It had been thousands of years since the roar of such an excited throng had filled the dusty air of the crumbled metropolis. Its once-mighty spires and sky-reaching towers had fallen ages ago to the scarlet ground of Barsoom, and many of the great slabs which once composed its palaces and temples had been reduced to fine sand. The original inhabitants of the city, whose name was lost somewhere in the depths of the red planet's long history, had cheered such warlike contests as this one in their grand arena. Now, however, it was the wide central plaza where the mass of nomadic Tharks found themselves entertained by the dueling of their two mightiest warriors.

Before the great pile of corroded masonry which once had been the palace of a mighty Jeddak, the two green warriors fought like whirling emerald demons laced with gleaming steal. Each bore four long-bladed swords, one in each fist, and the eight blades clashed and struck in furious patterns of offense and defense, slashing, countering, parrying, swiping, and lunging. The red eyes of the warriors were narrowed in concentration, their protruding tusks grit in silent determination. The winner of the duel would gain both honor and the fine prize which had started the confrontation; the loser would receive only the black oblivion of death.

Zar Logus pressed his momentary advantage, slipping his two lower blades beneath Tak Nul's defenses and drawing, at last, the first blood of the duel. Their fellow tribesmen guffawed and cheered him on, pleased with this development in the fight. Tak Nul seemed shocked that he had been the first to be wounded. An anger clouded his eyes as he struck with a four-pronged diamond pattern at Zar Logus' chest. Only the jewelled metal of Zar Logus' war harness saved him from the bite of the one blade he could not parry. Zar Logus grinned that terrible, mirthless grin of the green men, for he knew that Tak Nul's anger had gotten the best of him; a great swordsman he was, but his temper had always been a weakness. It was a weakness which would cost him his very life, thought Zar Logus, as well as the prize.

Zar Logus feinted, slashing with two left-hand blades and lunging inward with the swords in his right fists; Tak Nul blocked the slashes, and the first lunging blade from the right, but not the fourth of Zar Logus' blades, which changed its course in mid-swing and swung downward. Tak Nul's lower left hand was sliced from its arm, dark ichor pouring in a fountain from its stub as his sword fell to the sand. The crowd went wild.

Zar Logus took a moment for a practised flourish of his weapons in a figure-eight pattern meant to insinuate inferiority in one's opponent. Tak Nul did not scream, but lunged forward with his three remaining blades, maddened by the pain of his bleeding wrist. Zar Logus sidestepped, avoiding all three swords, and brought two of his own down to remove another hand and an entire arm from his doomed opponent.

This time a scream of rage erupted from Tak Nul's fanged mouth. His tribesmen screamed and laughed at the hysterical sight of their finest swordsman cut nearly to ribbons by such a young warrior. The Thark sense of humor was a grim thing, indeed.

Rising with only one of his four arms left, Tak Nul swept his blade toward Zar Logus' head. Two blades blocked his swing, and his last remaining arm left his body with the silvery gleam of a Zar Logus' single blade. The Tharks jumped and hollered with mirth and excitement at this final turn of events. They had now a new champion in their midst.

Falling to his knees, Tak Nul raised his eyes to meet those of his conqueror, in the final request for death which was the right of the mortally wounded. Zar Logus turned to the crowd, brandishing his crimson-dripping blades and basking in the glory which was now his by right of this duel. His beaten opponent spilled his lifeblood freely upon the crimson sand, armless and stripped of honor, wishing only to die. Zar Logus turned, and towered above his bloody opponent.

"You have fought well, Tak Nul," he said. "But not well enough!"

And a sweep of a single blade took off the head of Tak Nul.

The tribe gathered around Zar Logus, praising and saluting him for his most entertaining victory. Now the harness and blades of the dead Thark were his, as well as Tak Nul's thoats and women. But these things mattered not to Zar Logus, for now he would lay claim undisputed to that fair prize which had engendered the slaying of his fellow Thark.

Stalking forward to the sqat base of a crumbled pillar at the edge of the plaza, Zar Logus surveyed with relish his prize. Tied to the massive rock was the delicate, copper-skinned form of the dark-haired maiden who had been captured that morning in the wastes. Twelve red warriors had guarded her, this soft-skinned female whose arms were draped in gold and gems, whose head was decorated with the ornate crown of some far kingdom. Her guards had fallen easily beneath the might of two-hundred Thark warriors, and she had been carried on the back of a thoat until the tribe set camp in these deserted ruins. And now she belonged to Zar Logus, to do with as he pleased.

This bright-eyed, two-armed divinity would make him a good slave. She would serve all his needs, and teach him the ways of red-skinned lovemaking. Zar Logus lifted the girl free of the jutting stone, and threw her over his shoulder, turning to carry her away to some dark, secluded part of the ruins for the night. The girl cried and beat at his back with impotent little fists. Zar Logus laughed. Then his chest exploded as his body fell forward, the stunned princess rolling free onto the hard ground.

Above, obscuring the rising golden spheres of Thuria and Cluros, Barsoom's twin moons, the vast triangular bulk of a Ptarthian warship filled the sky. Vella Ansari, Princess of Ptarth, laughed then, lying next to the dead body of Zar Logus, as a hundred smaller fliers descended upon the ruined city, the keen-eyed warriors of Ptarth leaning over their railings firing deadly radium rifles into the mass of running Tharks.

Soon the fliers reached the ground, and the steely ringing of swordplay filled the ancient streets again.