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. But 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. 

Frightful jaws in front and a might, poisoned string behind made my relatively puny long-sword seem a pitiful defense indeed. Nor could I hope to escape the lightning-like movements or hide from these myriad faced eyes which covered three-fourths of the hideous head, permitting the creature to see in all directions at once.

To flee was useless, even if it had ever been to my liking to turn my back upon a danger; so I stood my ground, my only hope to die as i had always lived—fighting.