluted.
“At ease, Mr. Clayden,” the awesomely built Warlord commanded as he looked Clayden over with pupil-less eyes. His powerful seven-foot frame swayed over to Clayden with his right hand extended; they shook hands.
“Would you like a drink?”
“Yes, Lord…”
“…..Call me Seth,” he paused as he walked over to the wet bar on the other side of the living room. “The ‘Lord’ thing gets rather annoying when I’m trying to have a regular conversation. What kind of drink would you like?”
“A rum and coke would be fine,” Clayden answered, realizing that Seth was practical and didn’t seem as mystical as he thought he would be. He appeared pretty normal, except for the pupils.
“Lime?”
“Yes.”
Seth finished the drinks in silence, gave the drink to Clayden, and sat on a seat across from him.
“First of all, I want to personally thank you for your victory and the men that died under your command. They gave the ultimate gift for their city,” Seth said coldly, but Clayden could feel that he meant it.
Death can turn a person’s face into a mask. And he knew Seth had seen his share of death. The mask was a defense against the emotions of loss, which to some was the worst enemy.
“I brought you here because I have an important mission for you,” Seth paused to collect his thoughts. “This mission, in part, holds the key to the survival of human culture and civilization, or maybe even the extermination of all human life. Depending on the fates, depending on luck, depending on our own agency.”
Clayden’s mind was elsewhere, thinking of the battle that killed most of his men—thinking of his best friend Carter and his death.
“Are you listening, Commander?” Seth said sternly, taking a sip from his drink.
“Yes, Sir!” Clayden replied, waking himself from his trance.
“Good. Now, I know you are aware of the existence of vampires, werewolves, and other monsters deemed heretics.”
“Of course I am,” Clayden replied.
“Do you know the legend of the Warmaster?” Seth quickly changed the subject.
“Kind of…” Clayden replied, confused.
“What do you know?”
“The Warmaster started under the banners of one of the first Titans to arrive on planet Earth. He destroyed the Titan for the demon-god Necrem, a dark god from the underworld. Under Necrem’s banner, they were on the verge of complete world conquest, then the Warmaster disappeared. The dark god’s army was then crushed by the Titans,” Clayden finished—confused, lost, and puzzled, his face showing his confusion.
“You’re correct, because I was alive in that dark time.”
“Did you fight Necrem?” Clayden inquired, now realizing that he was in the presence of great power.
“Yes, I did,” Seth responded remorsefully.
“How did you defeat him?”
“Commander, I did not bring you here to talk about my past battles.”
“Yes, Sir. Sorry, Sir.”
“I have reason to believe that the Warmaster is still alive in North America. I want you to find him and ask him to help us,” Seth finished, staring deeply into Clayden.
“Why me?”
“Because I can feel your power. It courses through your veins, radiates around you; it’s created by you.”
“What power?” Clayden asked, confused.
“I’m a soldier, not a hero. I’m not like you.”
“You’re right, you are not like me, but you have strength beyond our comprehension. Maybe one day you’ll understand, but the fact remains I think you’re the most qualified. Your record is a testament to this. You will go and find him if he is still alive.”
“How do you know the Warmaster will help us?”
“I don’t, but we have no other recourse,” the warlord replied to Clayden. “What do the monsters have to do with this?”
“Certain groups of monsters—vampires, werewolves, wraiths, those with higher brain function and so on—network with each other. They hide each other and pass information. I believe that they may know where the Warmaster is.”
“And I’m supposed to ask them where the Warmaster is,” Clayden responded cynically.
“Something like that. You’ll figure it out,” the warlord answered back with a laugh. “I have some associates within this network; you’ll meet up with one of them at the dinner tonight. From now on, all this information is confidential between me, you, my guard, and the contacts you will meet. Say nothing; spies will be everywhere watching and listening.”
They talked a little longer about the situation, but when Clayden inquired on how he got the information about the Warmaster and where this impending threat to humanity would come from, Lord Seth would not answer his question.
Clayden was left with an omnipotent, empty feeling, slowly being filled by the blades of anxiety, questioning his capabilities and his courage to complete this impossible, suicidal mission.
The ceremony flew past Clayden. He was dazed, concentrating on his mission—the impossible task of finding some twisted legend that was dead and rotting in some lost cave. A memorial was given to Carter and the men who had lost their lives fighting the Titan.
*Did they just forget about all those men and women who died in the frontal assault? Who died bravely against suicidal odds? Plus, all of those interceptor riders who gave their lives holding off the followers so his assault group could attack the Titan? It was not fair!* He was not a hero; he was just a man—a simple man that was not blessed with power. He was mortal like every human, scared and alone.
He gave his speech, which was met with wild cheering and ecstatic joy from the crowd. The media interviewed him and his last two remaining comrades until 16:00 hours; then they were rushed to an armored limousine.
“I never was out for glory, but I must say that it does have its rewards,” Sylver said, smiling at Derringer and Clayden.
“I only wish the rest of our company had survived,” Derringer replied as his smile receded.
“Me too,” Sylver said sorrowfully.
Clayden pulled three shot glasses and a bottle of bourbon from a compartment on his right side, filling them and handing the shot glasses to his men.
“This shot is for all those that died battling against the Titan,” their commander toasted. They downed them. Clayden poured another. “For our sisters and brothers.”
“For Carter and the rest of the platoon,” Derringer toasted, then they downed them and filled them again.
“And to my twin sisters and mother, for we shall bring death to our enemies to avenge the deaths of those who sacrificed all,” finally Sylver ended the toasts on a note of vengeance and sorrow.
The limousine dropped them off to a line of cheering people who set out to greet them in front of the hotel where the dinner was to be held. Clayden shook many hands and was finally able to keep his smile looking almost genuine. He felt like a celebrity; he had to get used to the idea that from now on he would be one—like some other war heroes who wound up doing commercials and even movies. The megacity kept a world presence in the art of cinema. *No way,* Clayden chuckled under his breath, laughing the entire idea off. *Doing a commercial for laundry detergent?* he thought to himself, snorting aloud, his friends looking at him strangely.
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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