The view is from the midst of a great forest, looking forward at an even greater mountain range. Among the foothills and cliffs lie dwellings of adobe and unmortared stone, long since fallen to ruin. Towering over them all is a colossus carved directly from the mountainside, easily 10 meters tall and far greater in proportion to the dwellings around it, portraying a greatly stylized figure seated on a throne. Its face and visible teeth suggest something like a possum, with a short snout and high brow that suggest the development of intellect. The throne it sits on is made entirely from the skulls of a kind of large rodent, all carved at a scale roughly life-sized. It is the Colossus of Far Maru, and the lore of the marginally sentient creatures dwelling in the forest tells that the purposefully defaced inscription beneath the figure’s feet once read THE UNCONQUERED KING.
No-Hands blinked at the sight of the drawing before his face as his consciousness returned. He had kept it with him since he had copied it from a scroll 500 years old in the greatest library of an empire across a great sea. It had been plain at a glance that it portrayed a member of his kind. A greatly corrupted copy of the same image, coupled with a few bones, had led a learned being to describe his species a half century before he himself had been found: Archididelphis invicta, or Unconquered King of the Possums. Now, he stuffed it hastily into his vest, and looked to the problem at hand.
His leg, that was more than trouble enough, pinned inside a vehicle that was itself pinned and crushed under a great boulder. He was lucky enough to have been hit by only the one. Many more tons of rock littered the landscape around him, all but blocking the path of the unseen killer he had followed to this place. Then again, he might have escaped wholly unscathed if he had not used a crucial moment to grab a sheaf of papers that included the drawing and an error-prone topographical map of the plateau and the surrounding wastes. He felt frustration but nothing like regret. In a hostile environment against a plainly deadly foe, it remained to be seen what would bring him victory. He had not yet conceded that other outcomes were possible.
As for the immediate problem, that was no problem at all, provided one admitted the only solution. He unscrewed two bolts that held the hook that replaced his right hand in place. In its place, he affixed a stout, forward-sweeping blade. Using his left foot as well as his single hand, he tightened his belt around his knee. Bare moments later, a roar sounded through the channels and canyons of the plateau.
A space between two boulders a dozen meters away gave shelter enough for No-Hands to finish the work. The trail of blood was sure to be followed, but he was confident that he would be on his way before that. A double-barreled shotgun he had carried with him was the best he had to work with, along with a saw recovered from a tool box mounted on the back of the crushed Bug. He had to saw off most of the stock and a good part of the barrel. The belt plus length of rope was enough to put what remained in place, while his cast-off left boot proved adequate to shield the muzzle and mechanism in case it was needed for its original purpose. Almost as an afterthought, he tied more of the rope around his waist in place of the belt, and ran a length of twine down to the trigger.
The approaching figure was all but silent, yet still cautious. The trail had been too clear for pursuit not to be expected. The improvised iron sight of a crossbow lined up with the space beneath two great boulders, only to be lowered again. In the near distance, the sound could still be heard of a single clopping boot and a lighter unshod foot retreating up a narrow path up the rock face to the plateau above.
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