The Earthman boldly stalked into the arena. Far up in the stands, he saw his prize: Ballista Thorax, Princess of Barstoolm. He had left one wife on Earth, and already had taken another in Helium, but Newt was not one to let a healthy, unclaimed princess go begging. To impress her, he must defeat all comers.

His current challenger was a tall Martian, green, the color of Earth money, with one head, two faces and dozens of arms. The challenge master, a red Martian, was introducing them. "From the cold of the NorthEast, I bring you Mittmentum, one of our green cousins, who will fight the pasty white stranger called Geengriiich."

Newt quickly drew his longsword and struck the challenge master with the flat of the blade. "I find it appalling that you would start this competition by mispronouncing my name." The crowd cheered because no one liked the red Martians anyway. They held high opinions of themselves, and often wrote of their importance, but were frankly more red than read.

Mittmentum appeared confused, stammering "I thought we were fighting ..." until Newt pivoted and faced his green foe. Mittmentum drew one small weapon, and took a short jab, but most of his arms now held dazzling shields. "I will inevitably defeat you," he said, "why not retire now and save yourself?"

Newt began to swing his mighty blade, but felt a small sting in the small of his back. Then another. Looking around he saw dozens of red Martians wearing belts with hundreds of darts. "Challenge Master!," he cried, "How many foes must I fight?"

Still smarting from Newt's blow, the Challenge Master replied, "These are not your foes. They are independent red Martians and may attack whomever they wish." He added dryly, "I can't imagine why they choose to attack you ..."

But during that brief exchange, Newt was struck dozens of times—small wounds—but each one cost him a trickle of precious blood. For a big man, Newt was comparatively bloodless. Newt began to get angry. The mostly green crowd cheered at his rage, but hardly any of the red Martians were throwing darts at Mittmentum.

Newt had spent years learning to sharpen his swords; learning when to thrust and when to parry. But he wasn't a great believer in personal armor. Real armor was heavy and made him sweat—so Newt resorted to imaginary armor.

"Those are not real blows," he shouted at the red Martians, even though their darts really did hurt. "You are obviously not as skilled in combat as me," he panted at Mittmentum. To the crowd he roared, "I must win this challenge. No one but I can defeat the Foostam Barack!"

Barack was the reigning Kaldane Warlord. All Kaldanes were cunning, which was not surprising since they were mostly head with six vestigial legs. Kaldanes depended on Rankors, dumb, headless beings that were easily controlled, for mobility and Phylons, the Martian plant men, for muscle. Being numerous, Rankors were easily discarded and replaced. With plenty of Rankors and the support of the Phylons, Barack had maintained a tenuous grasp of Barstoolm. He bent over backwards to appease the greens and the reds, but they were mostly unimpressed at the sight of another dumb Rankor obeying its head.

Even though he hadn't struck a real blow, Newt's bold claims energized the crowd. "Newt can defeat the Barack!" they shouted. "We are saved from the Chess player!" Mittmentum appeared to slow down, and fewer darts were finding their mark. Even Ballista fluttered a garland in his direction.

All Newt had to do now was figure out how to win the long game against a Kaldane and his army of Phylons.