Falcon of the Faroe Islands (Valiant Vikings #3)

Chapter 1

Falcon of the Faroe Islands

Lagudi

Moonlight glimmered on the dark, deep waters of the secluded fjord nestled between two towering granite cliffs.

The crisp scent of pine from the dense surrounding forest mingled with the tangy brine of the nearby sea.

Amidst an array of sparkling stars, the night sky shimmered with living light, as glowing waves of green and violet unfurled like spirit-fire of the watchful gods.

While frosty winds whipped down the jagged mountains, howling like wolves and whispers from the Otherworld, the Láhpi tribe gathered along the sandy shore of the sheltered inlet to observe the sacred ritual.

Tonight marked the autumn equinox, when day and night were equal, and the veil between worlds was thinnest. If the acolyte survived the passage into the spirit world and returned to the realm of humans, he would pass the test and become a noaidi.

A sorcerer sacred to the Sámi people in the wild Lofoten Islands of Norway.

Elders of the tribe sat in a circle around the ceremonial fire— symbol of light, purification, and transformation.

Jaskka, the spiritual leader of the village, knelt before the stone-enclosed flames.

His weathered face was painted with white clay, and vertical lines of black soot, representing the shadows and mystery of the Otherworld, streaked down his bristled cheeks to bearded chin.

Two black eyes marked his wrinkled forehead— enabling ancestors beyond the veil to observe the sacred ceremony through the noaidi who bridged the spirit world and the human realm.

Clad in deerskin boots, woolen breeches, and woven tunic dyed a deep rich blue, Jaskka had glittering beads braided amongst the silver strands of his long, dark hair and thick beard.

A reindeer fur cloak draped his broad shoulders, and an intricate belt suspended bear claws, wolf bones, and seal teeth from his sinewy waist. Upon his revered head sat an elaborate headpiece of reindeer antlers carved with symbols of spirits, animals, and gods.

And in his lap, the noaidi clutched his goavddis drum, its birch wood frame covered with tautly stretched reindeer hide painted with images of the sun, stars, and seas.

As Jaskka struck the instrument with a vuorbi drum hammer, his deep, melodic chant rumbled across the fjord like thunder, summoning spirits of the áhkká—the water goddesses of the sacred fjord and the female ancestors of the Láhpi tribe.

Haldor Falk sat on the frost-covered ground beside Jaskka, watching with fierce pride as his acolyte Skjold, summoned by the sound of the drum from the secluded cave where he had sought solitude and fasting in preparation for tonight’s trial, strode from the forest across the hoary glen toward the tribal members gathered around the fire.

Now eighteen winters old—the same age that Haldor himself had been twenty summers ago when he underwent the grueling test to become a noaidi—Skjold had the golden blond hair, braided beard, and clear blue eyes of his famed Viking lineage.

He bore the towering height and massive build of his legendary father, Sk?rde the Scourge, the infamous Dragon of Denmark, and both of his regal Viking grandfathers—Harald Bluetooth, the late King of Denmark and Norway, and Richard the Fearless, the reigning Duke of Normandy.

Indeed, Skjold Sk?rdesson was a fierce Viking warrior whose prowess with axe, sword, spear, and shield had been honed by Haldor’s weapons masters.

Known as the Blóesmier—the Bloodsmiths— they had forged Skjold, through violent combat and relentless training, into a brutal weapon, just as a blacksmith forges steel into a hardened, lethal sword.

Haldor observed Skjold striding across the frozen meadow where starlight sparkled on the frost covered grass like countless scattered gems.

Tattoos in bluish black covered his rugged face, corded neck, and sinewy forearms. For the past two weeks, Skjold had undergone the transformative ritual of fasting, isolation, and pain, as the images were carved into his skin.

Blackened with ash, bone, and blood, each symbol embodied Skjold’s ancestral heritage and Sámi spiritual power.

On his scarred, bearded face, a trio of droplets beneath his left eye marked the Veil of Vision with which Skjold would attempt to wield the otherworldly gift of sight through water that he had inherited from his mother Ylva, his grandmother Lova, and his great-grandmother Sprota, a trinity of gifted Celtic priestesses from Bretagne in northwestern Francia.

An enormous dark blue dragon—emblem of Skjold’s heritage as the prophesied son of the Dragon of Denmark and the Celtic priestess mother with otherworldly sight through water—covered his left shoulder and coiled around his thick neck.

The fanged maw of the mammoth serpentine beast displayed a trio of Nordic runes.

Uruz, for strength; Tiwaz, for honor and valor; and Dagaz, for the transformation of Skjold the Viking warrior into a Sámi spirit sorcerer with second sight through water.

Upon Skjold’s sculpted forearms flowed long, fluid patterns of the Nordic rune Laguz, the Norse symbol for water, representing his Viking heritage.

Amidst the river of runes, Celtic triple spirals— symbolic of the trio of female ancestors who had passed their otherworldly gift of sight to Skjold— covered his burnished skin, bronzed by the strong summer sun.

Beneath the waves of runes and spirals were a trio of eyes beneath the water, evoking the áhkká—the ancestral spirits and deities who would grant Skjold the ability to wield his gift of sight through water.

After two weeks of isolation, fasting, pushing his body to the physical limits of pain and endurance, Skjold would now face his final test—to enter the spirit world of water and wield his inherited gift to see beyond the human realm.

The rhythmic beat of Jaskka’s drum and the cadence of his slow, deep chant called Haldor’s attention back to the spirit leader of the Láhpi tribe. Haldor rose to his feet in solemn silence and strode toward Skjold, who waited at the edge of the assembled tribe gathered around the fire.

A contradictory blend of courage and fear blazed in his fierce blue gaze.

Haldor led his acolyte toward the frosty shore of the starlit fjord where the long, narrow boat that he and Skjold had skillfully crafted from pine was waiting upon the smooth white sand.

As part of Skjold’s preparation for tonight’s ritual, the two of them had felled the tall tree, hollowing and smoothing the sturdy wood.

Skjold himself had shaped the vessel for tonight’s voyage to the spirit world by carving soft curves along the sides, like the protective waves of the sacred fjord.

He’d etched Sámi sigils, Celtic symbols, and Nordic runes into the hewn wood, carving a mermaid at the prow, to symbolize his female ancestors—the áhkká—guiding him on the monumental spiritual journey.

As Haldor now helped Skjold into the vessel, he glimpsed the mermaid shimmering in the moonlight.

Her long, flowing hair and slender arms blended with the curved waves along the sides of the vessel.

Intricate Celtic spirals and the Nordic rune Laguz wrapped around her limbs and elaborate tailfin, connecting her to the essence of the fjord and to Skjold’s heritage as a spirit walker into the sacred realm of water.

Haldor squeezed Skjold’s shoulder to convey support and strength as the Son of the Dragon lowered himself onto the seat in the rear of the boat.

While the pounding of Jaskka’s drum and the rhythm of his chant continued from the tribal circle gathered around the fire behind them, Haldor eased the vessel out into the dark, mysterious depths of the shimmering fjord.

There, in solemn silence, Skjold would attempt to send his spirit into the otherworldly realm of water and commune with the áhkká— his female ancestors Lova and Sprota, and the spirit goddess of the sacred fjord.

To pass the test and become a noaidi, like Jaskka and Haldor himself, Skjold would successfully return to the tribe and impart the wisdom gleaned from his spiritual journey.

Yet if he failed— rejected by the áhkká as unworthy of their ethereal wisdom— the Son of the Dragon would return humiliated and devastated, lacking the divine knowledge needed to fulfill the long-foretold prophecy.

Haldor stood at the water’s edge, watching the moon shimmer on the waves as the boat drifted away from shore, as if drawn by unseen hands.

He would wait here for his acolyte’s return, guarding the boundary between realms, holding open the gate for Skjold to come back from the spirit world and rejoin the Láhpi tribe.

* * * *

Skjold’s heart pounded with the rhythm of Jaskka’s drum as he floated upon the dark waters of the fjord which sparkled in the moonlight.

Beneath the glimmering surface, the mystical spirits of the aquatic realm beckoned, stirring his senses and summoning his soul.

He gazed into the enticing depths, expanding his perception beyond the human realm, his essence becoming one with the water as his spirit soared freely, leaving his physical body behind in the small, narrow boat.

He now stood on the exposed mudflats of an unfamiliar beach at low tide, gazing at a waterfall which plummeted from a forested mountaintop into a sheltered sea cave a short distance ahead.

Beneath a night sky studded with Celtic spirals of swirling stars, a glowing female figure appeared, her ethereal arm outstretched to summon him.

Skjold’s pulse raced as adrenaline surged.

Was she an áhkká spirit of the sacred fjord?

A Norse goddess? Or an ancestor who had come to guide him?

Freed from the constraints of his human body, Skjold’s spirit glided toward the golden apparition with long, flowing hair whose limpid voice wafted wordlessly into his open, receptive mind.