I’m within three yards of solid ground when a scream rends the air and I’m yanked backward. I land on Thyra’s squirming body as a terrible crackling sound echoes across the marsh.
“Mama!” shrieks a little boy. I turn to see him splashing, submerged to his chest. I roll off Thyra just as she lunges backward toward the shore and tries to brace her feet on a clump of grass, her slender fingers wrapped around the rope as she attempts to hold the line while the others move to pull the child out. But four more andeners fall through the ice, their faces white with fear. Several others are on their stomachs, arms spread wide as the ice cracks and shatters. Still tied to the rope, I’m pulled several feet away from the shore, icy water soaking my breeches. I can hear the crunch of boot steps and frantic shouting behind me as warriors rush forward to help, suddenly pulled from their boredom by the catastrophe playing out on the marsh. But they stay at the edge of the bog, afraid to be sucked down. Someone shouts for more rope to bridge the gap.
It won’t be soon enough for the andeners and their babies, though. Shrill wails and sobs drown out everything else.
“Find your footing and pull!” yells Thyra, even as her boots sink through the ice. She’s leaning back with all her might, her teeth clenched and mud-speckled water dripping from her hair. But her voice is lost in the noise. Half the line is at least up to their thighs in icy marsh water, and most of them look terrified to move for fear of sinking further, even though not moving means freezing to death. We’re not close enough to shore to get the help we need from the other warriors, and we’re not strong enough to pull all our andeners and their children to safety. My throat tightens as I watch Gry clutching tightly to her little boy, even as she sinks to her waist.
Deep inside me, something stirs, monstrous and unpredictable. I tense all my muscles, holding tight to the rope as I fight to keep the curse from breaking loose at the exact wrong moment. The memory of Hulda’s frozen eyes rises, a grisly specter inside my skull. My breath huffs from my mouth in a glitter of frost, and I whimper. My feet have broken through the ice, and frigid liquid permeates my boots. The rope vibrates beneath my palms with the struggle.
Thyra gasps as the marsh begins to take her. She’s still pulling on her rope, which is streaked with blood from her torn palms. She’ll hold on until the marsh devours her, just to give her people a chance to get to the other side. She glances over at me, her eyes shining with unbidden tears.
The wave of cold bursts from me, sudden and awful, and I grit my teeth to try to press it back inside, my every thought focused on keeping the curse from killing the innocents of my tribe.
“Oh, heaven,” murmurs Thyra as a muted crackling sound reaches me.
I open my eyes to see the frost creeping across the previously wet surface of the marsh. “No,” I whisper. But I can’t stop it, and I’m quickly growing tired of fighting it. The only thing that keeps me from letting go is the memory of Hulda’s clawed fingers, the way her mouth froze open in a silent scream. Any moment now, Gry will look that way. Thyra, too. I’m going to kill them all.
“All of you, come to me!” Thyra shouts, jarring me from my horror. “Come on,” she says, clutching at my shoulder. “If we get to shore, the others can help us pull them out.”
I blink my eyes open again, shivering and stunned. A thick layer of ice has formed along the top of the marsh, and those who fell in are climbing out onto the newly stable ground. The frozen crust of it beneath me trembles as our people crawl to safety, pulling themselves up from the marsh’s black mouth and across its deadly skin toward the rocky shore. Sobs of relief fill the air, but it’s not until someone tugs me onto solid ground that I realize I’m still lying on my back, clutching at the rope as if my life depends on it.
Thyra’s pale eyes meet mine. “Are you all right?”
I look down at my muddy hands, my soaked boots and breeches. My arms tingle with the sting of frost, but the pain is manageable. “I think so.”
She grins. “So are they.” She gestures toward a wet and shivering group of children and andeners. Others have gathered around to wrap them in blankets and dry their dripping hair. I look back out over the marsh. The holes made by the splash of bodies are iced over, and the rest of the marsh is laced with white frost. Cold wind blows in my hair, making me shiver. Thyra slides her hand into mine and laughs, a strained, broken sound. “Usually your skin is so warm.”