Building a Viking Empire with Modern Industry-Chapter 207: Serpent’s Pass Awaits

Despite this bitter defeat, the Gore-King, Erik Blood-Tooth, sat unmoved upon his throne deep within the frozen heart of The Fang. Though his frame appeared skinny and almost English in its refined pallor, with a long, flowing beard that framed a face more suited to scholarly halls than savage battlefields.

Around him, three trusted counsellors waited in silence for their lord to speak.

Seeing his advisors gathered close, Erik leaned forward upon his throne. "Thus we sit," he began, "while the fires of our fallen brothers still smolder on the beach at Kattegat. Tell me, my wise ones, who is this Ragnar that has come among us? What manner of man dares sail into my waters, slaying my chosen berserkers as though they were nothing more than summer wheat beneath the scythe? How, by the blood of the old gods, did he achieve such slaughter?"

The first counsellor, a lean man named Thrain, bowed his head before speaking. "My King, since the wounded survivors you allowed to return have staggered back with tales that chill even the bravest hearts, we have pieced together the truth from their broken words and from the reports of our spies hidden among the southern coasts...

This Ragnar, they say, is no mere raider or exiled jarl. He is the king of half of England itself... the Iron Father, they call him, ruler over the soot-choked lands of the Midlands where he has forged an empire of steel. Though we once believed him only a distant shadow beyond the sea, his spies have confirmed what the wounded berserkers witnessed with their own eyes."

That is, until the second counsellor, a stout figure named Eirik, raised a hand to continue the grim accounting.

"Naturally, the tales grow wilder with every retelling, yet the core remains the same. The survivors spoke of a great ship of iron that belched black smoke from twin stacks, a vessel that moved without oars or sail. When our fleet struck at dawn, this metal beast was meant to turn its guns upon our longships, yet something caused it to explode in a pillar of flame that shook the very fjord. Despite this loss to Ragnar’s own forces, his men did not break. From the high ridge above the beach, his warriors rained down spheres of black powder that burst like the wrath of Thor, tearing limbs and scattering our vanguard as though they were leaves before a storm. Grenades, the survivors called them... weapons of fire and iron shards that no shield or mail could turn aside."

Yet even as Eirik spoke, the third counsellor, a gaunt scholar named Harald whose knowledge of southern realms had saved the Gore-King’s throne more than once, leaned forward with a grim smile.

"And that is not the worst of it, my lord. The wounded berserkers who limped back to The Fang described how he stood upon the blood-soaked shingle, while his warriors held a thin shield wall against two thousand of our finest. His steel ship may lie at the bottom of the bay, but the reinforcements he has summoned are already on the horizon. Our spies in the south whisper that he rules not merely half of England, but an empire of thirty thousand men clad in uniform steel, armed with repeating crossbows and cannons that can level a mountain pass in a single volley."

Seeing the growing fury in his king’s eyes, Thrain pressed on, his voice steady though the words carried the chill of prophecy. "Thus we must ask ourselves the question that haunts every hall from here to the Welsh Marches: why has this Iron Father come to our frozen shores? He did not sail for plunder or glory alone. The survivors swear he spoke of timber and deep-water ports, of railways that span entire kingdoms and factories that belch smoke into skies that once knew only clean wind. He seeks to turn our ancient fjords into forges for his endless wars... That is, until we stop him. He let our men live precisely so they would return with terror in their hearts and tales of sorcery upon their lips."

Despite this grim recounting, Erik Blood-Tooth did not rise in rage. Instead, he rose slowly from his throne, and began to pace with deliberate steps.

"Naturally, the gods test us with such men," he murmured. "This Ragnar believes himself a king, come to drag the North into his sooty age. Yet he forgets that we are the sons of the old blood... the ones who sailed when Rome still burned and who have feasted on the marrow of empires greater than his! He does not understand that fear, properly kindled, becomes the greatest weapon of all!"

Thus the counsellors exchanged glances, and Eirik dared to speak again. "My King, if the reports are true and his reinforcements... two thousand steel-clad Grenadiers with siege mortars will drop anchor within days, then we must choose our path now. Shall we meet him in open battle upon the Serpent’s Pass, or do we draw him deeper into our mountains where the winter fights at our side?"

Harald nodded. "Or perhaps, since he has shown himself a man of ledgers and markets rather than pure rage, we offer him a poisoned treaty... timber rights in exchange for tribute, all while our spies infiltrate his camps and learn the secrets of his thunder-weapons. He is no fool, but every man has a price."

Seeing the fire return to his king’s gaunt face, Thrain concluded with quiet intensity. "Whatever path we choose, the Iron Father has made one fatal error. He does not yet understand that here, in the shadow of The Fang, the old gods still demand blood... and we shall give them his!"

Erik Blood-Tooth stopped his pacing at last. A terrible smile spread beneath his long English beard as he looked upon his three counsellors.

"Thus the stage is set," he declared. "Let the Iron Father come with his ships and his bombs and his thirty thousand men. Let him believe the North will kneel before his steam and steel. For when he marches his host up the Serpent’s Pass, when he believes victory is already written in his ledgers, we shall teach him the one truth the old gods have never forgotten!"

And with those words, the Gore-King turned toward the window that overlooked the endless white expanse of his domain, as though the very mountain itself waited eagerly for the blood that was soon to come.