Read ahead or read behined follow this link to Book I:

The Mortal Burden – Book 1

    Through a crack in the tree cover, Clayden glimpsed the immense size of the Titan, as tall as the largest building in the city, bristling with the destructive power of a hundred earthquakes. Beneath its colossal feet, waves upon waves of bloodthirsty clones charged into the artillery barrage—obliterated, chopped to pieces while the heat dissipated their inhuman blood into the atmosphere.
Even after all his years thrusting headlong into the brunt of almost every battle, the sight of the Titan still invoked terror. But that terror also pumped adrenaline into his system and instilled the fury he needed to vanquish his enemies. Be they angels or legions of Titan soldiers—they all died by his hand.

The battlefield rumbled with the slow gait of the alien Titan and the constant barrages of the city’s cannons. The brave pilots of the Zigrams launched themselves directly at the smaller shock Titans, which stood about six stories tall. It was a lucky attempt, but the Zigrams destroyed two of the ten smaller *shock titans*—that’s what the ground pounders called them. But as always, the Zigrams were just swatted away like flies, crashing in a fiery death, killing all aboard.

“Stupid HQ!” Clayden yelled aloud, angry at the senseless sacrifice of the Zigrams. Good pilots were hard to train these days; it took either a brave person or an idiot. There was no use for a wasted death.
Clayden was the commander of the 25th Assault Platoon, but they were really known by their other name—a name more fitting for their ferocity in battle, born from their destruction of a Titan one hundred years ago when Clayden wasn’t even a thought. They were deemed the “Hyperion Slayers,” after the Titan that had been killed.

With the defeat of two Titans, that only left ten. Not a bad kill ratio: a couple billion humans to two. *Not bad at all,* Clayden cynically laughed to himself, anxiously awaiting his orders from HQ.

The mighty roar of a hundred armored interceptors thundered past them as they raced to corner the Ramses battle clones, whose battle lust was nearly unequaled among the other Titan clones. The Titan forces were made up of genetically vat-grown clone warriors and warparties of human followers who had joined the Titans when they first arrived on the planet.

These followers were the deadliest, since their bodies had become more machine than flesh over the centuries. They had some mechanized divisions—captured and souped up beyond normal human methods—but mostly the attacks came in mighty waves of clones and scattered warparties. To experienced veterans like Clayden and his platoon, the clones weren’t even a concern, but the warparties were to be feared: they were vicious, calculating, and insane.
“Have you received anything from HQ yet, Carter?” Clayden asked his Psi officer.
Carter’s eyes were closed as he sat lotus-style as if in meditation, peacefully reacting to the communications sent by unseen minds.

When the Titans first arrived to greet Earth’s forces, they jammed all radio communication. To counter this, after a hundred years or so of secret genetic research, certain people were born with the gift of mental communication. These people were then intermixed with the normal gene pool. Carter was born a PSI—a very valuable gift, one that warlords would draft into their force as soon as they caught wind of one. Although PSIs were useful against alien Titan gatherings, giving humans that one edge which helped them survive their onslaughts, they were almost helpless against the gods, who could crush the mind of a PSI almost instantly. Then it was back to normal communiqué when battling gods—which was rare, as they were mostly busy fighting among themselves for objectives that humans could barely understand. Although it was not rare for Titans and Gods to war; the Gods saw the Titans as threats to their power.

“Nothing yet,” Carter paused as a barrage exploded directly on the Titan. Pieces of armor flew off in every direction, most pieces crushing teams of frothing clones.

“They say stand fast. That’s all.”

“I can’t stand the wait.” Clayden glanced up as the Titan Ramses crunched slowly closer to them, huge gold plates of foot-inch armor reflecting the hardest of armor-piercing shells.

“The light mechanized divisions are now filling up the gaps in the front,” Carter relayed, pausing as another mental relay pulsed into his mind. “The interceptors are slowly pushing the gathering towards the mountain.”

“Good.” *It’s almost time,* Clayden psyched himself up. “Tell the 14th, 15th, 17th, and 10th to get ready; we’ll be moving out into the carnage soon.”

“These orders just in,” Carter paused as the mind pulses quickened. “In five minutes, the Angels Heavy Mechanized will take over the left flank from the interceptors. The interceptors will pick up the 10th, 17th, and 25th; we will ride piggyback into the gathering. Our objective is to kill the Titan. The remaining platoons will provide covering fire and tactical support for our assault.”
The world dropped from beneath Clayden’s armored feet. His throat collapsed within him; he was finding it hard to breathe as he glanced up at the Titan closing in on his city as it loosed a vast arsenal of destructive plasma bursts upon the ranks of the infantry—hundreds died in a flaming death instantly.

“Have the 10th and 17th group with us at the edge of the forest,” Clayden swallowed. “Relay the orders you told me.”

New beads of sweat rolled down his forehead as he put on his spiked battle helmet and clamped his lancer rifle to his back armor grip. He charged up his blood furnace as the first tinge of the pump sucked his juice to fuel his armor, powering it with his life. Clayden had become one with his armor, both symbiotic with the lust for war.

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

Read ahead or read behined follow this link to Book I:

The Mortal Burden – Book 1

At first, the alarm resounded faintly through Clayden’s dream, but then in a second it became more intense; he was awake.

“…battalion. Alert is red,” the hurried voice of his general sprang to his ears. “This is a full alert. Suit up and stand ready for deployment. Full details will be given at that time.”

“Dammit, I just went to sleep three hours ago,” Clayden said to himself, half-awake with sleep clouding his eyes.

The barracks were ablaze with activity as the soldiers suited themselves into their heavily plated battle armor. Thousands of heavy, trodden footsteps resounded throughout the stadium-sized barracks of the 10th Assault Battalion.

Clayden pushed himself up slowly, clearing his eyes of more heavy sleep.
“Sir, you’re not setting a good example for the rest of us,” Carter, his communications officer, badgered as he fastened the last of his heavy armor onto his body.

“Shut up,” Jacob Clayden replied, suddenly reflecting on his sortie five hours earlier into one of the Alien Titans’ territories. *What was the objective anyway?* he asked himself. *It was suicide in the first place. Why did I volunteer? Titan armies have more powerful weapons. Not only that, they’re also insane. Just the other day one of my men was mauled by the augmented teeth of a Titan soldier, only after his legs and one arm had been severed by my lance. Why did we go?*

He quickly shrugged it off and suited up in his shiny metallic assault armor, powered by chemical reactions within its Bio-furnace, fueled by the blood of its wearer—stolen technology from the Titans being used for the sake of humanity.

Not many cities were left standing, but the ones that had survived became mega-metropolises, defended heavily by their inhabitants. One of these sprawls was defended by a human warlord known only as Lord Seth. In fact, all remaining human cities were either controlled by warlords or by military orders.

Lord Seth’s army was over three million strong, with at least one million in reserve, which were rotated into civilian and army life to keep essential city services in line.
Humanity, although overpowered by Titans and gods, still enjoyed fighting among itself, and warlords clashed with each other with such a ferocity that it could be deemed there was no threat to humanity’s survival. Humanity’s greatest gift, from whoever spawned these creatures, was the lust for war and the craving for domination. But Seth was different. At first, to gain power, he killed and maimed his way up the ranks; once he got his power, he began to network with the other Orders and Warlords in order to save humanity. They all could see that he was justified, for humanity had one last battle before it was destroyed.
And within the vast ranks of the Army of Seth, Jacob Clayden waited for his orders. Would they be to defend or to attack? Did it even matter to him anymore?

Lord Seth, an awesomely built man, stood at a height of seven feet; strength rippled through his mighty body like thunder. His long brown hair was gathered in a ponytail while he coldly coordinated his defense against his foe. Rumors of his supernatural intelligence abounded around him as legend. Some said that he battled against Necrem in his realm after the disappearance of the Warmaster, whose name has been lost through the ages, and through force attained supernatural strength, intelligence, and near immortality. But those were just rumors. What the humans lacked in force was almost made up for by strategic and tactical supremacy against their foes.
Seth was the master among these strategists, but his city would fall if he did not stop this gathering. He knew that they had run out of options.

“The Titan gathering has just entered the defensive perimeter, Sir,” one of Seth’s stalwart commanders relayed to him.

“I want the Zigrams launched now. Have them drop-load the 10th, 14th, 15th, 17th, and 25th assault platoons in tree cover before they intercept,” Seth feverishly ordered. “How far are the 5th, 6th, and 8th light mechanized divisions from the front?”

“Ten minutes to defensive position.”

“Good,” Seth smiled. “Have them deploy the infantry as soon as they reach their positions. Bombard them, now!”

Loud thuds and the thrusts of rockets rebounded throughout the city as the cannons shot their ordnance, like a rain of molten death upon their unseen Titan enemy. Missiles streaked off into the early dawn to destroy their unknowing enemy.

“I want the interceptors to flank the enemy on the left and drive them to the mountain. I want them cornered.”

His commanders quickly and coldly ordered their troops, knowing that each syllable brought death upon them.

“Are the 1st and 4th heavy mechanized battalions ready for deployment?”

“In five more minutes; the last of the heavy tanks are being fitted with the new hurricane missiles.”

“Good,” he paused. “When they’re ready, have the Hell’s Angels flank the left. The 4th can go straight up the middle to cover the infantry’s spearhead.”

“Yes, Sir.”

*Who are you again? I remember, you’re the Titan Ramses, fashioning yourself after an eldritch earthen warlord emperor. You’re as big as a pyramid in your colossal battle armor, but you have not the gall to destroy my city. You will be routed, as I have routed so many of my enemies.

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

Read ahead or read behined follow this link to Book I:

The Mortal Burden – Book 1

Part I: Specicide Blues

These things rot in my primal brain. They eat through my sanity. It was slow at first, but gradually the plot thickened and I was left with the aftertaste of insanity. I have seen the battle between Gods and monsters, and seen the revelation that the Gods are the real monsters.

A painful march of death orchestrated by the symphonic hateful metronome of the defiled saints; fodder for those immortal beings.

Humans are nothing on the battlefield, except for rotting corpses, a welcome mat for oblivion. Their only use is for the advent of fear, and the haste of self-loathing. My only wish is to finally die before the aftermath—a hell not from the fear factories of the gods, but from the true Titans of Ragnarok, those of which have been too blasphemous to speak of throughout history’s slow, bloody march.

Death now can only be hastened for the few remaining, for I will bring it to them with open arms, and have them greet it with the warmth of friendship. They will slay their foes with a ferocity that no being has or will see for the rest of infinity. I wither in sadness, immortal, vacant of soul, terrified of freedom.

A festering cloud of disease and rot batters the landscape with its omnipotent sickness, defiling the pure, pristine life-force, decaying it with its stench. The rain, or what should be rain, storms down in a sickly brown torrent upon the earth. Parasites devour the life energy of those creatures within the range of hills. A spell of sickness conjured by an arch-demon of decay.

The vast armies of decay sow their seeds upon the earth, devouring all life for its wretched abuse.

This is war. This is oblivion.

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