Leave a Thark his head and one hand

It's just before nightfall when the Thark hunting party returns to the ancient ruins known as the Old City. The settlement, once full of grand buildings with huge columns and broad paved plazas, was now home to the Thark Clan of Barsoom's green men. Since the war between Helium and Zodanga had ended, the Thark had taken their place as the biggest, most stable clan in the South under the guidance of the strongest tactician and most feared warrior in the entire Warhoon.

Tars Tarkas paces the stones in front of his encampment. The women have tried to bring him water, to bring him food. He will have none of it. If Dejah Thoris thinks he kidnapped one of her people, she will raze this place to the sand to get him back. The boy must be returned home and in one piece.

How in the seven hells they got separated, he has no idea. One moment he was riding and that stupid magical pocket universe opened up and swallowed him. The thoatling followed them through, and the crechemate* that had bonded to the little one almost stomped the boy into a grease stain. When they'd ran, Tars had watched the sky open up and swallow both boy and thoatling.

It had taken him half a day to make it back here, and the moment he did, he'd sent out riders. If he didn't return soon, he was going to have to swallow his pride and contact Helium. They would lend flyers to the search. Hopefully the boy had survived the night.

Alone. On the Warhoon. With only a thoatling to keep him company.


The cry goes up from the perimeter and ripples through the settlement. One of his lieutenants comes running through the crowd.

"Riders! And they have the boy! He's alive!"

"Praise Issus. Bring him here to me. He is to be treated with respect. Else Helium will see us ended."

"As you will it, my Jeddak! Right away!"


*Thark have words for mother and father. They just don't use them in polite company.

The Thark hunting party returned to the city of the ancestors just ahead of the early summer storms. The air was thick with dust, heavy with the bite of static. Ions, Dejah Thoris had called them, and he smirked himself to remember her impromptu lesson, scratched into the dirt with the tip of her knife. All Tars knew was that if they did not retreat to the ruins before the first storms hit, the very air would snap at them, striking the thoats first around their feet and mouths. A startled thoat was not something one wanted to be astride, even when the air was clear and the sky above was gold. So they made good time the last karad, a half day's ride roughly. The entire village turned out to welcome them and their precious cargo.

The riders' saddle bags were stuffed with a brood of fresh hatchlings, each and every one of them squalling to the heavens in indignation. A strong, healthy clutch, he was proud to note. There was a great deal of excitement in the crowd as the women came out to receive them. He was pleased to see only a few fist fights broke out, and those were quelled in a heartbeat with only a stern look from their Jeddak. He kept a weather eye on them as the tiny green bodies scampered over the ground, trying to fight their way free. Hands grabbed at them as they squirmed by, grabbing them up by their heels. Their tusks were barely visible in their round faces but their lungs were good. He could tell that much by the racket they made.

Tars Tarkas swung down from his thoat and passed off the reins to one of his lieutenants. "We feast tonight! To the honor of our ancestors and the strength of our descendants!" The crowd roared their appreciation for their Jeddak and his proclamation. It was good to be home again. He needed a drink.

His eyes were closed in fatigue when he pulled back the skin that marked the door of his rooms. When he opened them again, it was on an entirely different scene than he expected.