Gunmetal Magic: A Novel in the World of Kate Daniels

bend.”
    A couple of minutes later we cleared the curve. A vast lake spread on our left. Blue-green water stretched into the distance, tinted with bluish haze. Here and there green islands ringed with sand thrust through the water. To the right, an enormous mead hall built with huge timbers rose from the crest of a low hill like the armored back of some sea serpent. As we stood there, two
karves
, the longboats, slid from behind the nearest island, their carved dragon heads rising high above the lake’s surface.
    Ascanio raised his hand to shield his eyes.
    “Lake Lanier,” I told him. “The Norse Heritage Foundation built a river fleet of Dragon Ships here. They’re not the only neo-Vikings in the region. There are several Norse groups along the Eastern seaboard and quite a few of them want to cruise up and down the coast in a proper boat. The Norse Heritage sells them boats and trains these wannabe raiders for shallow water sailing. They also give vacationers a ride for the right price. They’re kind of touchy about it, so I wouldn’t ask if they do children’s parties.”
    Ascanio cracked a smile. “Or what, they’ll try to drown us in their beer vat? ‘Try’ being the operative word.”
    We started toward the mead hall. Midway up the hill, the vampire paused when a man walked out in the middle of the road from behind a birch. Six and a half feet tall, he stood wrapped in chain mail. A cape of black fur billowed from his shoulders. His war helm, a near perfect replication of the Gjermundbu helmet, shielded the top of his head and half his face. The stainless steel had been polished until the sun’s rays slid off of it, as if he wore a mirror on his head. The man carried an enormous single axe on a long wooden handle. I’d tried to pick up the axe once and it weighed ten pounds at least. He was slower than molasses in January with it, but it looked impressive.
    Derek focused on the big man. “Who is that?”
    “That’s Gunnar. He’s the Norse Heritage’s idea of a security detail.”
    “What, all by himself?”
    I nodded. “He’s sufficient.”
    Ghastek’s vampire stared at the giant Viking, motionless like a statue, while the Master of the Dead mulled the situation over. The bloodsucker turned, scuttled toward us, and fell back in line behind my horse. Apparently, Ghastek had decided that his vamp was too precious to risk.
    We drew closer.
    Gunnar took a deep breath and roared,
“Vestu heill!”
    Ow. My ears.
“Hello, Gunnar.”
    He squinted at me through his face mask and dropped his voice down. “Hey, Kate.” He sounded slightly out of breath.
    “Good to see you.”
    He leaned on his axe, pulled the helmet off, and wiped sweat from his forehead, revealing reddish hair braided on his temples. “You heading up to see Ragnvald?”
    “Yep.”
    “All of you?”
    “Yep.”
    “Even the lion?”
    The lion opened his mouth, showing his big teeth.
Yes, yes, you’re bad. We know, Your Majesty.
    “Even the lion.”
    “What about?” Gunnar asked.
    “Dagfinn. You’ve seen him around?”
    Gunnar took a moment to spit into the dirt, making a big show of it. “Nope. And all the better for it.”
    Bullshit.
“Too bad.”
    “Yeah.” Gunnar waved me on with the helmet. “You’re good to go.”
    “Thanks.”
    We rode on.
    “He lied,” Ascanio said.
    “Yep.” Gunnar knew exactly where Dagfinn was. He took his cues from Ragnvald, and since he wasn’t talking, the jarl probably wouldn’t be talking either. This would not go well.
    We rode up through the wooden gates to the mead hall.The rest of the settlement sat lower down the hill, past the mead hall: solid wooden houses scattered here and there. People walked to and fro, men in woolen tunics and cloaks, women in ankle-length gowns and
hangerocks
—woolen apron-dresses. They were an assorted crew: some were white, some were black, some were Hispanic. A couple to our right looked Chinese. Norse Heritage took everyone in. Viking wasn’t a nationality—it was a way of life. As long as you thought you were a Viking, you had a place at their table.
    People gaped at Curran as we passed. The vampire and the rest of us got significantly less attention.
    As we dismounted before the hitching rail, I saw a familiar black Shire stallion in the pasture, segregated by himself. The huge horse stood almost eighteen and a half hands tall, the white feathers at his huge feet shaking every time he moved. A pale scar snaked its way up the horse’s