I thrashed, rolling across the ground, trying to dislodge the diminutive green things. I swung my arms like a madman and savagely kicked with my legs — braining at least one of the brainless hatchlings, but sending the others into even more of a frenzied bloodlust.

My own blood was up as well, however, and as I struggled that day with the frothing young of the green men, my blows were animated by no science taught me by Helium's finest warlords. I fought entirely by instinct; lashing and stabbing, rolling and biting, perhaps jabbering in the same unintelligible tongue that my attackers employed. I do not know, for I remember little of it — nor do I care to. All I know is that I fought in a way I had never fought before, or since: without regard to reason, or chivalry, or any other of the things that red men consider sacred in honorable combat.

I fought for survival.

And, by Issus, I survived.

When the last of my antagonists lay dead at my feet, I rose slowly and shook the hazy fog from my befuddled brain. I stumbled toward my red companion, through a maze of mangled flesh and broken shells. He still lived.

Barely.

He'd accounted for several of the ungodly hatchlings, despite his weakened condition.

"You fight like the green men themselves," whispered the red man. "A shame they were not here to see it."

I looked up and saw that our captors had disappeared from their perches at the rim of our pit. The sound of a great battle raged somewhere above. The clank of metal upon metal, the green men's rifles and hoarse battle cries were unmistakable in the late morning still.

"The Tharks have discovered the Warhoons, Tardos Mors," said my companion. "And they are not pleased with this grim plan for slaying Thark young.”

"So that's what this is all about," I mused, taking stock of our situation. Then I looked closer to the red man, remembering that he'd called me by name. But through the gore that covered him, I could not tell if I'd ever met this warrior before.

"Thuvan Dihn, Prince of Ptarth, occupies this hellish pit with you, Tardos Mors of Helium," said the bloodied warrior. "Though we be enemies, I suggest our predicament makes us temporay allies."

The Prince of Ptarth! Wrecker of my beloved Helium; a leader of the nation that had sent Mors Kajak to his death, and my father to the knee of Issus!

All my ancestors cried out for vengeance.

And yet --

Despite the bloodshed between Helium and Ptarth, I could not deny Thuvan Dihn's rationale that present circumstances demanded cooperation. Green savages had a way of turning the most bitter of enemies into allies.

"A truce, then," I agreed, not without difficulty.

We had spoken, and now turned our attention to escape.

The raging battle above grew loud at times, and then faded as it moved to and fro across the sea bottom. I knew that simply escaping the pit was the least of our worries — for when we emerged, likely as not we'd do so in the midst of two enraged green hordes. In the heat of battle, a green savage kills first, seldom pausing to examine the body afterward.

Unmolested by the constant deluge of hatchlings, I saw that the roughly hewn walls of our prison were jagged enough to provide a handhold. It would be possible, if precarious, to climb to the rim. Thuvan Dihn was so weak from his long days of battle that I decided to fasten his harness to mine by way of the grappling hooks all Barsoomian navy men carry.

Gingerly, I began the ascent. It was slow work, and I nearly fell back into the pit more than once as my grip loosened in the slippery clay, dragged down by the weight of a nearly unconscious Ptarthian.

Carefully drawing myself up over the rim of the pit, clutching softly at the ochre moss, I looked out across the dead sea bottom for sign of discovery. A short distance away, a small group had broken off from the main battle. Perhaps a dozen green savages fought there, for the moment oblivious to all but their own struggles for victory.

The main forces of fighting men were quite a long distance beyond that; scattered over several haads in the direction of the setting sun. I watched them a moment, appalled by the unprincipled ferocity of a green battle. Hundreds of dead and dying lay haphazardly everywhere that I looked. Even the hideously maimed were crawling or rolling in the direction of a foe, to plunge sword or dagger into scarred flesh. Those who had no arms left with which to wield a weapon gored at the belly of the closest enemy with their wicked tusks. Even the green women joined in the fighting -- a thing I'd never witnessed. They clawed at each other with a savagery that rivaled that of their lords.

The sight of this battle would forever be burned into my memory for its barbarity, and I am the veteran of a thousand bloody campaigns.

I'd fought at the head of Helium's army against the savage green hordes of Thark many times. Never before had I seen two hordes pitted against each other like this — though I knew it was a common enough occurence in the wastelands they inhabit. Perhaps the cause of their fight — destruction of the Thark hatchlings — made it even more bloodthirsty than most.

It surprised me, somewhat, that the Thark incubator was so far from the hordes' usual stomping grounds, closer to Helium. But, at the time, little was known of their nomadic ways. In fact, little was known about the green men at all. Some scholars in Helium debated whether they had sentient thought.

The smaller group of combatants was close enough that I knew Thuvan Dihn and I could not simply get up and go our own way without being seen. Even if we could have, neither of us had the strength for much of a march. I cast about for some possible solution to our predicament.

My entire body ached from a score of wounds; my throat was parched and my stomach empty. I could hear the prince of Ptarth's labored breathing. He was barely conscious. Then I noticed the incubator.

"Why not?" I whispered.

In the distance, I could see many hatchlings darting in and out amongst the battling green warriors, savagely attacking members of either side. The little monsters seemed to be quite enjoying themselves in the thick of the melee. I didn't begrudge them their child's game, so long as I was no longer a playmate. It seemed likely that all the newly hatched Tharks had escaped the incubator and were now running wild, savoring their first taste of the only joy their humorless lives had in store. I hoped the incubator was deserted, for it meant a temporary means of shelter and nourishment for Thuvan Dihn and me. If nothing else, there would be water. And its walls would protect us from the uncanny eyesight of the green men while we rested.

Creeping stealthily, Thuvan Dihn and I managed to make our way into the incubator without being discovered by its savage builders. We found no hatchlings within, for which I breathed a silent sigh of relief. My companion settled heavily against a wall, while I sought out the nutrient and water supplies that fed the eggs during their five-year gestation. But for size, green Barsoomian incubators differ little from our own — the design of which has not varied for ten thousand generations. I quickly found what I was looking for and returned to Thuvan Dihn's side.

Having eaten, and quenched intolerable thirst, we slept as the din of battle raged about the ancient structure's walls.