There wasn't a living green man or woman in sight. The mangled bodies were heaped in piles about the trackless sea bottom. Already, scavengers were prowling amongst the feast of dead flesh.

"The green ones make the red man's attempts at warfare seem like child's play," commented the Prince of Ptarth. "Barsoom will soon be rid of their savage kind, without any help from us."

Seeing the evidence all about me, I had to agree.

"The only good savage is a dead savage," he said. "There are many good savages about today."

"Can you walk?" I asked.

"What choice have I?" Thuvan Dihn answered.

A horrid scream from the pit stopped us cold.

Peering over the side, I saw that one of the hatchlings had survived the blades of Thuvan Dihn and I. The creature lay gasping amongst its brothers, half-dead yet still deadly. Portions of snowy-white shell clung to its green hide, and I wondered if it had been one of the eggs thrown into the pit, now hatched.

It scrambled and clawed from beneath a mound of torn bodies -- a pitiful, haunting sight. Once free, it hobbled for a moment, as if dazed, and then rushed headlong into the wall.

Again and again it charged, screaming like the grinding of mishappen gears; some mindless machine, berserk with rage, fear or both. The thing had no conception of where or what it was. And it had no enemy to fight.

Thuvan Dihn pulled away, but I lingered, unable to take my eyes from the horrible scene. The hatchling was badly wounded. Deep brusies mottled the green hide, which was spotted with blood and mucous.

It sank to the ground, utterly spent, closing its eyes. Flaring nostrils quivered as the creature panted uncontrollably. Cup-like antennae lolled back and forth. Miniature tusks were flecked with white foam.

Shaking off Thuvan Dihn's attempt to stop me, I descended into the pit.

At first, it had been my intention to put the suffering hatchling out of its misery. Had one of its savage sires witnessed the scene, no doubt the humorous anecdote would have been told 'round campfires for days to come. But I, who had unwillingly contributed to the sad creature's plight, could only be sickened.

When I reached the hatchling's side, my heart changed. I called to Thuvan Dihn to bring water, and nutrients from the incubator. Though I carefully cleansed its wounds with the medicinal balms I carried, I knew the task was probably for naught. There was little hope it could live.

But it did.

"Are you going to carry it with you all the way to Helium?" asked Thuvan Dihn, when we'd clambored from the pit. "Because it is young, does not mean that it is innocent."

"We'll leave it here, in the incubator," I replied. "Perhaps one of its people survived, and will return."

"Better to dash its head against the wall and be done with it," Thuvan Dihn said. "The creature will die, anyway, Tardos Mors."

I would not allow the murder. After setting it near water and food, we turned our attention to the trek ahead.

I was only vaguely familiar with this hemisphere of Barsoom. But I knew that our likeliest hope of finding transportation was in Tonool, which my recollection told me lay somewhere to the northeast. "Likely" is a relative term, however — the green hordes had no fliers; Tonool did. But both would be enemies of Tardos Mors and Thuvan Dihn. We would be strangers in a strange land, and all such are suspect upon Barsoom.

"Panthans?" asked Thuvan Dihn, smiling.

"Have you played the role before?" I returned.

"Who hasn't?"

I have often wondered how true panthans ever find work, since that disguise had been used by most wanderers at one time or another — and usually with ulterior motive. But we had no better plan, and so set off in the direction we thought Tonool to lie, entering an area of Barsoom that was quite different from any terrain I knew in my own hemisphere of the planet. The River Iss and its tributaries fed vast areas here, making possible the Great Tonoolian Marsh and the famed Kaolian Forest.

In midafternoon, Thuvan Dihn bid me look behind us.

Following doggedly along our trail was the green hatchling.

"That killer wants our blood," the Prince of Ptarth said, chuckling.

The name stuck. The Killer followed us the rest of the day, making no attack. He seemed curious -- an odd thing for the spawn of a green man.

Eventually, The Killer traveled alongside us.

Well, what of it? Neither Thuvan Dihn nor I had any real idea where we were or where we were going. Perhaps the green child did, by virtue of some uncanny instinct. He was alone in the world, and, for the moment, so were the Prince of Ptarth and I.

The march was a sullen one at times, as we three unlikely companions made our way across an unfamiliar landscape.

I nursed a dull ache over the death of my elder brother. That I was now Jeddak-apparent of Helium made the hurt all the more unbearable, for I was far from home, and lost, while my empire was at war.

I'd have gladly traded the throne for my brother's life.

Thuvan Dihn kept whatever thoughts he was thinking to himself, which suited my mood.

As for The Killer -- I couldn't be sure he even possessed the ability to think.

Hatred is not a thing the warriors of Helium feel for their enemies. I couldn't hate Thuvan Dihn, or his people, any more than I could call him friend; and that I'd no more do than I would peacefully lay my hand upon the shoulder The Killer after he'd grown to savage adulthood.

But even the green men, we do not hate. For the loveless barbarians we reserve our deepest pity.

Thuvan Dihn was my enemy. No more, no less. If it had occurred to me to ask him, he'd have said the same of me.

It's true that when one discovered a few precious drops of water to drink, or a desert lizard to eat, he shared it with the other. I also shared my medicinal balms with Thuvan Dihn, to speed the healing of the grievous wounds that the green hatchlings had dealt him. Once, he saved me from the charge of a banth, stepping with upraised sword between my turned back and the snarling beast.

The Killer stayed with us, and we made no effort to dissuade him. He hunted alone, however -- a manifestation of the trait that marks all of his breed. Despite their communal lifestyle, the green men endure a uniquely solitary existence.

Upon the third day of our march, Thuvan Dihn and I found a sompus grove on the outskirts of the Great Marsh. Since it provided more water and food then any we'd encountered thus far, the Prince of Ptarth and I decided to make camp for a day or two before continuing. I judged there to be a half-zode of daylight left when we paused for our rest.

Thuvan Dihn sat rubbing the last of my balm upon his shoulder. I tended the fire we'd made to roast an ulsio discovered earlier in the day. Scarcely a dozen words had passed between us during the entire march.

"There may yet be Warhoon savages nearby," Thuvan Dihn said, casting about the camp with suspicious eyes.

"What were they doing so far from their normal haunts?" I asked. "Do you know, Thuvan Dihn?"

He nodded, vaguely.

"Searching for an escaped slave," he said.

It seemed odd to both of us that the Warhoons would devote so much energy to the recapture of a single slave.

"From snatches of conversation I heard, this slave was valuable indeed," the Prince of Ptarth said. "They called it a wraith — supposedly possessing uncanny, supernatural powers. Scouting parties were combing the sea bottoms in all directions for the thing. I never understood if it was supposed to be human or green savage, or possibly some other strange beast. But the Warhoon jed was quite anxious to recapture it."

We fell silent for a time, slicing charred pieces of meat. The Killer stalked some small game just outside the perimeter of the glade.

Thuvan Dihn's next words were as much to himself as me.

"The war with Helium has left Ptarth severely weakened," he said.

"As it has my own father's empire," I commented, cautiously.

Some wars make nations strong, especially those that are fought for an honorable cause. Others tended to suffocate, as did the years-long struggle with Ptarth, the reasons for which had become obscure in the minds of both people.

"The entire resources of a prosperous nation have been poured, year after year, into that winless conflict," Thuvan Dihn continued. "Ptarth found itself in the throes of a gripping recession. The economy was in upheaval. A year ago, many of her citizens began grumbling openly. Food stores had been depleted by the needs of a vast army. Just maintaining the supply lines to feed that army on a distant front had taxed our resources to the limit. While there was still a strong core of support for my father, Nal Thuvio, there was also growing opposition — fostered by the Jeddak's own brother, my uncle, Dihntar Mas."

Thuvan Dihn paused, turning the ulsio with a stick. I was struck by how deeply the war had undermined Ptarth, bringing her to the brink of civil unrest — which occurs often enough upon Barsoom, but usually among nations of far less stability than Ptarth, whose ancient royal lineage is almost as old as Helium's.

My father's empire had suffered the privations any war brings. But, as always, we had borne the burdens well. Victory we could not claim. But neither had defeat claimed us. In that sense, the Empire had prevailed.

"Then came the attempted Liberation of Flemster," Thuvan Dihn remarked.

"The Seige of Flemster, you mean," I said, anger rising within me. For centuries, Flemster been a loyal city of the Heliumetic Empire. That it had once been a distant Ptarthian outpost was little more than a footenote to history.

"By whatever name it is called, the battle there was a turning point for Ptarth," Thuvan Dihn said.

For Helium, too, I thought. My brother died there. And so did I, in a way.

"Resources were strained to the breaking point, and outright Civil War was imminent in Ptarth," the prince continued. "As Nal Thuvio eloquently put his case before the Senate, I took the Jeddak's cause directly to the people in an appeal for unity. When we least expected it, Dihntar Mas struck. An assassin's blade cut short my father's reign. He died in my arms as the torch was set to the Ptarthian capital. When Dihntar Mas took the crown, I escaped -- vowing to return and claim my rightful place upon the throne."

He sighed.

"All Ptarth thinks me dead. I should have remained to face certain excecution at the hands of the usurper," Thuvan Dihn said. "The captain of a warship will leap from the bow of his lost command to satisfy honor. The ruler of a lost empire can do no less."

A pained look overcame Thuvan Dihn, and I was struck by the image his face conjured in my mind: Moros Tar, that day in the Temple of Reward.

"What happened next?" I asked, to break the illusion.

"The Warhoons captured me," he said. "I cannot imagine what has befallen my beloved Ptarth in the weeks since."

"Weeks!" I ejaculated. "But the flagship of the Ptarthian fleet east of Helium bore your device! That was days ago -- not weeks."

"If a Ptarthian ship bore my device, it did so without the Prince of Ptarth aboard her," said Thuvan Dihn. "Do you you believe me, Tardos Mors?"

I contemplated the fire without answering.

Nothing made sense.

Thuvan Dihn's story made me wonder for the hundredth time what had transpired in Helium since my departure. Moros Tar was well upon the Pilgrimage by now, perhaps bowing to Issus herself. My Empire had no ruler upon the throne; and that of Thuvan Dihn was occupied by a pretender.

"What started the war?" Thuvan Dihn asked.

"I know not," I said. "Does it matter any more?"

"I have been thinking about that often these past weeks," the Prince of Ptarth slowly mused. "I think it does matter, Tardos Mors. I believe the war was orchestrated by forces outside either Ptarth or Helium."

It was a shocking suggestion, nearly outrageous. But the more I thought on it, the less outrageous it seemed.

"The Seige of Flemster was ordered, and directly overseen, by none less than your own sire," I reminded Thuvan Dihn.

The Prince of Ptarth shook his head. "The Heliumetic fleet build-up at Flemster was reason enough to prompt Nal Thuvio's quick action," he said.

"What fleet?" I demanded. "No build-up took place before the seige."

A sudden snarl from the brush signified that The Killer had lived up to his name. Thuvan Dihn and I turned in the direction of the sound, momentarily distracted. Whatever answer was upon Thuvan Dihn's lips never came.

A great buzzing, as if produced by the propellers of a thousand fliers, became overpoweringly loud. For the past several xats I had been conscious of the far-off noise. But now it had grown to such proportions to be impossible to ignore.

A flash of yellow and black swooped down upon our camp. And then another, and another. The hum had grown to an unbearable roar all about us.

"Siths!" shouted Thuvan Dihn. "If you value your life, Tardos Mors, take cover beneath the trees!"