Far to the north, in the frozen wastes of Polar Mars, lay the home of the Holy Therns, sacred and inviolate. Only John Carter dared to go there to find his lost Dejah Thoris. In between him and his goal lay the bones of all who had gone before.
“Imagine, if you can, a bald-faced hornet of your Earthly experience grown to the size of a prize Hereford bull, and you will have some faint conception of the winged monster that bore down upon me. To flee was useless, even if it had ever been to my liking to turn my back upon danger; so as I stood my ground, my only hope was to die as I had always lived — fighting.”
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