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came to an open square, the female Tharks—dozens of them—stepped forward. One giant scowling female, whom Carter would come to know as Sarkoja, ordered them into two lines facing each other, roughly five feet apart.
    Then Tars Tarkas, leader of the Thark warriors, slashed out, cutting the baskets free from the pack thoat. The babies tumbled to the ground along with Carter, who grunted and lay still for a moment, dazed and stiff. As he watched, the babies reeled, staggered to their feet, and scampered into the gauntlet between the two lines of females.
    The females moved in, reaching for the babies. Some of the hatchlings squirmed and dodged away, scuttling and squirming with their four arms, while others allowed themselves to be scooped up. Several times, two females reached for the same baby and began to fight, grappling until one either fell or abandoned the struggle, turning her attention to a different child.
    Not for the first time, Carter wondered, where on Earth am I?
    One female—Sola—held back and failed to catch a child. The other women shouted at her, some of them holding out their newly adopted charges to taunt her. Sarkoja strode over to Sola, shoved her backward, and slapped her.
    Tars Tarkas stepped forward. “Sarkoja,” he called, in words that Carter would soon come to understand. “Enough!”
    Sarkoja glared at Tars. The other women stood in their lines watching the drama. One of them scooped up the last stray child.
    Then Sarkoja broke from the line and crossed to Carter, who still lay sprawled on the ground. She scooped him up and hurled him into the gauntlet. Helpless, he landed on the dirt in front of Sola, who had just pulled herself back to her feet.
    â€œSola can take the little white worm,” Sarkoja said.
    Sola looked down at Carter, her expression unreadable. Then she bent down, picked him up, and released him from his bindings. Her touch was softer than he’d expected. Her arms bore an intricate pattern of scars, a chaos of symbols burned and calloused over. The other Tharks, he’d noticed, all bore scarification, but Sola’s was by far the most extensive.
    â€œWhat happened to you?” he asked.
    â€œBe still.”
    Sarkoja snorted and led the other women away. Sola followed sheepishly, carrying Carter like a baby, past the assembled Tharks. Something metallic and shiny hung from one young warrior’s belt—
    The medallion. The ancient-looking artifact that had brought Carter to this strange land. He’d lost his grip on it, he realized, when he’d first tumbled down onto these red sands. This Thark warrior must have found it out near the incubator and snatched it up just before harvesting the babies.
    Carter leaped free of Sola’s grasp and slammed into the surprised warrior, knocking him into several of the others. As they howled in anger, Carter reached out and grabbed the medallion, snapping it free.
    Then, incredibly fast, three green arms grasped hold of him, pinning him to the ground. A fourth arm flashed a blade up under Carter’s neck, and the grim face of the grizzled, broken-tusked warrior glared down at him.
    The medallion slipped from Carter’s fingers.
    â€œNow we kill it,” the warrior said. A drop of spittle flecked his chipped tusk.
    â€œStep away, Tal Hajus.”
    Carter recognized Tars Tarkas’s voice by now, if not his words.
    Tal Hajus hauled Carter roughly to his feet. “You prize this more highly than my judgment?”
    The towering figure of Tars Tarkas appeared above Carter, right in Tal’s face. As Carter watched, their tusks locked together in a clear gesture of challenge, with Carter directly between them.
    â€œStep away,” Tars said slowly.
    Tal turned cold with anger. He pressed the blade against Carter’s neck. “I claim the right of challenge.”
    â€œAnd who supports your challenge?”
    Still holding the blade to Carter’s throat, Tal