Building a Viking Empire with Modern Industry-Chapter 195: Unleash the iron!

Hours passed in the freezing dark. Since the tactical meeting concluded in the Great Hall, Bjorn had organized the laborers to haul two massive, brass-trimmed field cannons from the ironclad’s hold all the way to the highest rocky outcropping overlooking the village’s narrow valley entrance.

Grunting under the immense weight of the iron barrels, the men hauled the thick hemp ropes over their broad shoulders, their boots slipping in the icy mud as they fought the steep incline of the fjord.

At the moment, Ragnar stood atop the ridge, leaning heavily on his iron-tipped cane while watching his gun crews anchor the artillery carriages securely into the frozen dirt.

Four men were assigned to each gun, expertly checking the steam-pressure valves and ramming the heavy canister shot down the barrels with long wooden poles.

Eventually, the heavy weapons were locked into position, their dark muzzles pointing down into the muddy thoroughfare of the village.

With this said, the kill zone was perfected, leaving nothing to do but wait for the trap to spring.

Dawn began to bleed over the horizon, painting the snow-capped peaks in bruised shades of purple and gold. Ragnar checked his silver pocket watch, snapping it shut. 𝕗𝐫𝚎𝗲𝘄𝐞𝕓𝐧𝕠𝘃𝕖𝐥.𝐜𝚘𝚖

"The angle is optimal," Gyda observed. "Ultimately, a crossfire from this elevation should yield a devastating harvest. These two guns alone could slaughter seventy, perhaps even a hundred of them in the opening volley."

"Let us hope they group up tightly," Bjorn grunted, drawing his heavy broadsword and testing its razor edge against his thumb. "After all, it is far less work for my blade if the cannons grind them into the mud first."

A low, rhythmic thumping suddenly echoed from the misty tree line at the edge of the valley.

It was the heavy, terrifying sound of war drums. Though Ragnar had expected a disorganized horde of screaming savages, the force that emerged from the fog moved with a chilling, predatory purpose. Leading the pack were massive men clad in bear pelts and bone jewelry.

However, it was not the cannibal berserkers that caught Ragnar’s eye. Trailing just behind the vanguard was a disciplined line of men carrying tall, curved lengths of polished wood.

"By the Forge," Ragnar hissed, his eye narrowing behind his monocle as he recognized the weapons. "Those are English longbows! Yew wood, with a heavy draw."

"Longbows?" Gyda questioned, her brow furrowing in deep irritation as she hastily updated her tactical ledger. "How did a ragged band of Norwegian cannibals acquire advanced ranged weaponry from the Isles?"

"Seeing his men armed with such weapons, King Erik must have raided a Mercian merchant vessel that drifted too far north," Ragnar deduced, his jaw tightening as the enemy marched closer.

"Despite this new variable, the plan remains unchanged. We hold the high ground, and they are walking blindly into the furnace."

The cannibal tax collectors marched deeper into the valley, sneering at the seemingly abandoned village of Kattegat. They expected to find cowering peasants offering tribute and begging for their lives. That is, until they reached the exact center of the designated kill box.

Ragnar raised his cane high into the freezing air, his voice booming down the valley.

"Fire!"

The gunners yanked the heavy lanyards. The twin field cannons roared to life, unleashing a blinding flash of orange fire and a deafening shockwave that shook the heavy snow from the surrounding pine branches.

A storm of lead and iron canister shot ripped through the crisp morning air, tearing directly into the tightly packed ranks of the vanguard with unstoppable momentum.

The devastation was absolute and instantaneous. Dozens of berserkers were reduced to a red mist in a fraction of a second, their bodies shredded by the high-velocity shrapnel before they could even raise their axes.

Thus, the entire front line simply ceased to exist, leaving a cratered, bloody mess in the pristine snow.

Nevertheless, the surviving warriors did not break and run as Ragnar had projected. Instead, a guttural roar of fury erupted from the rear ranks, and the disciplined longbowmen stepped forward with terrifying speed.

Drawing the heavy yew bows back to their ears, they loosed a dense, whistling volley of arrows into the sky, the deadly shafts arcing directly toward Ragnar’s elevated position.

"Shields up!" Bjorn bellowed, throwing his massive body in front of Ragnar and raising a heavy, iron-bound buckler to cover them both.

The arrows rained down like deadly hail, clattering violently against the blackened steel breastplates of the Iron Guard and embedding themselves deep into the wooden gun carriages.

One of the artillerymen cried out in sudden agony, clutching his shoulder where a broadhead arrow had punched through the small gap in his armor.

"They have the range to reach us!" Gyda shouted over the din, pressing herself flat against a large granite boulder to avoid the incoming fire. "This is an unacceptable liability, Ragnar!"

"Then we settle their debts!" Ragnar snarled, ducking behind the reinforced carriage of the cannon. He pulled his silver whistle from his coat and blew three sharp, piercing blasts that cut through the sounds of battle.

On the snow-covered roofs of the longhouses below, the hidden Grenadiers stood up in perfect unison. Armed with their repeating crossbows, they slammed the tin quick-load clips into their weapons.

"Unleash the iron!" the Shift Supervisor yelled from the rooftops, pointing his sword at the trapped enemy.

A continuous, mechanical thwack-thwack-thwack filled the narrow valley. Steel bolts rained down upon the cannibal army from every conceivable angle, turning the narrow dirt street into a brutal meat grinder.

The longbowmen, desperately attempting to nock their second arrows, were instantly pinned down and slaughtered by the sheer volume of suppressing fire from the rooftops.

Afterward, the valley descended into pure, unadulterated chaos. The surviving berserkers, realizing they were trapped in a deadly crossfire between the high ground artillery and the rooftop marksmen, finally broke their discipline.

Screaming in blind, animalistic rage, they charged wildly toward the longhouses, swinging their axes at the heavy timber doors.

Yet, they could not reach the walls before the Grenadiers cycled their levers with practiced efficiency and fired again, dropping the charging madmen into the bloody snow one by one.

Ragnar stood back up, calmly brushing a stray arrow from the sleeve of his blue wool coat.