Turan dashed himself against the door of his prison in a vain effort to break through the solid skeel to the side of Tara whom he knew to be in grave danger, but the heavy panels held and he succeeded only in bruising his shoulders and his arms.  At last he desisted and set about searching his prison for some other means of escape.  He found no other opening in the stone walls, but his search revealed a heterogeneous collection of odds and ends of arms and apparel, of harness and ornaments and insignia, and sleeping silks and furs in great quantities.  There were swords and spears and several large, two-bladed battle-axes, the heads of which bore a striking resemblance to the propellor of a small flier.  Seizing one of these he attacked the door once more with great fury.  He expected to hear something from I-Gos at this ruthless destruction, but no sound came to him from beyond the door, which was, he thought, too thick for the human voice to penetrate; but he would have wagered much that I-Gos heard him.  Bits of the hard wood splintered at each impact of the heavy axe, but it was slow work and heavy.  Presently he was compelled to rest, and so it went for what seemed hours ­working almost to the verge of exhaustion and then resting for a few minutes; but ever the hole grew larger though he could see nothing of the interior of the room beyond because of the hanging that I-Gos had drawn across it after he had locked Turan within.

At last, however, the panthan had hewn an opening through which his body could pass, and seizing a long-sword that he had brought close to the door for the purpose he crawled through into the next room.  Flinging aside the arras he stood ready, sword in hand, to fight his way to the side of Tara of Helium ­but she was not there.  In the center of the room lay I-Gos, dead upon the floor; but Tara of Helium was nowhere to be seen.

Turan was nonplussed.  It must have been her hand that had struck down the old man, yet she had made no effort to release Turan from his prison.  And then he thought of those last words of hers:  “I do not want your love!  I hate you,” and the truth dawned upon him ­she had seized upon this first opportunity to escape him.  With downcast heart Turan turned away.  What should he do?  There could be but one answer.  While he lived and she lived he must still leave no stone unturned to effect her escape and safe return to the land of her people.  But how?  How was he even to find his way from this labyrinth?  How was he to find her again?  He walked to the nearest doorway.  It chanced to be that which led into the room containing the mounted dead, awaiting transportation to balcony or grim room or whatever place was to receive them.  His eyes travelled to the great, painted warrior on the thoat and as they ran over the splendid trappings and the serviceable arms a new light came into the pain-dulled eyes of the panthan.  With a quick step he crossed to the side of the dead warrior and dragged him from his mount.  With equal celerity he stripped him of his harness and his arms, and tearing off his own, donned the regalia of the dead man.  Then he hastened back to the room in which he had been trapped, for there he had seen that which he needed to make his disguise complete.  In a cabinet he found them ­pots of paint that the old taxidermist had used to place the war-paint in its wide bands across the cold faces of dead warriors.

A few moments later Gahan of Gathol emerged from the room a warrior of Manator in every detail of harness, equipment, and ornamentation.  He had removed from the leather of the dead man the insignia of his house and rank so that he might pass, with the least danger of arousing suspicion, as a common warrior.

To search for Tara of Helium in the vast, dim labyrinth of the pits of O-Tar seemed to the Gatholian a hopeless quest, foredoomed to failure.  It would be wiser to seek the streets of Manator where he might hope to learn first if she had been recaptured and, if not, then he could return to the pits and pursue the hunt for her.  To find egress from the maze he must perforce travel a considerable distance through the winding corridors and chambers, since he had no idea as to the location or direction of any exit.  In fact, he could not have retraced his steps a hundred yards toward the point at which he and Tara had entered the gloomy caverns, and so he set out in the hope that he might find by accident either Tara of Helium or a way to the street level above.

For a time he passed room after room filled with the cunningly preserved dead of Manator, many of which were piled in tiers after the manner that firewood is corded, and as he moved through corridor and chamber he noticed hieroglyphics painted upon the walls above every opening and at each fork or crossing of corridors, until by observation he reached the conclusion that these indicated the designations of passageways, so that one who understood them might travel quickly and surely through the pits; but Turan did not understand them.  Even could he have read the language of Manator they might not materially have aided one unfamiliar with the city; but he could not read them at all since, though there is but one spoken language upon Barsoom, there are as many different written languages as there are nations.  One thing, however, soon became apparent to him ­the hieroglyphic of a corridor remained the same until the corridor ended.

It was not long before Turan realized from the distance that he had traveled that the pits were part of a vast system undermining, possibly, the entire city.  At least he was convinced that he had passed beyond the precincts of the palace.  The corridors and chambers varied in appearance and architecture from time to time.  All were lighted, though usually quite dimly, with radium bulbs.  For a long time he saw no signs of life other than an occasional ulsio, then quite suddenly he came face to face with a warrior at one of the numerous crossings.  The fellow looked at him, nodded, and passed on.  Turan breathed a sigh of relief as he realized that his disguise was effective, but he was caught in the middle of it by a hail from the warrior who had stopped and turned toward him.  The panthan was glad that a sword hung at his side, and glad too that they were buried in the dim recesses of the pits and that there would be but a single antagonist, for time was precious.

“Heard you any word of the other?” called the warrior to him.

“No,” replied Turan, who had not the faintest idea to whom or what the fellow referred.

“He cannot escape,” continued the warrior.  “The woman ran directly into our arms, but she swore that she knew not where her companion might be found.”

“They took her back to O-Tar?” asked Turan, for now he knew whom the other meant, and he would know more.

“They took her back to The Towers of Jetan,” replied the warrior.  “Tomorrow the games commence and doubtless she will be played for, though I doubt if any wants her, beautiful as she is.  She fears not even O-Tar.  By Cluros! but she would make a hard slave to subdue ­a regular she-banth she is.  Not for me,” and he continued on his way shaking his head.

Turan hurried on searching for an avenue that led to the level of the streets above when suddenly he came to the open doorway of a small chamber in which sat a man who was chained to the wall.  Turan voiced a low exclamation of surprise and pleasure as he recognized that the man was A-Kor, and that he had stumbled by accident upon the very cell in which he had been imprisoned.  A-Kor looked at him questioningly.  It was evident that he did not recognize his fellow prisoner.  Turan crossed to the table and leaning close to the other whispered to him.

“I am Turan the panthan,” he said, “who was chained beside you.”

A-Kor looked at him closely.  “Your own mother would never know you!” he said; “but tell me, what has transpired since they took you away?”

Turan recounted his experiences in the throne room of O-Tar and in the pits beneath, “and now,” he continued, “I must find these Towers of Jetan and see what may be done toward liberating the Princess of Helium.”

A-Kor shook his head.  “Long was I dwar of the Towers,” he said, “and I can say to you, stranger, that you might as well attempt to reduce Manator, single handed, as to rescue a prisoner from The Towers of Jetan.”

“But I must,” replied Turan.

“Are you better than a good swordsman?” asked A-Kor presently.

“I am accounted so,” replied Turan.

“Then there is a way ­sst!” he was suddenly silent and pointing toward the base of the wall at the end of the room.

Turan looked in the direction the other’s forefinger indicated, to see projecting from the mouth of an ulsio’s burrow two large chelae and a pair of protruding eyes.

“Ghek!” he cried and immediately the hideous kaldane crawled out upon the floor and approached the table.  A-Kor drew back with a half-stifled ejaculation of repulsion.  “Do not fear,” Turan reassured him.  “It is my friend ­he whom I told you held O-Tar while Tara and I escaped.”

Ghek climbed to the table top and squatted between the two warriors.  “You are safe in assuming,” he said addressing A-Kor, “that Turan the panthan has no master in all Manator where the art of sword-play is concerned.  I overheard your conversation ­go on.”

“You are his friend,” continued A-Kor, “and so I may explain safely in your presence the only plan I know whereby he may hope to rescue the Princess of Helium.  She is to be the stake of one of the games and it is O-Tar’s desire that she be won by slaves and common warriors, since she repulsed him.  Thus would he punish her.  Not a single man, but all who survive upon the winning side are to possess her.  With money, however, one may buy off the others before the game.  That you could do, and if your side won and you survived she would become your slave.”

“But how may a stranger and a hunted fugitive accomplish this?” asked Turan.

“No one will recognize you.  You will go tomorrow to the keeper of the Towers and enlist in that game for which the girl is to be the stake, telling the keeper that you are from Manataj, the farthest city of Manator.  If he questions you, you may say that you saw her when she was brought into the city after her capture.  If you win her, you will find thoats stabled at my palace and you will carry from me a token that will place all that is mine at your disposal.”

“But how can I buy off the others in the game without money?” asked Turan.  “I have none ­not even of my own country.”

A-Kor opened his pocket-pouch and drew forth a packet of Manatorian money.

“Here is sufficient to buy them off twice over,” he said, handing a portion of it to Turan.

“But why do you do this for a stranger?” asked the panthan.

“My mother was a captive princess here,” replied A-Kor.  “I but do for the Princess of Helium what my mother would have me do.”

“Under the circumstances, then, Manatorian,” replied Turan, “I cannot but accept your generosity on behalf of Tara of Helium and live in hope that some day I may do for you something in return.”

“Now you must be gone,” advised A-Kor.  “At any minute a guard may come and discover you here.  Go directly to the Avenue of Gates, which circles the city just within the outer wall.  There you will find many places devoted to the lodging of strangers.  You will know them by the thoat’s head carved above the doors.  Say that you are here from Manataj to witness the games.  Take the name of U-Kal ­it will arouse no suspicion, nor will you if you can avoid conversation.  Early in the morning seek the keeper of The Towers of Jetan.  May the strength and fortune of all your ancestors be with you!”

Bidding good-bye to Ghek and A-Kor, the panthan, following directions given him by A-Kor, set out to find his way to the Avenue of Gates, nor had he any great difficulty.  On the way he met several warriors, but beyond a nod they gave him no heed.  With ease he found a lodging place where there were many strangers from other cities of Manator.  As he had had no sleep since the previous night he threw himself among the silks and furs of his couch to gain the rest which he must have, was he to give the best possible account of himself in the service of Tara of Helium the following day.

It was already morning when he awoke, and rising he paid for his lodgings, sought a place to eat, and a short time later was on his way toward The Towers of Jetan, which he had no difficulty in finding owing to the great crowds that were winding along the avenues toward the games.  The new keeper of The Towers who had succeeded E-Med was too busy to scrutinize entries closely, for in addition to the many volunteer players there were scores of slaves and prisoners being forced into the games by their owners or the government.  The name of each must be recorded as well as the position he was to play and the game or games in which he was to be entered, and then there were the substitutes for each that was entered in more than a single game ­one for each additional game that an individual was entered for, that no succeeding game might be delayed by the death or disablement of a player.

“Your name?” asked a clerk as Turan presented himself.

“U-Kal,” replied the panthan.

“Your city?”

“Manataj.”

The keeper, who was standing beside the clerk, looked at Turan.  “You have come a great way to play at jetan,” he said.  “It is seldom that the men of Manataj attend other than the decennial games.  Tell me of O-Zar!  Will he attend next year?  Ah, but he was a noble fighter.  If you be half the swordsman, U-Kal, the fame of Manataj will increase this day.  But tell me, what of O-Zar?”

“He is well,” replied Turan, glibly, “and he sent greetings to his friends in Manator.”

“Good!” exclaimed the keeper, “and now in what game would you enter?”

“I would play for the Heliumetic princess, Tara,” replied Turan.

“But man, she is to be the stake of a game for slaves and criminals,” cried the keeper.  “You would not volunteer for such a game!”

“But I would,” replied Turan.  “I saw here when she was brought into the city and even then I vowed to possess her.”

“But you will have to share her with the survivors even if your color wins,” objected the other.

“They may be brought to reason,” insisted Turan.

“And you will chance incurring the wrath of O-Tar, who has no love for this savage barbarian,” explained the keeper.

“And I win her O-Tar will be rid of her,” said Turan.

The keeper of The Towers of Jetan shook his head.  “You are rash,” he said.  “I would that I might dissuade the friend of my friend O-Zar from such madness.”

“Would you favor the friend of O-Zar?” asked Turan.

“Gladly!” exclaimed the other.  “What may I do for him?”

“Make me chief of the Black and give me for my pieces all slaves from Gathol, for I understand that those be excellent warriors,” replied the panthan.

“It is a strange request,” said the keeper, “but for my friend O-Zar I would do even more, though of course ­” he hesitated ­“it is customary for one who would be chief to make some slight payment.”

“Certainly,” Turan hastened to assure him; “I had not forgotten that.  I was about to ask you what the customary amount is.”

“For the friend of my friend it shall be nominal,” replied the keeper, naming a figure that Gahan, accustomed to the high price of wealthy Gathol, thought ridiculously low.

“Tell me,” he said, handing the money to the keeper, “when the game for the Heliumite is to be played.”

“It is the second in order of the day’s games; and now if you will come with me you may select your pieces.”

Turan followed the keeper to a large court which lay between the towers and the jetan field, where hundreds of warriors were assembled.  Already chiefs for the games of the day were selecting their pieces and assigning them to positions, though for the principal games these matters had been arranged for weeks before.  The keeper led Turan to a part of the courtyard where the majority of the slaves were assembled.

“Take your choice of those not assigned,” said the keeper, “and when you have your quota conduct them to the field.  Your place will be assigned you by an officer there, and there you will remain with your pieces until the second game is called.  I wish you luck, U-Kal, though from what I have heard you will be more lucky to lose than to win the slave from Helium.”

After the fellow had departed Turan approached the slaves.  “I seek the best swordsmen for the second game,” he announced.  “Men from Gathol I wish, for I have heard that these be noble fighters.”

A slave rose and approached him.  “It is all the same in which game we die,” he said.  “I would fight for you as a panthan in the second game.”

Another came.  “I am not from Gathol,” he said.  “I am from Helium, and I would fight for the honor of a princess of Helium.”

“Good!” exclaimed Turan.  “Art a swordsman of repute in Helium?”

“I was a dwar under the great Warlord, and I have fought at his side in a score of battles from The Golden Cliffs to The Carrion Caves.  My name is Val Dor.  Who knows Helium, knows my prowess.”

The name was well known to Gahan, who had heard the man spoken of on his last visit to Helium, and his mysterious disappearance discussed as well as his renown as a fighter.

“How could I know aught of Helium?” asked Turan; “but if you be such a fighter as you say no position could suit you better than that of Flier.  What say you?”

The man’s eyes denoted sudden surprise.  He looked keenly at Turan, his eyes running quickly over the other’s harness.  Then he stepped quite close so that his words might not be overheard.

“Methinks you may know more of Helium than of Manator,” he whispered.

“What mean you, fellow?” demanded Turan, seeking to cudgel his brains for the source of this man’s knowledge, guess, or inspiration.

“I mean,” replied Val Dor, “that you are not of Manator and that if you wish to hide the fact it is well that you speak not to a Manatorian as you did just speak to me of ­Fliers!  There be no Fliers in Manator and no piece in their game of Jetan bearing that name.  Instead they call him who stands next to the Chief or Princess, Odwar.  The piece has the same moves and power that the Flier has in the game as played outside Manator.  Remember this then and remember, too, that if you have a secret it be safe in the keeping of Val Dor of Helium.”

Turan made no reply but turned to the task of selecting the remainder of his pieces.  Val Dor, the Heliumite, and Floran, the volunteer from Gathol, were of great assistance to him, since one or the other of them knew most of the slaves from whom his selection was to be made.  The pieces all chosen, Turan led them to the place beside the playing field where they were to wait their turn, and here he passed the word around that they were to fight for more than the stake he offered for the princess should they win.  This stake they accepted, so that Turan was sure of possessing Tara if his side was victorious, but he knew that these men would fight even more valorously for chivalry than for money, nor was it difficult to enlist the interest even of the Gatholians in the service of the princess.  And now he held out the possibility of a still further reward.

“I cannot promise you,” he explained, “but I may say I have heard that this day which makes it possible that should we win this game we may even win your freedom!”

They leaped to their feet and crowded around him with many questions.

“It may not be spoken of aloud,” he said; “but Floran and Val Dor know and they assure me that you may all be trusted.  Listen!  What I would tell you places my life in your hands, but you must know that every man will realize that he is fighting today the greatest battle of his life ­for the honor and the freedom of Barsoom’s most wondrous princess and for his own freedom as well ­for the chance to return each to his own country and to the woman who awaits him there.

“First, then, is my secret.  I am not of Manator.  Like yourselves I am a slave, though for the moment disguised as a Manatorian from Manataj.  My country and my identity must remain undisclosed for reasons that have no bearing upon our game today.  I, then, am one of you.  I fight for the same things that you will fight for.

“And now for that which I have but just learned.  U-Thor, the great jed of Manatos, quarreled with O-Tar in the palace the day before yesterday and their warriors set upon one another.  U-Thor was driven as far as The Gate of Enemies, where he now lies encamped.  At any moment the fight may be renewed; but it is thought that U-Thor has sent to Manatos for reinforcements.  Now, men of Gathol, here is the thing that interests you.  U-Thor has recently taken to wife the Princess Haja of Gathol, who was slave to O-Tar and whose son, A-Kor, was dwar of The Towers of Jetan.  Haja’s heart is filled with loyalty for Gathol and compassion for her sons who are here enslaved, and this latter sentiment she has to some extent transmitted to U-Thor.  Aid me, therefore, in freeing the Princess Tara of Helium and I believe that I can aid you and her and myself to escape the city.  Bend close your ears, slaves of O-Tar, that no cruel enemy may hear my words,” and Gahan of Gathol whispered in low tones the daring plan he had conceived.  “And now,” he demanded, when he had finished, “let him who does not dare speak now.”  None replied.  “Is there none?”

“And it would not betray you should I cast my sword at thy feet, it had been done ere this,” said one in low tones pregnant with suppressed feeling.

“And I!” “And I!” “And I!” chorused the others in vibrant whispers.