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  BARSOOM  FROM THE AIR
  ®
  THE AIRSHIP QUAYS
  THE FORBIDDEN LAND
  THE GHOST OF THROXUS
  THE CARRION CAVES
  
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  BARSOOM® FROM THE AIR
  A barren landscape stretches as far as the eye can see. In the 
  distance, mountains grow tall and stark. Wind and time have 
  sculpted their slopes and faces into phantasmagoric shapes 
  thrown into sharp relief by sunlight and deep shadow. At their 
  base, a tumble of foothills leads out to a plain scarred by arroyos 
  that have been dry for millennia. Here and there, pits and circu-
  lar basins pock the face of the desert. As the sun shifts, outcrops 
  of quartz spark like muzzle ﬂ ashes. There is no water here. Only 
  the crawling, ever-present yellow moss suggests life is possible.
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  THE AIRSHIP QUAYS
  The docks teem with activity. Just inside the city wall, the military 
  quays rise to a height of ﬁ fteen hundred feet. These are the berths 
  of the naval airships that ply Barsoomian’s sky and safeguard the 
  nation’s interests aboard. Beyond and beneath these, towards the 
  city’s heart, are the freight and passenger wharfs. Here, the mer-
  chant squadrons of inﬂ uential trading families load and disgorge 
  their riches while the packet ships carry travellers and mail to their 
  varied destinations. Where the ﬁ ligree lattices of the naval quays are 
  orderly and precise, the robust mercantile jetties and landing stages 
  are a swirl of colorful commotion.
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  THE FORBIDDEN LAND
  The sheer brilliance of the glacier is dazzling. Its vast expanse of 
  ice extends to the distant mountains, glittering like powdered 
  diamond. In various places jagged rocks thrust up from the 
  frigid plain, their black outlines severe against the whiteness of 
  the snow. Chill blue shadows, almost invisible from the ice-bar-
  rier, hint at where crevasses gape, ready to swallow the unwary. 
  Cold nips the skin, freezing out all sense of smell as a bitter gust 
  raises ice-devils from the snowﬁ eld. Nothing else moves in this 
  dead landscape. Then, at the edge of vision, strange centaur-like 
  creatures move into view.
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  THE GHOST OF THROXUS
  Everywhere Barsoom’s landscape is a relic of the past. The north-
  ern hemisphere is no exception. Throxus, the mightiest of Bar-
  soom’s ﬁ ve oceans, covered the planet from Horz to the equator 
  and reached perhaps as far as the Artolian Hills. Its phantom still 
  haunts Barsoom. Green Martians hunt amongst wind-honed reefs 
  of prehistoric coral. Wild banths stalk their prey across undulating 
  lowlands shaped by wave and water. Herds of thoats and zitidars 
  roam uplands that were formerly sloping shores. And in the eerie 
  canyons of parched submarine trenches, white apes hunt their prey. 
  It is not a place to venture alone. 
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  THE CARRION CAVES
  The cavemouth yawns, exhaling an unpleasant sigh ripe with putre-
  faction. A dribble of foetid matter runs from its stone lip, carrying 
  rags of skin and tattered cloth. Inside, the stench is overwhelming. 
  Dead bodies ﬁ ll the cave. They lie jumbled and half-frozen, their 
  ﬂ esh blackened or blued with decay and sloughing from the bones. 
  Many are swollen to grotesque proportions, their faces horribly 
  distended, their lips peeled back in one awful grimace after another. 
  Some have ruptured, spilling entrails and ichor. Most appalling of 
  all, many are half-eaten, their clothing and harnesses chewed away 
  by whatever carrion-eaters dwell deeper in the caves.
  
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  THE PIT OF TJANATH
  LAND OF BLOOD AND ICE
  THE AIRSHIP’S DECK
  ARENA OF DEATH!
  AAANTHOR’S AVENUE OF QUAYS
  
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  THE PIT OF TJANATH
  The echoing roar of the river ﬁ lls the colossal cave and reverber-
  ates down a passage plunging deeper into the earth. All around, 
  the rock sweats coldly. A dank, musty odour rarely sensed on 
  Barsoom ﬁ lls the air. It would be impossible to ﬁ nd an escape if 
  not for the countless radium particles glittering in the cavern 
  walls. Their wan light shines on a shore that edges the river 
  in a jumble of rocky masses and sliding shale. Pale vegetation 
  crouches over the path, ﬁ lling the air with strange scents. Up 
  ahead, a huge white lizard moves with the sound of steel on 
  stone.
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  LAND OF BLOOD AND ICE
  Blood spatters the snow, crimson on white. The beast’s howl 
  thunders in the narrow, frozen deﬁ le, cracking the ice with 
  its fury. Its hot, stinking breath billows, clouding vision and 
  turning the stomach. Rock shudders and a ﬁ ne grit ﬁ lls the 
  trembling air. Above, the setting sun transforms the sky into a 
  raw, open wound. The creature stamps, shaking the earth. Claws 
  tear at the ground as it turns its terrible face and snarls. There 
  is blood everywhere: on the snow, on torn ﬂ esh, on the beast’s 
  fangs, and in the sky. This is a land of blood and ice.
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  THE AIRSHIP’S DECK
  The airship heels to port, striking the enemy vessel a grinding 
  blow. Wood splinters. Metal shrieks. Locked together like lovers, 
  the two ships become one curve of sweeping deck. The air is ac-
  rid with smoke from burning skeel. Fire blooms, blasting a cabin 
  to pieces. Sorapus debris clatter down and the air is suddenly 
  sharp with splinters. Flames leap from ship to ship, crackling 
  into the upper works. A dull concussion somewhere below caus-
  es the deck to tilt eccentrically. Carborundum aluminum struts 
  wail in protest. The buoyancy tanks have ruptured! Inexorably, 
  the airships began a slow, spiral tumble to their doom.
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  ARENA OF DEATH!
  Like an enormous crater, the arena appears punched into the 
  earth. Its tiers of seats gather at the rim like ejected matter, 
  climbing in ranks to shadow the killing ﬂ oor. Parts of the sta-
  dium have collapsed. Its sand is strewn with blocks of toppled 
  masonry and darkly stained. Crude repairs have shored up walls 
  with reclaimed stone, ribs of airships, and sorapus timber torn 
  from who knows where. Lining the arena and preventing any 
  escape are wooden trellises reinforced with stakes and metal 
  talons. They jangle on corroded chains. Above them, savage 
  thoat-skin banners stir in a ﬁ tful breeze. 
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  AAANTHOR’S AVENUE OF QUAYS
  From the empty plaza, a broad thoroughfare leads directly to the 
  ancient quays. It is lined with monoliths. Many remain vertical; oth-
  ers have fallen across the boulevard or crashed backwards, smashing 
  through the palaces behind. Time has done little to dull the beauty 
  of the stone and, upright or prone, the monoliths shine richly, 
  vermilion and sapphire, amber and aquamarine. It is dif  cult to 
  imagine the city populated with thousands of Barsoomians all going 
  about their daily business: trading, conversing, laughing. Now noth-
  ing disturbs the melancholy silence of this vast, redundant seaport 
  but the soft susurration of its iridescent dust.
  
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  THE CITY OF MORBUS
  THE RUINS OF THARK
  THE RAVINES OF MARS
  SAVAGE BARSOOM®
  WAR IN THE AIR
  
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  THE CITY OF MORBUS
  The city is an anomaly. Surrounded by the ﬁ lthy morass of the Toono-
  lian Marshes, with their sluggish, viscous waterways, mud ﬂ ats, and 
  evil-smelling reedbeds, it appears pristine. Its white walls, with their 
  square-cut crenellations and skeel gates, protect a small metropolis of 
  unadorned symmetrical buildings laid out with scientiﬁ c precision. 
  There is little to indicate their purpose. Several have chimneys, a sight 
  rare on Barsoom, which adds to the mystery of their function. Around 
  the city, and contrasting with its immaculate appearance, is a pestilence 
  of temporary dwellings, hastily erected and squalid. What circumstances 
  gave rise to such a contrast is intriguing.
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  THE RUINS OF THARK
  Jutting from the red sands, the ruins of a magniﬁ cent, antique 
  city stand white against Barsoom’s cobalt sky. The ﬁ ne angles 
  of its towers and porticos, its buttresses and entablatures, have 
  been softened by time. Much of it is ruined, its ﬂ uted pillars laid 
  out among the tumbled stonework, or broken into massive frag-
  ments of dressed stone. Elsewhere, its palaces and public build-
  ings defy the centuries, proud in the face of decay. Shadowy 
  doorways lead to dark interiors and enclosed courts or open into 
  sunlit squares scattered with debris. The city holds its breath, 
  tense with an air of expectancy.
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  THE RAVINES OF MARS
  The ravine cuts a ragged gash through the plateau. Keen red 
  rocks protrude like spears, snagging cloaks and harnesses, slic-
  ing ﬂ esh. Progress is a painfully slow slog through variegated 
  patches of harsh sunlight and deep shadow. Bestial growls 
  rumble along the deﬁ le, or issue from crevices leading oﬀ  into a 
  labyrinth of clefts and ﬁ ssures. The land is so fragmented here 
  that it is dif  cult to determine the source of the sounds. White 
  apes are known to roam these rifts, the nooks and overhangs an 
  approximation of the ruins they prefer. A bellow rolls out. Up 
  ahead? Behind? Somewhere above? 
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  SAVAGE BARSOOM®
  This is no place to ﬁ ght a battle. The ground shelves unevenly, 
  descending in a stairway of precarious ledges and slopes. 
  Treacherous with scree, they threaten to turn a warrior’s ankle 
  or betray a riposte and cost a life. Warfare on Barsoom is never 
  simply a case of one ﬁ ghting man against another; it requires an 
  awareness of the planet itself: its immeasurable age and eroded 
  geology, the vagaries of its terrain, its capricious air currents, 
  and the sudden dangers of its teetering ruins. To ﬁ ght on Bar-
  soom is to combat the world itself, armored with knowledge and 
  armed with experience.
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  WAR IN THE AIR
  The sapphire sky is a battleﬁ eld. Mighty navies ranked in air-
  ships discharge their radium cannonades. The air screams with 
  projectiles. Moments pass, and it is stunned by the dull applause 
  of their concussion. Hulls buckle. A geyser of ﬂ ame sends men 
  screaming. Some fall and writhe, beating at the blaze enfold-
  ing them. Others tumble from the deck, whirling like seeds to 
  the ground below. Acrid smoke burns the lungs. Vision blurs. 
  Between the vermilion sands of Mars and the ultramarine sky 
  above, there is a line of ﬁ re in which men and ships go whirling 
  to destruction.
  
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  THE MOUNTAINS OF TORQUAS
  IN THE SHADOW OF THE AIRSHIP
  AMONG THE RUINS
  GREATER HELIUM
  BARSOOMIAN FARMS
  
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  THE MOUNTAINS OF TORQUAS
  Oddly geometric, the Mountains of Torquas rise almost vertically 
  from bare, open country. Sliced and carved by millennial winds, 
  they resemble the building blocks of a gargantuan child fresh from 
  its egg, or a soaring vertical city in which one dwelling is piled upon 
  another without thought for space or sanity. Time’s indefatigable 
  ﬁ ngers have clawed lightless windows and doorways into the par-
  ent rock, opening cracks wide as streets and hollowing out strange 
  piazzas and arcades. If there is a population here, it is furtive and 
  devious, moving invisibly through its darkened chambers or stealing 
  mutely across its open courts.
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  IN THE SHADOW OF THE AIRSHIP
  The airship drifts soundlessly, its motors stilled, navigating 
  a low incline on a favorable thermal. Thuria and Cluros are 
  absent, leaving a scattering of stars to light its way. Only its 
  shadow betrays its presence, a patch of darkness deeper than the 
  indigo twilight, moving frictionlessly over the ground. Like an 
  assassin, it slips past the sentries, striking towards the heart of 
  the encampment. A particularly attentive guard might hear the 
  faint scuﬀ  of leather on skeel, or detect the jingle of an unse-
  cured harness, but nothing would prepare him for the sudden 
  battle-cry that heralds a devastating volley of radium ﬁ re.
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  AMONG THE RUINS
  The workmanship is exquisite. No doubt manufactured in Helium 
  or Ptarth, the monocular ﬁ eld glass brings the citadel into focus. 
  Clearly, the building was once beautiful. Its white walls are still 
  ﬁ ligreed with gold high up, beyond the grasp of any avaricious green 
  Martian. Why no one has pilfered its precious metal from the safety 
  of a ﬂ yer is a mystery until the ﬁ eld glass spies two hulking shapes 
  moving past the arched windows. White apes. They have made this 
  elegant residence their lair. Patience and closer inspection reveal 
  more of the creatures gathered on the building’s upper ﬂ oor. What 
  strange impulse has drawn these beasts together? 
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  GREATER HELIUM
  The pinnacle of red Martian culture and power, Greater Helium 
  gathers around a mile-high scarlet tower. The city is graceful and 
  sophisticated, glorious and proud. From the Gate of Jeddaks along 
  the Avenue of Ancestors to the Temple of Reward where Helium 
  honors its heroes, the city bustles with activity. A colorful pageant of 
  merchants, warriors, nobility, and craftsmen throng its streets, ﬁ ll-
  ing the air with the babble of commerce, political debate and social 
  intercourse. Helium’s military might is readily apparent. Barrack 
  complexes are located throughout the city, aerial docks rise over the 
  public buildings, and its vast navy clouds the sky. 
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  BARSOOMIAN FARMS
  Like a ﬂ ower blooming in the desert, the farmland brings a riot 
  of color to an otherwise drab range of red stone and ochre moss. 
  Crops grow in serried ranks in ﬁ elds neatly walled and irrigated. 
  Trees, tall and meticulously arranged, provide shade to the most 
  vulnerable harvests. Among the ﬁ elds, sturdy enclosures house 
  small herds of thoats, likely bred for their meat but producing 
  valuable fertilizer. Low buildings border the ﬁ elds, some still 
  raised on their slender metal columns in the morning light. 
  Splendid in its isolation, the homestead bustles with activity, its 
  indentured laborers already hard at work.
  
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  THE FROZEN ARMY OF PANAR
  THE DOMED CITY OF MARENTINA
  THE COURT OF ISSUS
  THE GREAT TOONOLIAN MARSHES
  THE VALLEY DOR
  
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  THE FROZEN ARMY OF PANAR
  The horror begins at the ice-wall. Men, numberless and naked, 
  are frozen into the barrier. Perfectly preserved, they stare sight-
  lessly from the wall, their mouths open in a rictus of pain, their 
  hands twisted into claws by the cold agony of their imprison-
  ment. Further on, a worse abomination is spread across the 
  snowﬁ eld. As far as the eye can see, there are rank upon rank 
  of human corpses suspended by their feet from long metal 
  frames. Each body is sheathed in a veneer of ice, its blind eyes 
  frosted, its teeth yellow between blackened lips. This is either a 
  grotesque parlour or something much, much worse.  
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  THE DOMED CITY OF MARENTINA
  The domed city of Marentina rises from the Okarian iceﬁ elds 
  like a bubble in a sea of foam. It is resplendent in the sunlight, 
  its crystal shell unmarred by snow or scratch. In the cold wastes, 
  the city seems impossibly lush. The angles of its buildings are 
  rounded by cascades of ﬂ owering vines and towering sompus 
  canopy groves of pimalia and usa. Its cultivated avenues and 
  lanes are rich with ochre moss, allowing the city’s ground ﬂ yers 
  to move almost soundlessly. They circulate around Marentina’s 
  atmosphere plant, a great, artiﬁ cial lung breathing for its people.
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  THE COURT OF ISSUS
  The Court of Issus! All the riches of Barsoom are hoarded here. 
  Within its walls of burnished gold, columns in the likeness of 
  trees support a ceiling jewelled with constellations picked out 
  in diamond, ruby, sapphire and emerald. Laid in squares of 
  andesine and basalt, the ﬂ oor recalls the Jetan-ﬁ elds of Mana-
  tor. The similarity is entirely appropriate for it is here that the 
  Goddess of Death and Eternal Life plays the greatest game of 
  all: manipulating the faithful to her own advantage. She perches 
  on a bench of carved sorapus, a twisted hag made uglier by the 
  beauty around her.
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  THE GREAT TOONOLIAN MARSHES
  The last dregs of a wide, shallow sea, the Great Toonolian 
  Marshes reach to the horizon. Their blank immensity is broken 
  by low rocky islands that rise from the swamp like rotten teeth 
  from a leprous jaw. Thin, slow-moving rivers and muddy lakes 
  form a labyrinth of waterways green with algae. A sickly-looking 
  sedge clings to the margins of the streams, trailing yellow ﬁ n-
  gers in the listless current. Sallow grasses clump on mudbanks 
  that exhale foul-smelling gases. Water surges suddenly, and the 
  scaled ﬂ ank of a large aquatic creature rolls beneath the surface. 
  Desolate though they are, the marshes are far 
  from lifeless.
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  THE VALLEY DOR
  The tunnel under the Golden Cliﬀ s ends at a dramatic, rocky 
  archway, disgorging the river into a tremendous lake. As if 
  cupped in a giant’s palm, the fabled Lost Sea of Korus is bor-
  dered by the looming Otz Mountains, their snow-capped peaks 
  stark against the azure sky. Between the shores of the lake and 
  the upper slopes of the mountains, gently sloping meadows of 
  short crimson grass lead to a thick forest of gigantic trees. Huge 
  blossoms ornament their branches, stirred occasionally by the 
  ﬂ ight of furtive, winged creatures. Something moves amongst 
  the boles, a ripple of blue skin and black hair.
  
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  THE GUARDIAN OF THE NORTH
  HALLWAYS RUN WITH BLOOD
  ZODANGA
  ABOARD THE CRUISER
  WARHOON
  
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  THE GUARDIAN OF THE NORTH
  Striking up from Barsoom’s magnetic pole, the Guardian of the 
  North spears the sky. In the bright, artic light, its ominous black 
  shaft inscribes a fell shadow on the landscape, sweeping Kadabra 
  and its precincts like the gnomon of a malevolent sundial. At its base 
  are the hulks of innumerable ﬂ yers – cruisers and dreadnoughts, 
  merchantmen and pleasure craft – one wreck piled upon another to 
  create a talus of twisted metal and splintered wood. Their faded pen-
  nons, ﬂ uttering weakly, bear the colors of Helium, Zodanga, Ptarth, 
  Toonol and Gathol. Whatever unknown force has drawn these ves-
  sels to disaster appears indiscriminate and irresistible.
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  HALLWAYS RUN WITH BLOOD
  The palace is wrapped in darkness. Folds of shadow run thick 
  along its corridors and gather in its unlit chambers. Pedestals 
  and statues loom ominously, their outlines vague and tenebrous. 
  A night breeze whispers along hushed passages, brushing the 
  skin like a caress and insinuating itself as a whisper in the ear. It 
  troubles the air, bringing with it the copper tang of blood. Two 
  guards are dead beneath a sun in splendour. Red drops cover its 
  face like blisters and spot the white marble where the dead men 
  lie. They have been struck down decisively and silently, without 
  a struggle. 
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  ZODANGA
  Fear or prudence built Zodanga. Its walls, constructed from 
  monolithic blocks of shimmering carborundum, reach seventy-ﬁ ve 
  sofads in height. Fifty sofads thick, they house a warren of barracks, 
  magazines and armories. Protected by this mighty structure, the 
  city gathers around a central plaza almost three haads square. It is 
  bordered by the royal palace, the villas of the nobility, and Zodanga’s 
  main public buildings. Between the walls and this exclusive area are 
  a maze of cramped streets and airless courts where the city’s poor 
  rub shoulders with thieves and the agents of Barsoom’s assassin’s 
  guilds. Guarded against threats from without, Zodanga breeds her 
  own threats within.
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  ABOARD THE CRUISER
  The deck shifts as the cruiser’s buoyancy tanks lift her into Bar-
  soom’s clear skies. She’s a ﬁ ne vessel, and the sudden exhilara-
  tion of ﬂ ight makes her seem all the more wondrous. Her prow 
  describes a slow arc, moving like a compass needle until it ﬁ xes 
  on her destination. She is all sleek lines and polished skeel, an 
  airborne sculpture dedicated to speed. Rapid ﬁ re radium guns 
  bristle fore and aft, and her low gunwales are punctuated with 
  compact emplacements. At a word from her helmsman, her 
  woodwork thrills to the stuttering chop of her rotors and she 
  leaps forward into the void.
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  WARHOON
  Few of Barsoom’s ancient cities have fallen as far as Warhoon. 
  Its ﬁ ne walls are stained black with smoke. Several of its tow-
  ers have been gutted by ﬁ re. Filth lines its thoroughfares. The 
  trophies of a savage tribe hang from makeshift scaﬀ olds or swing 
  suspended from crude hooks driven into stone. Flayed skins 
  ripple and snap on chains slung over piers of broken masonry. 
  Bones bleach beside corroded armor. The bodies of many Mar-
  tians, red and green, are piled together without ceremony. Most 
  are missing heads and hands. For a moment, the city is still as a 
  mausoleum, then a ferocious howl tears the silence.
  
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  LESSER HELIUM
  KOBOL
  LOTHAR
  ON MIGHTY WINGS
  THE BEAUTY OF PTARTH
  
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  LESSER HELIUM
  Lesser Helium’s yellow tower is as tall as its red sister in Greater 
  Helium, though more delicate and ﬁ nely tapered to af  rm the city’s 
  lower status. It soars skyward over one of Barsoom’s most reﬁ ned 
  urban centers. Streets and boulevards radiate from its founda-
  tion in expanding circles of villas, mansions, temples and emporia 
  like ripples in a pond. The air rings with the peal of armorers and 
  weapon-smiths, the call of priests, and the cries of traders dealing in 
  soft silks, subtle perfumes, and ﬁ nely-made harnesses for highborn 
  warriors and princesses. At night, the sounds of commerce fall 
  silent, replaced by music and merriment.
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  KOBOL
  As incongruous as a wart on the bosom of a red princess, the bombed-
  out shell of Kobol disﬁ gures a clean breadth of dead sea bottom. 
  Since the city was razed by Helium’s navy, its surviving population 
  has struggled to restore their city. Tent villages occupy its old squares 
  and plazas, ﬁ lling the air with the smell of cooking, sweat, and ordure. 
  Artisans – stonemasons, carpenters and metalworkers – make these 
  their home, striking out in well-armed parties to renovate and rebuild. 
  They risk everything. Kobol’s scorched and shattered buildings are 
  nests to ulsios and green Martian renegades. White apes have colo-
  nised its margins, seizing the unwary.
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  LOTHAR
  The forest ends at a treeless plain on which a walled city rears its 
  palaces and temples. Unlike most red Martian cities, which are 
  of white stone, the slender spires and minarets of Lothar form a 
  brightly colored kaleidoscope. Archers patrol its cerulean walls, 
  moving along ramparts linking its scarlet barbican to towers of 
  mauve and aquamarine. Not a single reﬂ ection glints from their 
  arms or harnesses. At the city gates, guardsmen stand watch, 
  their spears strangely dull in the sunlight. There is something 
  peculiar about Lothar and its people; they seem both present 
  and absent, part of the world yet unaﬀ ected by it.
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  ON MIGHTY WINGS
  At this height, Barsoom appears like a sheet of parchment, aged 
  to a dusky amber and crumpled carelessly. Written on and writ-
  ten over for millions of years, its surface is punctuated with the 
  wreckage of fallen civilisations. White cities, eroding in the grip 
  of time, form geometric patterns, their dotted lines tracing the 
  coasts of vanished seas. Herds of thoats move across wide, ochre 
  spaces. In their wake, they leave faint, linear designs, uncertain 
  tracings soon erased by the wind. Two armies ﬂ ow together like 
  sand poured over wet ink, their ﬁ ghting men no more signiﬁ -
  cant than each lost grain.
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  THE BEAUTY OF PTARTH
  Ptarth’s true beauty is most apparent at twilight. As the sun 
  sinks beyond Duhor and the sky darkens to purple, the city 
  sparkles with myriad lights. Its palaces, shops, and houses 
  rise silently on their metal shafts and, for a magic moment, it 
  appears that the whole city is ascending to the heavens. Gold 
  gleams on the spires of its temples and minarets, and shines on 
  the whorls of its unique, spiral towers. A homage to the wonders 
  of Barsoom’s lost oceans, these stately buildings recall the heli-
  cal shells of extinct sea-creatures and contain apartments for 
  Ptarth’s scholars and scientists.
  
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  IN THE PITS
  THE RIVER ISS
  TOONOL
  THE DEAD OF MANATOR
  THE CITY OF HORZ
  
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  IN THE PITS
  Dimly lit by low-powered radium bulbs, the pits are a warren of 
  cells, antechambers, narrow passageways, and sudden, decep-
  tive ramps. Tall pillars cast barred shadows making the area 
  appear as a single, labyrinthine cell. The dirt ﬂ oor, pounded ﬂ at 
  by aeons of stumbling feet, show the marks of other prisoners. 
  Arrows and instructions are scratched into its anonymous dust, 
  signs of optimism and the hope of escape. They all lead not to a 
  way out, but to the bones of their authors lying dull in the murk. 
  Other marks surround the skeletons: the unmistakable script 
  left by the many paws of the ulsio.
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  THE RIVER ISS
  The river ﬂ ows without a ripple, an uncanny, serpentine waterway 
  that has carved out a deep, meandering valley unhurried and unob-
  structed for aeons. Cold and leaden, it passes between banks littered 
  with the abandoned rafts of pilgrims who sought eternity and found 
  nothing but death. The bleached bones of the faithful clutter the 
  shores, yellowed oﬀ erings to the goddess Issus. In places, the Iss 
  ﬂ ows beside titanic shrines cut into the valley walls or erected from 
  cyclopean blocks and adorned with sculptures both wondrous and 
  awful. Dark and mysterious, the river runs forever southward, bear-
  ing the exhausted and the lost down to paradise.
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  TOONOL
  Isolated by geography and the obsessive distrust of its people for 
  their fellow Barsoomians, Toonol is nevertheless an attractive city, 
  clean and ordered. It appears more so for its proximity to the Great 
  Toonolian Marshes, which lie like a stinking door mat to the west. 
  Architecturally, Toonol favors a bare, simple style which contrasts 
  with that of other Martian cities. There are no extravagant ﬂ our-
  ishes here, no cupolas or ﬂ uted towers, nor are there any temples. It 
  is a sober, slightly sombre place, brightened by the laughter of tiny 
  ﬁ gures wheeling on gossamer wings above its spires, their equilibri-
  motors propelling them through the sky. 
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  THE DEAD OF MANATOR
  The dead do not lie down in Manator. Instead they stand, in full 
  regalia, in palaces and temples, villas and estates, their blank eyes 
  regarding a city thinly populated by nobles and slaves. Taxidermy is 
  Manator’s peculiarity, and the ghoulish preservation of corpses in a 
  semblance of life deﬁ nes its character. Its citizens, indolent by habit, 
  lavish attention on their departed kin. They buy them exquisite har-
  nesses or tapestries. They carry them to the jetan ﬁ elds and consult 
  them on aﬀ airs of family and state. Manator’s aristocracy have kept 
  the past alive more eﬀ ectively than any other Barsoomian race. It is 
  their particular madness.
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  THE CITY OF HORZ
  From Horz, their proud capital, the Orovars calculated lines of 
  latitude and longitude, dividing the planet to better navigate 
  its ﬁ ve oceans. It seems an act of hubris now, this mapping of a 
  world over which they had no real control. The seas are gone, 
  the Orovars’ ships are lost beneath the sands, and the prime me-
  ridian has moved to Exum on the equator. Horz is their tomb, 
  a terraced, mouldering metropolis that pursued the receding 
  waters until it fell exhausted into ruin. Only the splendid build-
  ings of its prime endure, perched on the lip of a vast plateau, the 
  lair of white apes, and worse.
  
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  THE DEAD SEA BOTTOMS
  ARTOLIAN HILLS
  U-GOR
  KORAD
  THE KAOLIAN FOREST
  
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  THE DEAD SEA BOTTOMS
  Between the continents of yellow-orange moss, lines of 
  footprints lead straight across the ﬂ at sea bottom. Stands of 
  mantalia have been shouldered aside and their broken trunks 
  weep thin milk into the hungry earth. The rocks are slick with 
  it, and its evaporation leaves a bitter tang in the breathless air. A 
  green Martian war-party came this way, showing all the rashness 
  of their species in their search for…what? Revenge? Hostages? 
  Spoils? Their tracks are mute, their motives obscure. Barsoom 
  is a world at war with itself and its pocked and tractless surface 
  bears the scars of generations marching into battle.
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  ARTOLIAN HILLS
  The ground rises steeply, ascending through a chain of low 
  foothills to a series of plateaux. These tablelands form a prelude 
  to high bluﬀ s leading upwards to a curtain of sheer-faced slopes. 
  Higher still, the Artolian Hills grow to bald mountains, some 
  crowned with snow as white as the hair on a great ape’s head. 
  Lines of shadow mark where trails zigzag down the gentler 
  slopes, cutting between the bluﬀ s like old scars. Whether these 
  paths are the result of primeval melt-water or the migration of 
  green Martian nomads, they provide a starting point for a route 
  through these awesome peaks.
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  U-GOR
  The land has been scoured clean of all vegetation save for some 
  blanched, withered weeds, nibbled to mere stumps. Not even 
  the hardy yellow moss that covers so much of Barsoom remains. 
  It is a desolate realm whose devastation blights the spirit. Mel-
  ancholy reminders of its past deepen the sense of loss. Farms 
  stand derelict, their ordered ﬁ elds dug up, their irrigation pipes 
  exposed and cracked. Skeletons of thoats lie in their pens and 
  litter the wasteland. A ﬂ yer, folded into ruin, is crumpled beside 
  the oddly stacked bones of its crew. Some power has devoured 
  all that this territory once could oﬀ er.
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  KORAD
  Away from the redundant harbor, the baking streets converge at 
  a plaza cluttered with the debris of a green horde on the move. 
  Across the litter of broken weapons, split harnesses, cold ashes, and 
  stinking hides, a magniﬁ cent marble ediﬁ ce glitters with gold and 
  precious minerals. Its broad entrance, canopied in matching stone, 
  oﬀ ers respite from the sun. Within, a slope leads up to an enor-
  mous circular chamber, its walls adorned with murals of primordial 
  Barsoom. Timeless rivers pass through green meadows. Oceans curl, 
  motionless waves never breaking on their sun-stained shores. Trees 
  bend and doze like children, careless of their fate.
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  THE KAOLIAN FOREST
  A tropical forest. On Barsoom. Like an emerald on the breast 
  of the dead sea bottoms, it is an astounding sight. It steams, 
  ﬁ lling the jungle glades with sweet-scented vapors. Unseen 
  creatures call from the canopy, their cries a symphony of grunts 
  and growls, snarls and shrieks, as predator and prey engage in 
  their eternal, deadly dance. A bass buzzing, as if of great wings, 
  strums the humid air, adding a strange, ambient tension. This is 
  Kaol: an immense wooded depression, isolated by broken hills 
  and waterless barrens, crossed by splendid roads leading from 
  city to city, and haunted by veiled dangers.
  
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  THE SEA OF OMEAN
  EXUM
  GOOLI ON OMPT
  GULF OF TORQUAS
  JHAMA
  
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  THE SEA OF OMEAN
  Enclosed in a cavern of titanic proportions, the Sea of Omean 
  stretches beyond eyesight until its margins are lost to night and 
  distance. The vaulting ceiling above is similarly obscured. Only 
  the slight phosphorescence of its islands and the lanterns of myri-
  ad ships restless on its surface make Omean appear any-thing less 
  than inﬁ nite. Caught in this bubble of blackness, the sea heaves 
  uneasily, lapping at isles and ships with waves like thick, slow 
  tongues. Pallid vegetation grows along the shorelines of the islets, 
  ethereal, colourless boughs drooping as though sick. All around, 
  oily shapes move sinuously in the waters. 
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  EXUM
  Clustered around a central core of spires shaped like fantastically 
  elongated fungi, Exum resembles no other red Martian outpost. Its 
  buildings ramble, lacking the clearly-deﬁ ned squares and courts of 
  larger settlements. They ﬂ ow into one another with an almost liquid 
  quality. It thrums with energy. The ground around the unwalled 
  station resonates sympathetically, sending vibrations up through 
  the soles of boots and sandals. Above, its huge ninth ray accumula-
  tor towers crackle. Sparks arc between the collectors, discharging 
  a sharp smell of ozone. A pneumatic hiss bursts from vents tucked 
  within the curves of parabolic arches. There is more to Exum than 
  Barsoom’s meridian.
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  GOOLI ON OMPT
  Sinking slowly into a mire, the village of Gooli is a huddle of 
  shabby grass huts thatched with the slimy reeds common to the 
  Toonolian Marshes. Outside each shack is a poorly-constructed 
  hearth, a scattering of battered pots, and some rough cooking 
  implements. Weeds, dead leaves, and matted grasses give the 
  hamlet an unkempt air, as if its inhabitants were too preoc-
  cupied, or too slovenly, to attend their own hygiene. Its squalor 
  contrasts with the unspoiled, rolling landscape, forests and clear 
  stream of the island it occupies. On approaching, an unwhole-
  some smell issues from the huts, redolent of rotting fruit.
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  GULF OF TORQUAS
  Like a grand processional way, the broad, ﬂ at-bottomed valley links 
  Torquas in the east to Xanator in the west. As with most of Bar-
  soom’s dead sea bottoms, it is carpeted abundantly with ochre moss. 
  The plant, scarcely touched by grazing or harvesting, creeps over 
  everything, softening and smoothing the arid, rocky terrain beneath. 
  Its spongy texture eases fatigue and uncounted haads pass without 
  notice. Nevertheless, the landscape’s monotony dulls the wits. It is 
  dif  cult to judge distances in this dreary expanse, and the eye seeks 
  always for variation: the rounded prow of a wrecked ﬂ yer, a cage of 
  giant ribs, a green movement on the horizon.
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  JHAMA
  Coral pink in the sunlight, the castle of Jhama is an oasis of beauty 
  in a sequence of low, unremarkable hills. Encircled by a formidable 
  wall, its elegant, ﬂ at-roofed structures are separated by open courts 
  and impeccable gardens. Tall, sculpted trees shade scarlet lawns laid 
  out between beds of nodding ﬂ owers. Weaving between the build-
  ings, meandering paths ring dry, antique fountains and statues made 
  featureless by time. Yet, despite its beauty, the estate is disconcert-
  ing. Its avenues are empty and its courtyards spectrally silent. Doors 
  are closed tight and windows shuttered. Either Jhama lives in fear, 
  or it has something to hide.
  
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  THE PRISON ISLE OF SHADOR
  XANATOR
  
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  THE PRISON ISLE OF SHADOR
  Glistening wetly in the phosphorescent darkness, the island is 
  little more than a barren bar of rock rising out of the Omean Sea 
  like the humped back of a prehistoric reptile. At its center squats 
  a rooﬂ ess building of grey ashlar, its thirty-sofad high walls 
  pierced by small rectangular windows barred with corroded 
  metal. Despairing cries issue from within, silenced by guttural 
  curses and the biting crack of a whip. From the island’s low 
  ridges, it is possible to view the prison’s general layout: a simple 
  quadrangle divided internally into several cells by walls twenty 
  sofads high. It is far from impregnable.
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  XANATOR
  The approach to the city from the sea must have been a wondrous 
  sight. Even now, its beacon-tower recalls the glories of a bygone age, 
  its corroded heights no less imposing in obsolescence. Long, low 
  wharfs extend their stony ﬁ ngers into the dry harbour and ﬁ nely-
  wrought warehouses oﬀ er mute testimony to Xanator’s seafaring 
  past. Inland, the streets climb higher, passing through stately temple 
  and palace districts, and dividing to circumscribe squares and plazas. 
  A grove of towers and minarets overlooks the harbor, perhaps for-
  mer homes to wealthy merchants and shipowners eager to see their 
  vessels hoving in to view. All are gone and only their dust remains.
  
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