The Kwisling [The Isbjørn book 2]

Three

"The Kwisling? That's what they're calling me?"

Luce shrugged, simply repeating what he had heard. "Why, does it mean something?"

"Yeah, traitor." John had no right to be hurt about his new title since it was entirely accurate. He had betrayed his country, his nation; in a war against maltecessor he had chosen to side against his own race. Kwisling indeed, John was the ultimate betrayer of his people- and he had no regrets. "But THE kwisling, that's kind of other kill. I'm not the first person to sympathize with maltecessors and I'm definetly not the only one fighting alongside them."

They walked in prolonged silence up the dirt road. John took to glancing at the trees. He had missed a mere month of summer and suddenly the world smelled of fall. Leaves were falling brown and orange. There was still some heat to the air, but not the 80 and 90 degree temperatures he would have expected. "How much further is this place?" Walking even with his cane he was not steady.

Getting off early meant a complete change of plan. "I know someone who lives not too far from here."

There was a hesitation in his voice that was impossible to miss. "I get a sense that there's supposed to be a but in there somewhere."

"But..." He flagged a look up and down John's entire frame. "...he's not expecting us."

"He doesn't like suprises?"

Luce's eyes fixed on the shape of a town coming into view. Heathers was one of those shot gun towns. One stop shopping surrounded by homes that seemed to appear over night. "He doesn't like suprises."

For Luce, Heathers was a splinter under his skin, a burning headache behind his eyes. He knew the crooked roads better than he cared to admit. Heathers was a maze of narrow winding streets, as complex as the place it held in his heart. When evening rolled around, the street-lamps were aglow. For a time, Luce recalled the way the sun burned red as it set on summer evenings years ago when he roamed the shops his hand curled around someone he once held very dear. He could have walked with his mind adrift forever until John's offstep burst the memory. Then all at once it is just the old town again, the bricks and passing people grumbling in Tiguan.

The footsteps against cobble stone was a consistent and dull pounding that let the casual observer know the town was alive.

The town itself looked impressive. With pine wood rooftops, stone and cement walls, and tin pipes that released a wood smoke aroma into the early evening air. Heathers was positioned over the Barring Bay offering amazing sunset views.

"Not a bad looking place," John grumbled from behind.

Luce turned, realizing John was falling back. He was slow, walking on legs still unfamilar with pacing anywhere outside a small space. Carrying his own luggage, Luce retraced his steps to take on some of John's load.

After weaving through the labyrinth of roads, the paths eventually ended and unveiled a line of stacked apartments. "This is it," Luce assured John. He had done his best to keep up and was still quite slow.

By the time they reached the stairs, John was walking like his limbs did not belong to him; each step was a negotiation rather than an order. He would not admit it, but everything hurt. Every damn thing. His body was not used to walking any amount of distance.

Luce followed John up the stairs to the apartments, ready to catch him in case he fell back. Every step was a different height from the last, making it impossible to properly judge how high to lift his foot. Either it was too short and he stumbled forward or he kicked the step lip with his following foot. Had they been anything but metal it might not have been so bad.