Captive and the Cursed: A Fairy Tale Retold

By E.D. Martin

She has to choose: follow her head or follow her heart?

Nyah's merchant father raised her and her younger sister Payton on tales of treasure and excitement, but after he returns home from his latest trip addle-minded, Nyah must put aside her dreams of adventure and focus on more practical matters, like her betrothal to the illiterate son of the village chief. But when a roving band of barbarians kidnap Payton and the village leaders do nothing to rescue her, Nyah has no choice but to take matters into her own hands. She offers herself in her sister's place, doomed to travel with the barbarian army until their price is paid.

The army is led by warrior Brandulfur, a man who suffers from a hideous, painful curse that's been put upon him and his court. Although he's officially in her country to aid his childhood friend in raising an army to support the king, he's on a personal quest for the book that holds the cure for his curse - a book that Nyah soon realizes her father stole from him.

Determined to return to her family, she'll need all the allies she can get. But she soon realizes no one is who they seem, including the people closest to her. She'll have to make hard choices if she wants her life to be the same as before - but is that even what she wants anymore?

Captive and the Cursed is the first book in a series of fairy tales retold in a world of Vikings. If you like sassy heroines, adventures spanning the medieval world, and a touch of romance, you'll love The Heartsbane Saga, E.D. Martin's new historical fantasy series. Get your copy and start your adventure today!

• Language: English
• Publisher: E.D. Martin
• Release date: Jan 4, 2021
• ISBN: 9781005380892

E.D. Martin

E.D. Martin is a writer with a knack for finding new jobs in new places. Born and raised in Illinois, her past incarnations have included bookstore barista in Indiana, college student in southern France, statistician in North Carolina, economic development analyst in North Dakota, and high school teacher in Iowa. She draws on her experiences to tell the stories of those around her, with a generous heaping of “what if” thrown in.She currently lives in Illinois where she job hops while working on her novels.

Book preview

CAPTIVE AND THE CURSED

Heartsbane Saga Book 1

by

E.D. Martin

Copyright

Captive and the Cursed

(Heartsbane Saga Book 1)

Copyright © 2020 E.D. Martin

Cover illustrations and layouts by gauntt

All rights reserved.  No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without prior written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations used in reviews.

Other Books by E.D. Martin

The Heartsbane Saga:

Book .5: The Maiden in the Tower

Book 1: Captive and the Cursed

Book 1.5: The Brave Little Thrall

Book 2: Sleeping Shaman

Book 2.5: Ezichi the Beautiful

Book 3: Little Amethyst Abaya

Book 3.5: The Horrible Husfreya

Book 4: The Alchemist

Book 4.5: The Enchanted Mormaer

Book 5: The Lady and the Lie

Book 5.5: Fabiranum Town Thieves

Book 6: Sigfrodur and the Oak Tree

Book 6.5: Illfuss and the Seven Drottnar

Book 7: True Love’s Kiss

Novels:

Yours to Keep or Throw Aside

(previously released as The Lone Wolf)

Short Stories:

Tim and Sara

Not My Thing

A Place to Die

Us, Together: A Short Story Collection

The Futility of Loving a Soldier: A Short Story Collection

Going in Circles Vol 1: 10 Very Short Stories

www.EDMartinWriter.com

Sign up for E.D.’s mailing list to receive updates on

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Table of Contents

Copyright

Other Books by E.D. Martin

Table of Contents

Once Upon a Time

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Heartsbane Saga Book 2: Sleeping Shaman

About the Author

Once Upon a Time

It took all Storm Llanfaell’s willpower to keep from singing and dancing across the cobblestones as he made his way alongside the icy docks of Karjaland’s capital city, Alrikstad. He’d learned long ago that the best way to blend in was to pretend to belong; looking furtive or overly jubilant only drew attention. Tonight, however, when he needed to fit in more than ever, he wasn’t fearful of being recognized. Tonight, he was untouchable.

He tried to avoid patterns unless he wanted to be noticed, never frequenting the same establishments, but tonight called for an exception. He entered his favorite tavern, the Iron Lance Inn, a small nondescript building shouldering the other taverns, and dropped a handful of coins on the bar counter.

Drinks, Brita! he called to the proprietress.

Storm! A middle-aged woman, her face still youthful despite streaks of gray in her dark hair, set down the tankard she’d been drying and hurried over to plant a kiss on his cheek. I didn’t know you were in Alrikstad.

Only a short time, on business. I leave in the morning, but I couldn’t go without stopping by to see my favorite barmaid.

She shot him a smile that stopped before it reached her eyes. Be careful, Storm, she said in a low voice. Word is that the king’s curse is spreading beyond his court, and the whole city is on edge.

I’m always careful, my dear. He laid his hand on her arm. You know how I operate.

She nodded but didn’t seem reassured. Let me get you your drink, she said at a louder, normal volume.

Storm made his way to a table in a back corner, one that gave him a view of the whole tavern. Oil lanterns scattered haphazardly around the room did little to dispel the darkness, but the anonymity they gave its patrons was the Iron Lance’s main draw. Only a handful of men sat at the other tables, and each seemed immersed in his own troubles. Brita kept his tankard full and he soon forgot about the others in the room and her warning. Tonight he wanted to celebrate. All was proceeding according to plan, and in a fortnight he could collect his payment and never have to work as a merchant again. He would fetch his daughters from the small Llogerian village where they stayed while he was abroad, the village of their mother’s people, God rest her soul, and together they’d travel the world. He’d clothe them in the finest silk gowns and they’d dine with kings. Or perhaps they’d settle in Arelat or Aghlabid, far from Karjaland, and live as kings themselves.

Full of mead and dreams for the future, Storm rose from his table and made his way to Brita at the bar. He glanced around to make sure no one was watching, then slipped a small leather-bound book from his belt and placed it on the counter with another handful of coins. This should settle me up for tonight.

Aye. The book and coins disappeared into a purse tied under her apron. Hale go forth, hale return, and hale on your ways, Storm.

Aesir’s blessings upon you, Brita.

Drunk on success and alcohol, he stumbled out into the wintry night. The street was deserted despite the early hour, and the frigid wind howled mournfully off the harbor. He shivered and pulled his fur-lined cloak tighter around him. He’d never been fond of the northern lands, especially in the dead of winter, and if it weren’t for the lucrative trade deals he could make here, and Brita warming his bed, he wouldn’t venture here if he could help it.

Perhaps she would accompany him back to Llogeria? She’d turned him down so many times that he’d stopped asking, but this time was different. This time he was rich, with the whole world to offer her. She couldn’t possibly say no.

He turned back towards the Iron Lance, and a fist caught him in the gut.

He swung his arm at his attacker, a large blur of a man with the king’s bright red insignia on his tunic, but someone pinned his arms behind his back.

Think you can steal from King Gudrodar and get away with it? the huskarl who’d first hit him asked while he delivered another punch to Storm’s stomach.

Imbued with courage only Brita’s mead could give him, Storm grunted, Yes, as he struggled to break free. He’d expected the king to find his treasury empty eventually, but he’d planned to be on his way back to Llogeria before then.

The huskarl behind him laughed and pulled up on Storm’s arms, causing his shoulders to explode in pain.

Enough, a third man said as Storm gasped, his eyes watering. You can have your fun with him later. The king wants him alive and unharmed.

They threw a bag over his head and half-pushed, half-dragged him through the dark, snowy streets. Although he couldn’t see where they were taking him, the incline they walked along meant just one thing: he was being taken to the king’s keep, built atop the hill in the center of town.

Despite his many trips to Alrikstad, he’d never been in the keep before, and he wasn’t sure what to expect tonight. In other circumstances he might try to fast-talk his way out of trouble, but even through his drunkenness he knew it wouldn’t work, not with what he’d done this time. He shook his head, trying to clear his mind, trying to focus on his next moves and words.

His escort paused and spoke to someone, too low and fast for him to decipher. A gate grated open and he was again pulled onward a few paces until they entered a building; the keep, he assumed. As warmth blazed upon him, he was shoved to his knees and the bag removed from his head.

He was in a cavernous room, dimly lit by smoky braziers. A fire blazed in a wide fireplace in one corner, and along one wall stood a dozen giant huskarlar, the king’s personal warriors. Each held at his side a broad axe, the handle of which was nearly as tall as Storm. Their tunics bore the king’s insignia, a crimson sun. Although their expressions were impassive, Storm could detect rage in the eyes of some. His mind whispered tales of berserkers losing themselves in battle, and he shuddered.

A kick to his backside forced his attention to the far end of the room. A man he assumed to be King Gudrodar sat on an ornately carved wooden chair, his face in shadow. One of Storm’s escorts, wearing a black hooded cloak that made his gaunt face look skeletal, sauntered over to the king’s left, mirroring the figure who stood attentively to the king’s right.

Bring him forward, the king ordered in a muffled voice.

Another kick pushed Storm towards him.

Leave me be, he spat at his captors in Karjalander. He straightened as best he could, ignoring the pain in his shoulders, and strode to meet the king as a man.

So, this is the thief that bested my treasury guards? the king asked, his voice bemused. This drunken fool was able to get past the best men in Karjaland?

Storm smirked at the king’s words, inwardly preening at the praise, but remained silent.

Return to me what you stole, and your death shall be quick. You’ve earned that with your impressive feat.

Your treasure is halfway to Redarii by now. Storm kept his head held high, although truth be told he had no idea where the treasure might be at this moment. It shall never be returned.

The harbor has been sealed, and my huskarlar are searching every ship at the docks. We will find it, and when we do, if you have not cooperated, you will wish you had accepted my offer of a quick death.

You will never find it. Storm attempted to shrug without wincing. Your treasure has been divided into a thousand parts, each to be delivered to a different port and a different buyer. You could search for a hundred years and still never reclaim everything I have taken from you.

The gold and jewels you’ve stolen from me mean nothing. They are but objects and can be easily replaced. If it were just those things, I would cut off your hand as if you were a common criminal before hanging you.

The king nodded, and two of his huskarlar moved to Storm’s side. The one on his right grabbed him, one hand at his wrist and the other at his forearm.

Storm gritted his teeth against the agony in his shoulders. His mind was still too clouded with alcohol to devise a plan, so he did what he always did in situations like this: stall. You aren’t the first to try to hang me, and you won’t be the last.

Enough, thief. I have no further use for you if you refuse to cooperate. Gudrodar stood, moving into the light, and Storm gasped. Angry weeping rashes bulged across the king’s face and hands, interspersed with deep scars. His left eye was swollen shut and his lips so disfigured they could barely move. This must be the curse Storm had heard rumors of. The king gripped the chair’s arms tightly, swaying slightly, and the young man moved closer to his side. Gudrodar waved him away. Illfuss, what say you about his fate?

The man who’d helped capture Storm stepped forward. The god of the Llogerians demands an eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth. I think he would also find it fair to demand a life for a life. He has taken from you any hope of a cure for your curse. Let him be marked as a thief, and then let him share in your curse as well, before he hangs in the morning.

So be it, the king said.

The second huskarl raised his axe, and Storm struggled to free himself from the first’s iron grip, still not ready to admit defeat.

Father. The voice of the young man to the right of the king echoed through the hall, and the huskarl paused, axe in midair. Might I suggest otherwise?

Gudrodar nodded.

When you die, Father, the sagas will sing of your deeds as a warrior, not as an invalid, and thus you will take your rightful place with our gods. For the sake of Karjaland, however, I must fight our curse. He turned towards Storm and addressed him in Llogerian. I seek only a book you’ve taken, for it holds the cure for our curse. Return this book, and we will allow you to live.

But if we free him, how do we know he will return the book? Illfuss asked. Our countrymen will view this leniency as weakness. Best to kill him now.

No. The king coughed and fell back into his chair. My son is wiser than I. This book is more important than any one man’s life, and we will allow this man to live in the hope that he will return it. But we will mark him as a thief, so that we may easily find him on the chance that he does not willingly return.

As you wish, my king. Illfuss gestured at a priest along the wall, who approached Storm while chanting in a language he didn’t recognize. Storm thrashed harder as the king’s warrior tightened his grip on his right arm. The second huskarl swung his axe onto Storm’s wrist, and he crashed into unconsciousness.

Chapter 1

I stomped across the village green, a chicken tucked under my arm and my long blonde braid swinging down my back, not caring who witnessed my ire.

Nyah, wait!

Against my better judgment, I stopped with a huff and waited for Wynne Maddox to catch up. Maybe he wanted to apologize.

You’re being ridiculous, he said as he reached me.

Or maybe he dinnae.

I glared at him. You stole my chicken. I took my chicken back. What’s so ridiculous about that?

He glared back. I dinnae steal anything.

Oh, really?

Really. First, my chickens went missing, and Father must have eggs for breakfast. It’s only right, for him as toísech. And second, we’re betrothed, which means what’s yours is mine. So if I take something of yours, it’s like taking something of mine. Right?

Then give me your cow.

His jaw dropped. What? Why?

"If we’re betrothed and what’s yours is mine, then it’s my cow. And my father must have milk with his breakfast porridge."

Your father dinnae even know when it’s time for his breakfast, Wynne muttered before saying more strongly, Regardless, I can’t just give you a cow.

Then I can’t just give you a chicken. The bird squawked, trying to get free, and I turned to leave. I must get home to check on Father, even if he dinnae realize what I’m doing. If you need a chicken, or something else that’s mine, please ask first next time.

Wynne sighed as he followed me. Why must you be so argumentative all the time?

Before I could respond, a voice wheezed behind us. Wynne! There you are.

We paused as Wynne’s father, Earc, a large, potbellied man and the lord of our village of Orllewinol, puffed up to us. He stood, hands on his knees, panting slightly. Looking back and forth between the two men, I wondered yet again if Earc had looked like Wynne when he was younger, and if Wynne would look like his father when he was older. Wynne wore carefully tailored tunics that showed off his tall athletic build, and he kept his dark hair close-cropped, in contrast to Earc, whose stringy gray hair brushed the shoulders of his too-tight tunic. Would I notice Wynne’s weight gain and hair loss as it happened, or would I wake up in twenty years and wonder the same thing about our son that I contemplated now?

Earc cleared his throat.

Good day, Toísech, I said as I pulled myself from my thoughts.

He scowled at me. Show some decorum, girl. The whole village dinnae need to hear you arguing with the tánaistae.

I bit back my retort. I could count on one hand the number of positive things Earc had ever said to me. When I was younger, I’d tried to argue back, to prove to him he was wrong about me, but he’d never changed his mind. Later, after Mother died and Father was gone more than he was home in the village, and I’d realized I needed to stay in Earc’s good graces in order to survive, I’d learned