The Escape from Capoa Torem

“For fuck's sake…”

The words barely slipped through Reiker’s pursed lips as he was thrown into the corner of his small frozen jail cell. His tattered cloth robe, now the color of coagulated blood, was tied tightly around a mangled stump where his left arm should have been. The guards finally having enough of the inmate’s mouth decided he wouldn’t forget what it means to be a forgotten prisoner. Blood seeped like a viscus web through his tunicate, pooling into a scarlet mess under the man. Reiker had suffered at the hands of the mage guards before, the bandages on his face nearly fused to his skin were proof enough of that. Inmate or not, the guards of Capoa Torem were brutalizing bastards.

“That’s your last warning scum,” The burly prison guard who delivered Reiker to his cell said in an absolutely wretched tone. Spit flying from his freshly slashed jaw, a present Reiker gave him personally. “The next time you fuck up, I won’t leave you with a pulse.”

Earlier the anarchist had been found skulking around outside his cell, an act that the mage guards punished with swift and absolute justice. Even though he was unarmed and found in the latrine the guards didn't care. It was an excuse to have some fun, there was no order here, at least none the inmates could see. In the frozen wastes of Berevar there were many truths those who dare to call this land home live by, and the rats of Capoa Torem were no exception. The winds of the north bite harder than any man, It was far safer to live like a rat in a cage than to brave the frozen tundra. Reiker guessed that was their excuse to treat any of their prisoners like mange ridden mongrels, for they were the lesser of two evils.

Reiker peered over his hunch shoulder with bloodlust in his eyes, to the man, no to the monster who just stripped another layer of his humanity away. He would remember his face, from his broad nose to his widow's peak, the mage guard with a scarred jaw had signed his own death warrant. Through blood loss and gut-wrenching pain Reiker persevered, rising to his feet just as the prison guard slammed his cell door shut. No matter how long it might take, one-day Reiker would make him suffer. He glared daggers at his target, leaning through the frozen bars of his cell until he could see him no more.

Finally, he couldn’t hold back any longer and let lose a billowing wale as he clutched his bloody stump, his scream echoed through the entire seventh wing of Capoa Torem. Again he cried as he fell to his knees, his muscles in spasm and Reiker unable to fight it. This was their justice, those who think they are better than us. It didn't matter what he had done to be sent here, Reiker was less than human to the mages. Movement and hushed whispers filled the empty air. Like scavengers rats the inmates of Capoa Torem’s seventh wing gathered, malnourished and hungry, emerging from their cells one by one.

“The Butcher is coming, Reiker, hold on for just a bit longer.” a familiar but unknown voice said through the frozen wall to his right. “It's almost time…” Though his vision was growing dark as he struggled to remain conscious, a determined stare overcame the face as he reminded himself of the plan. Their plan to escape this godforsaken prison and the future they want to create.

A rhythmic clank-clank rang out through the block as Deef, still chained, stumbled towards Reiker’s cell. Over his shoulder, he carried a knapsack that shook with every step he took.

“Move, Mooks” Deef growled as he approached the guards. They backed away like obedient dogs, clearing the entryway to Reiker’s cell. Inside, the younger man had nearly lost consciousness. Deef raised an eyebrow as he triaged the situation. “Hmph.” The scene was exactly what he expected.

The burly surgeon dropped his knapsack to the ground, then started a small fire with some kindling he’d kept in his pocket. Working with the dexterity of a much younger man, Deef simultaneously sterilized a small shiv with his left hand while ripping a long strip of cloth from his tunic. Once the knife was sufficiently cleaned, Deef crawled over to Reiker. He turned the young man’s body onto his side with his stump situated above his heart. However, instead of cauterizing the wound with the knife and wrapping the stump with the cloth, Deef wrapped the cloth around Reiker’s neck and created a makeshift tourniquet.

At this point, the guards took note of the unconventional treatment for a relatively common occurrence around the prison and voiced their objections. “What are you doing? Just cauterize it and get back to your cell!”

In response, Deef threw them a look that would frighten even the bravest man. “Leave,” he grumbled, “before I use replace his arm with yours.” Any other inmate in Copoa Torem would have received a brutal beating for such a comment, but no one dared to cross the surgeon. The two guards briefly looked at each other. They locked Deef in the cell with Reiker, and then bolted down the corridor. Hearing this, a low grumble rang out through the cell. “Gorgol, gorgol, gorgol” the prisoners repeated.

Ignoring the praise, Deef turned back to Reiker. He placed another small stick into the human’s mouth and said, “Bite this. If you pass out, you die.” Reiker looked surprised, but he gave a small nod. Then Deef got to work.

Deef opened his knapsack. Within it were the severed right arms of all the recently diseased prisoners who were awaiting cremation in the prison morgue, all on ice. The surgeon spent several minutes sizing the arms and visually comparing them to Reiker’s body before deciding upon the perfect fit. He threw the rest of them fire to sustain it throughout procedure. Overtime, the smell became noxious.

What followed was a masterpiece of amateur surgery. In a little over 4 hours, Deef successfully attached the replacement arm to Reiker’s stump, connecting veins, arteries, muscles and tissues with just a shiv. Reiker periodically screamed in pain, but his voice was quickly drowned in chants of “Gorgol” from the other prisoners.

Once Deef finished, he sat next to Reiker. Reiker, still laying on his side, slowly raised his newly attached arms and moved his fingertips. “Why?” he asked the surgeon.

“Because I know who you are,” Deef whispered, “And I know what you’re doing.” Deef reached into his back pocket and pulled out a small piece of paper. He handed it to Reiker. “Take this” he said, still at a whisper.

“What is it?” Reiker asked.

Deef did not answer. The paper contained a way for them to contact each other. It was a code that Deef developed that involved walking in such a matter that caused their chains to make different noises. If Reiker could not figure it out, then he was not worth any more of the surgeon’s time.

“Don’t take that off,” Deef eventually said in much louder tone and oddfully glee tone, pointing at the cloth wrapped around the younger man’s arm. “If it gets dirty, it’ll get infected and you die. Actually…” he paused, “you’re probably going to die anyway because there’s like a 4/5 chance your donor’s blood type is different than yours.” Deef shrugged and stood up. “I’m done here,” the surgeon said, tapping at the cell door. Eventually, the guards returned and opened the cell.

As Deef left, the same clank-clank from before became fainter and fainter. The guards locked Reiker’s door and starred in disbelief. Reiker had a fully functioning arm, and his cell was surprisingly clean. The fire was out and the noxious smell from the burning human arms had dissipated. The ice from the knapsack had melted, washing away most of what was surely a bloody ordeal down into Reiker’s toilet hole. Eventually, the clank-clank was gone.