by Sarah Fine
Aksel stiffens at the dismissal, but she’s framed it in a way he cannot refuse without looking like a weak and selfish ass. “Yes, Chieftain,” he mutters.
With concern Thyra watches him go, but Preben merely gives him an amused look before returning to his conversation with her. “Will you be able to offer Nisse some information that might speed a victory over Kupari?” he asks. “This might enhance our status within his tribe.”
“I have not yet decided if we will unite our tribe with his. Remember that he’s a traitor who stooped to assassination,” she says in a voice that promises any defiance will be met with iron.
“Still, it’s our best chance of victory,” says Preben.
“And of killing the witch,” I say. My hope that her death will break the curse has been filling my head as I hike, along with the traitorous thought that perhaps uniting with Nisse will give us the strength and strategy we need to defeat the queen.
“I will consult with Nisse,” Thyra says, turning around to glance at me. “I can’t say I’d advise another invasion over the Torden, though. Over land seems wiser, but I don’t know the terrain.” She nods at Jaspar, who is several yards ahead with Sander, swapping raid stories in loud, jovial tones. “And I believe I’ll trust my own eyes over blind promises of easy victory.”
Preben grunts. “Lars would have said the same.”
I’m not sure he’s right. My heart sinks as I think of how blindly confident Lars was of easy victory . . . just before he was struck by lightning. His drive for plunder became insatiable after Nisse took Vasterut. But Preben’s compliment must feel like a win to Thyra, because she presses her advantage. “I think this is a chance to consider all the alternatives before rushing to war. We have so many to provide for—stability and safety is my priority.”
Preben frowns. “That is not something Lars would have said.”
Thyra freezes midstep, but only for a splinter of time. “He had many thoughts about our future that he did not share openly. We’ll never know what he would have said, had he made it through that battle.”
“The only way he would have made it through the battle is in victory. He wouldn’t have had it any other way.”
Thyra looks up at Preben, her chin raised in defiance at the implication—perhaps she should not have returned either. “If it had meant safeguarding the future of the Krigere, you had best believe my father would have done anything, including not carelessly squandering his own life. Think of the mercy he showed Nisse and all the warriors who followed him.”
Preben chews on the inside of his cheek. “I suppose you’re right, Chieftain,” he mutters.
“He would have hated to see us like this,” she says. “But he would have been proud to see warriors like you still loyal to the tribe, not letting greed or fear of enemies and the unknown tear us apart.” She grasps Preben’s arm. “I’m sorry about Edvin. It would not have been my choice to lose such a strong and valuable warrior like that.”
Preben gives her a long look, then bows his head. “I know, Chieftain. You did it because you had to.” He shrugs off her arm and keeps walking.
Thyra’s hand hovers in the air before she clenches her fist and brings it to her side.
The days pass full of moments like that, her losing a foot of ground for every two she wins, her wooing while the others warily watch for signs of how she will lead. All along the trail, there is constant talk of what awaits us, and the hum of speculation about Kupari and Vasterut and Nisse and being caught within his newly acquired kingdom for the winter. Thyra does not waste a single opportunity to speak to our warriors while Jaspar is laughing and joking with his. She assures them she is with them, that she will not lead us into certain defeat over the water again. She speaks of our responsibility to the widows and orphans, and how we must be creative and determined as we consider our way forward. It all seems to add up to one thing—she is not at all eager to attack Kupari.
I try to understand it. With the exception of me and Sander, none of our warriors saw what happened on the Torden that terrible day. None of them saw the floating bodies of their comrades. None of them watched the seagulls descend to make a meal out of their corpses. None of them tasted the keen tang of despair that came with watching those waves bow over us, that feeling of being so small that there is no escape from the jaws of the beast. They imagine, yes, but they don’t know. They are thirsty now, not just for Kupari wealth, but for Kupari blood.
I wait and hope for Thyra to promise them satisfaction and revenge, but she doesn’t. Instead, she urges caution. She urges patience.
Part of me knows this is wise. But only part of me.
The rest of me longs for the day when I bring vengeance to the witch queen’s door—and possibly win my freedom back. I can feel her curse inside me, carving on my bones, snaking through my veins, twisting along my spine, trying to escape and kill once again. At night it coils inside my mind, with scales like iron filings, scraping away my soft parts with every flex and shift of ice and fire. I hate the way it feels, the way it seems to think it’s entitled to burrow in my body and make itself at home.
I work very hard to stay calm at all times. I won’t allow the curse to control me, to hurt my people, to condemn me, to reveal itself to Thyra and make her doubt me again. But as days pass and we near the marshlands that mark the turn to the southwest—the long miles of trail that will lead us to Vasterut—I have to wonder how much harder my task will become.
The morning we’re to traverse the marshlands, Jaspar’s warriors rouse us when the moon is still in the sky. Thyra pokes at my shoulder, her teeth chattering. “They want to cross while the ice over the marsh is still firm,” she says. “When the sun gets high, the ground goes soft again. We have to get everyone over before that happens.”
“Especially because the rear of the caravan is mostly old ones and andeners with children,” I mutter as I stand up and strap my sheaths to my arms.
Thyra frowns as she tries to light a torch in the fading embers of last night’s fire. When the pitch bursts with flame a moment later, she looks over her shoulder at me. “Was that you?” she whispers.
I flinch. I think it might have been. “No! I told you. Everything is under control.” I look around to make sure no one is listening. “The witch hasn’t beaten me yet.”
“Is it getting any easier?”
The opposite. But I flash a confident smile. “I haven’t heard a single whisper of witchcraft in days. Have you?”
“No, actually.”
“There you have it.”
She ruffles my hair and then laughs as she takes in my appearance, probably because she’s made my fiery hair stand on end. “That’s my Ansa.” She turns away and walks toward Jaspar.
“I am your Ansa,” I whisper, and then I follow, feeling lighter and happier than I have in days.
* * *
By the time we reach the edge of the marshlands, an expanse of swamp a few hundred yards across that extends at least two miles inland by Jaspar’s report, the eastern horizon is as pink as a newborn. Jaspar summons us all to gather around as those at the rear begin to catch up.
“The ground should be firm enough to cross until the sun is midsky,” he says loudly. “We made it across at this time of day on our way to your camp.”
Thyra puts her hands on her hips. “But that was with forty warriors. We number in the thousands. Perhaps we should go around it.”
Jaspar sighs. “Going around this marsh will add at least a day to our journey, and probably two, and I’ve been told we’re running low on rations.” He gestures at the sky. “And the first snow could come anytime. Seems to me that getting to Vasterut as quickly as possible is best for everyone.”
Thyra glares at him. “Getting there alive is best for everyone. If we must do this, we should all rope up.”
Jaspar and several of his warriors groan. “Crossing like that will take hours longer.”
“And it would ensure that no one is lost to the marsh.�
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“Ah, Thyra, so careful and calculating, as always.” Jaspar chuckles. “Risk is part of life.”
“But foolishness doesn’t have to be. If your warriors are so greatly affected by the risk of snow and hunger, then perhaps you should take them and ride ahead. I’ll stay and get my people across.”
“Or she’ll turn around and run back to the north,” says a hulking dark-haired warrior next to Jaspar. Several others echo his suspicion.
Thyra draws a dagger. “Say that louder, Sten,” she invites. “Let’s discuss it, by all means.”
The warrior’s lip curls, but he remains silent, and Jaspar claps him on the back. “Nonsense, Sten. Until proven otherwise, I will choose to believe Thyra is as full of honor as she is of caution.”
Thyra’s eyes blaze with sudden hate and, to my surprise, a flicker of fear. “An insult wrapped in a compliment. How uncharacteristically clever of you.”
Jaspar chuckles drily as his hand moves to the hilt of his dagger, and the sight jolts me into action.
“We don’t have time to argue.” I stride over to one of our horses and yank a coil of rope from its back. “Let’s get to work.”
I catch Thyra’s eye as I loop the rope around my waist, and she smiles. The people behind me each use belts or shorter stretches of rope to attach themselves to the longer rope as Jaspar leads his warriors across unroped. The horses’ flanks twitch as they pick their way past clumps of grass and stretches of black ice, as if they sense the danger. I follow, leading a long line of our own warriors over the treacherous ground. I know about marshes—I’ve watched one swallow an ox whole. First it sank to its knees, then to its neck, and then it disappeared all of a sudden, its bellowing cut silent in a fountain of bubbles and froth. There are layers to these places, thick vegetation that grows a few feet below the surface and is firm enough to hold weight—until it doesn’t. If we go through the ice, there’s not much time before the rest gives way.
By the time our first wave is across, the sun sits fat and yellow on the treetops in the east, watching our slow progress. Jaspar and his warriors camp themselves on a hill just beyond the marsh, clearly impatient with how long it takes to secure ropes to each individual crossing the divide. Thyra ignores the eye rolls and muttered comments . . . along with the grumbled complaints that come from a few of our own people. She’s sweating from traveling back and forth across the marsh with our rope and keeps glaring at the rising sun as if she’d like to sink a blade into its cheerful golden face. But the ice holds, making our toil over the rope seem fussy and overcautious.
The crowd on the opposite side grows as the sky brightens, and the trailing caravan shrinks as those at the rear catch up and prepare to cross. I fight my growing anxiety that Thyra’s caution is playing as weakness and fear.
But then Gry and her family emerge from the woods and reach the edge of the marsh, and my heart speeds for an entirely different reason. She’s glaring at me as if I’m a snake and clutching her daughter’s hand hard enough to make the girl wince. I cross the distance between us, hefting the loop of rope around my shoulder with Thyra carrying the rest.
“Just be kind to her,” Thyra says softly as we reach the midpoint of the marsh. “She’s grieving, and she just needed a face to pin her anger on.”
She’s scarily accurate about who she’s chosen. “As long as she doesn’t go spouting stupid and baseless accusations again, I’ll be as kind as a lamb.”
Thyra snorts. “You, a lamb?”
“Baaaa—ah!” My bleating is cut off as my foot sinks through the ice. I yank it back up and spread my arms, looking at the dark ice all around. It shines wetly in the sun. “This isn’t good.”
“Come on, Chieftain!” Sten shouts from the other side. “We’ve been here half the day, and we have ground to cover!”
Thyra mutters something about putting him in the ground before saying, “Come on. We’re almost finished.”
“Are you sure you want to risk a crossing?” I wiggle my mud-coated boot.
Thyra pauses and looks over her shoulder at the crowd on the other side. “If I call a halt to this for the day with only fifty people left to cross, I’ll never hear the end of it. They’ll blame me for letting the sun get too high.”
She’s right. Which means we have to risk the most vulnerable of our group. Grimly, we rope up and begin a careful plod back across the ice, single file. With each step, I feel the tug of resistance, fifty bodies behind mine all attached to my rope.
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 u
p 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.”
We’re at the rear of the crowd, many of whom are fussing over the ones we nearly lost while the rest are already hiking forward. Either Jaspar and his warriors didn’t want to acknowledge that Thyra was right in using the ropes or they’re so focused on covering the miles that they don’t care. But I see Sander standing at the crest of the hill, staring down at me before he disappears over the other side.
I start to fall into step at the rear of the group, but Thyra pulls me to a stop. “They all would have been lost.” She turns me to face her. “But you called to the ice, didn’t you?”
My heart skips as she moves closer. “No. I didn’t—”
“It’s all right, Ansa.” She touches my cheek. “I know what you’re doing.”
I gape at her, my world crumbling. “I swear, Thyra—”
“You somehow managed to turn the enemy’s sword against her,” she murmurs, the corner of her mouth lifting. “I’m in awe of you.”
