Building a Viking Empire with Modern Industry-Chapter 128: Conclusion

As the Order of the Sacred Flame and Ragnar's "Corporate Defense Force" clashed on the narrow beach below, Ragnar gazed upon the scene from the roof of the armored locomotive.

Everything was going according to the quarterly projection.

Ragnar scanned the melee through his brass telescope, desperately searching for Grandmaster Roland's location.

Unfortunately for him, Roland was clad in a full set of gilded plate armor, and the black smoke from the Naphtha fires made visibility poor.

The battlefield was a chaotic mix of burning sand, screaming horses, and the rhythmic thrum-thrum of heavy crossbows.

Roland, on the other hand, was currently engaging in combat against one of Ragnar's "Iron Gear" sergeants. As the sergeant thrust his pike at Roland's chest, the Grandmaster swiftly deflected the strike with his kite shield and severed the pike shaft with a single, practiced blow of his sword.

He then followed through with a pommel strike to the sergeant's helmet, denting the steel and dropping the man to the wet sand.

Roland had trained his whole life in the art of chivalric combat. Though pikes and drills were efficient, against a man who had been swinging a sword since age six, the "Interns" were struggling to hold the line.

The surviving knights of the Sacred Flame surrounded Roland, forming a wedge of steel that pushed hard against Ragnar's barricades.

When grouped together, they made an easy target for the Grenadier Division - a squad of Saxons Ragnar had trained to throw clay pots filled with "Spicy Mix."

One grenadier lobbed a pot into the mix..

The explosion shredded the formation, sending shrapnel and black powder smoke into the air.

The blast tore the crest off Roland's helmet and knocked his visor loose, revealing his face which was spotted from afar by Ragnar.

A wicked, shark-like grin appeared on Ragnar's face as he spotted the Grandmaster from his vantage point.

"There you are, you Luddite! It is time to pay the late fees!"

After collapsing his telescope, Ragnar unsheathed his heavy cavalry sabre and checked the cylinder of his revolver crossbow. He turned to General Bjorn and Vizier Al-Hakam, who were watching the battle with awe.

"The market is ripe for a correction," Ragnar declared. "Efficiency is Victory!"

Ragnar leaped from the train, sliding down the gravel embankment with a shower of sparks. He didn't charge alone.

A squad of his elite "Head Office Guard" followed him into the fray.

Ragnar led his forces straight toward Roland, cutting a path through the bewildered Frankish levies who had never seen a man fight with such brutal, mathematical precision.

A thrust to the throat, a bolt to the chest, a kick to the knee.

However, before Ragnar could reach Roland, the chaos of battle affected his trajectory. A stray arrow from a Frankish longbowman struck Ragnar in the shoulder pauldron.

The "Mark III" plate held, but the impact staggered him.

Ragnar fell to one knee in the wet sand, finding himself surrounded by three Frankish squires.

He quickly parried a sword strike with his sabre and used the momentum to fire his crossbow point-blank into the squire's stomach.

The bolt punched through the mail, and the squire folded. Ragnar spun, using the heavy stock of the crossbow to smash the jaw of the second attacker.

The third hesitated, terrified by the weapon that didn't need reloading. Ragnar didn't hesitate.

Seeing the target of his audit was only a few yards in front of him, Ragnar shouted out above the chaotic sounds of battle, his voice amplified by the strange acoustics of the burning beach.

"Roland! I've come to cancel your subscription!"

Noticing the voice of the heathen industrialist taunting him, Roland quickly finished off a wounded Saxon and turned to face Ragnar. The Grandmaster's eyes were wild with religious fervor.

"Today, you die, Demon!" Roland screamed, pointing his bloodied sword. "Your machines cannot save you from the wrath of God! You killed a child for a toy, but I will kill you for the soul of Europe!"

"You killed the child!" Ragnar roared back, stepping over a burning log. "I just built the toy! You destroyed the future because you were afraid of it!"

Roland charged.

Ragnar grinned wickedly as he clashed with Roland's longsword. The Grandmaster was strong, faster than any raider Ragnar had fought.

Roland slashed in a high arc, which Ragnar parried with a grunt, sparks flying from the steel.

As the battle raged around them, the two commanders danced in the sand.

He aimed for the joints, the gaps, the weak points in the armor design.

However, it soon became apparent that despite the advantages of Ragnar's modern metallurgy, he was not a knight. He was a project manager who lifted weights. Eventually, Roland feinted a high strike and kicked Ragnar's leg out from under him.

Ragnar fell onto his back, the air driven from his lungs. His sabre flew from his hand.

Roland loomed over him, raising his sword for the killing blow.

"You speak of efficiency," Roland sneered, his breath coming in ragged gasps.

"But look at you. Lying in the mud like a dog. Where is your steam engine now? Where is your math? God has judged you, and found you wanting!"

Ragnar stared up at the steel tip of the sword.

"Judged?" Ragnar coughed, a smirk forming on his lips. "Roland, you are looking at the micro. You need to look at the macro."

Roland hesitated, confused by the terminology. "What?"

With a swift motion, Ragnar didn't reach for a weapon. He reached for a small, unassuming pouch on his belt.

He pulled the pin on a "Prototype Grenade" (a cast-iron sphere filled with 'Spicy Mix' and a friction fuse) and rolled it between Roland's legs.

Roland looked down. "A ball?"

"Fire in the hole!" Ragnar screamed, rolling to the side and covering his head.

BOOM!

The explosion wasn't large enough to kill everyone nearby, but at point-blank range, beneath a skirt of chainmail, it was devastating.

The concussive force shattered Roland's greaves and sent shrapnel tearing into his legs and lower torso.

Roland screamed and collapsed backward, his sword falling from his grasp.

Ragnar scrambled to his feet, ears ringing, sand covering his armor. He picked up his sabre and walked over to the Grandmaster.

Roland was still alive, but his legs were ruined. He looked up at Ragnar with eyes full of agony and confusion.

"You... you fight without honor," Roland wheezed, blood bubbling on his lips.

Ragnar knelt beside the dying knight. He removed Roland's battered helmet. The handsome face of the Grandmaster was pale, life draining away into the sand.

"You think... you have won," Roland whispered. "But others... others will come. The Church... is eternal."

"Nothing is eternal, Roland," Ragnar corrected, leaning close.

Ragnar stood up. He looked at the remaining Frankish knights, who had stopped fighting upon seeing their leader fall.

"Your CEO is dead!" Ragnar bellowed, holding up Roland's helmet. "The merger is cancelled! Surrender, and you get to keep your lives! Resist, and you get the Naphtha!"

The knights looked at the burning beach. They looked at the train hissing steam. They looked at the shattered body of their Grandmaster.

One by one, they dropped their swords.

Ragnar looked down at Roland one last time.

"I really have to thank you, Roland," Ragnar said softly. "If you hadn't invaded, I wouldn't have had a reason to test the Flamethrower. You provided excellent data."

Roland's eyes widened in horror. He died believing he was staring into the face of a mechanized devil.

Ragnar turned away. He walked back toward the train, where Al-Hakam was waiting with a look of pure, unadulterated respect.

"Now, let's get back to the office. I believe we have a victory feast to plan. And I want Waffles."

As the sun set over the smoking beach of Sandwich, the Iron Empire had secured its borders.