Building a Viking Empire with Modern Industry-Chapter 44: Liability of Victory

The Walls of York, Dawn

Ragnar stood on the battlements, gripping the cold stone. The night before, the "Public Relations Campaign" the massive bitumen fire had turned the area in front of the gate into a hellscape. Now, the fire was out, leaving behind a thick, oily black sludge and the charred remains of the Berserker charge.

"Urgh."

Ragnar leaned over the side and emptied his stomach. The contents of his dinner (porridge and stress) splashed onto the stones below.

"You have a weak stomach, Director," a voice boomed beside him.

General Bjorn stood there, munching on a piece of hardtack. He looked out at the carnage with the casual interest of a man inspecting a garden.

"It’s efficient," Bjorn noted, pointing a crumb-covered finger at the field. "The ’Broom’ canisters shredded the front line. The tar trapped the second line. We achieved a 90% casualty rate in the Kill Zone."

Ragnar wiped his mouth with his sleeve, his face pale. In his past life, he had designed systems. He dealt with numbers, blueprints, and safety regulations. He had never seen what happens when industrial efficiency is applied to human biology.

"It’s not efficient, Bjorn," Ragnar muttered, standing up straight. "It’s a butcher shop."

"It’s victory," Bjorn shrugged. "The wolf does not mourn the sheep. Eat some bread. You look green."

Ragnar pushed the bread away. He looked down at the "Industrial Corps."

The "Broken Men" were walking among the dead. But they weren’t looting in the traditional sense. They were reclaiming assets. 𝚏𝐫𝚎𝗲𝕨𝐞𝐛𝕟𝚘𝐯𝚎𝗹.𝕔𝐨𝗺

"Squad Four, retrieve the bolts!" a one-legged captain shouted. "Iron is expensive! Pull them out!"

They were scavenging ammunition from the bodies. It was gruesome, but Ragnar had drilled the cost of production into their heads so deeply that they saw a reusable bolt before they saw a corpse.

"Is it over?" Ragnar asked, looking at the distant tree line where the survivors had fled.

"The mob is broken," Bjorn agreed. "Einar’s ’Army of the Unemployed’ has filed for bankruptcy."

Ragnar nodded. He should have felt relieved. The "Severance Package" had been delivered. The factory was safe.

But something felt wrong.

"Prepare the advance," Ragnar ordered, his voice rasping.

Bjorn stopped chewing. "Advance? We hold the walls. We have the advantage."

"We need to confirm the liquidation," Ragnar said, channeling his inner CEO to hide his nausea. "We need to find Einar. If we don’t catch him, he will just hire more mercenaries. I want to close this account today."

Bjorn grinned. He liked the sound of hunting.

"Standard formation?" Bjorn asked.

"No," Ragnar said. "Execute Phase Two: The Mobile Fortress."

Ten minutes later, the gates of York opened.

But the Vikings didn’t charge out screaming. They rolled out.

The Huscarls Ivar’s elite warriors marched in a tight, rectangular formation. Their shields were locked together, creating a solid wall of oak and iron. Inside this box of shields walked the Industrial Corps. They carried their repeating crossbows and portable Torsion Spikes mounted on wheelbarrows.

"Forward!" Erik the Lame shouted from inside the formation. "Keep the pace! Left! Left!"

Ragnar rode on a horse in the center of the square, flanked by his father, Ulf.

Ulf looked at the formation with a mixture of confusion and pride.

"It is slow," Ulf grunted, watching the Huscarls struggle to keep step. "It lacks... spirit."

"Spirit gets you killed, Father," Ragnar replied, scanning the tree line. "Discipline gets you home."

They moved across the battlefield, the wheels of the Torsion Spikes crunching over the debris of the night’s battle. They reached the edge of the woods where Einar had gathered his forces.

Ragnar raised his hand. "Halt!"

The formation stopped with a clatter of shields.

"Deploy the scouts," Ragnar ordered.

A squad of "Tech-Thralls" ran forward, not with swords, but with long poles to check for traps.

The woods were silent.

Ragnar rode forward. He expected an ambush. He expected a last stand.

Instead, he found a ghost town.

The ancient Longhouse where the conspirators had met was empty. The fire was dead. There were discarded weapons, empty ale casks, and a few bodies of mercenaries who had died of their wounds. But there was no Einar. No Jarl Sigurd. No Father Wilfrid.

"Where are they?" Ragnar whispered.

Ulf rode up beside him. The old chieftain sniffed the air. He looked at the tracks in the mud.

"Director," Ulf said, his voice losing its usual jovial tone. "Something is wrong."

"They ran away," Ragnar said hopefully. "They saw the fire and ran."

"No," Ulf shook his head. "Look at the bodies on the field. Who are they?"

Ragnar looked back at the carnage near the city walls. "Berserkers. Wolf-Skins. Mercenaries."

"Exactly," Ulf growled. "Expendable men. The trash. But where are the Huscarls who swore loyalty to Einar? Where are the Jarls? I don’t see any noble corpses."

Ragnar felt a cold chill that had nothing to do with the English winter.

"You think this was a diversion?"

"I think Einar is old-fashioned, but he is not stupid," Ulf said, gripping his axe. "He fed the mob to your machines. He let you waste your ’Broom’ shots and your tar on the pawns."

Ulf pointed to the ground. There were tracks heavy tracks leading away from the city. But then, they circled back.

"There were no scouts," Ulf noted. "When we marched out, no one fired at us. No one watched us. That means their eyes are looking somewhere else."

Ragnar’s mind raced. He thought about the map Father Wilfrid had shown the nobles. The map the Weasel had warned him about.

The sewers.

"The Governor’s Palace," Ragnar whispered.

He had left Gyda there. He had told her to secure the archives. He had thought the walls were the only entry point.

"Oh no," Ragnar breathed.

He had been so proud of his "Aegis Protocol," his walls, his machines. He had treated war like a tower defense game. He had forgotten that in the real world, rats don’t attack the wall. They go under it.

"I am an idiot," Ragnar cursed, turning his horse around. "I engineered a fortress and left the drain plug open."

"What is it?" Bjorn asked, seeing Ragnar’s panic.

"The sewers!" Ragnar screamed. "They aren’t in the woods! They are under the city! They are going for the Palace!"

...

The Governor’s Palace, York

Minutes earlier.

Princess Gyda sat in the archives, her feet propped up on the desk. She was bored. The sounds of battle had faded hours ago.

She picked up a small glass vial of sulfuric acid.

"I wonder if this can dissolve a lock," she mused to herself.

A sound came from the scullery. Not a knock. Not a footstep. It sounded like stone grinding on stone.

Gyda froze. She gently placed the acid on the table. She picked up the Valkyrie’s Sting.

She moved silently to the door of the archive. She listened.

Wet footsteps. Many of them.

"The drains," Gyda realized. Her eyes widened.

She was furious.

"They are tracking filth onto my clean floors," she hissed.

She retreated into the archive room. She looked at the crates of black powder she had been organizing.

’Liquidation Strategy’, she had called it.

She grabbed a heavy bag of powder. She grabbed a coil of slow-match fuse.

The door handle to the hallway turned slowly.

"Director Ragnar is not here," Gyda whispered to the door, cocking her crossbow. "But the Auditor is in."

...

Back on the Field

"Turn the formation!" Ragnar roared. "Double time! Back to the city!"

The Industrial Corps tried to turn. But a formation of five hundred men locked in shields is not a sports car. It is a barge. It turned slowly, clumsily.

"Forget the formation!" Ragnar shouted, abandoning his own doctrine. "Bjorn! Take the Huscarls! Run!"

"What about the machines?" Erik the Lame cried.

"Leave them!" Ragnar yelled, kicking his horse into a gallop. "If Einar gets to the Palace, there won’t be an industry left to protect!"

He rode hard, mud flying from the hooves. He watched the distant tower of the Governor’s Palace.

He prayed to Odin, he prayed to Thor, and for good measure, he prayed to the Patron Saint of Structural Integrity.

Please let the floorboards hold, Ragnar thought. And please let Gyda have enough ammo.

As he neared the city gates, he saw it.

A plume of white smoke erupted from the upper windows of the Palace. The sound rolled over the city.

Ragnar’s heart stopped. That wasn’t a Torsion Spike. That was black powder!

"She blew the budget," Ragnar whispered.

He spurred his horse faster.

"Hang on, Gyda," he shouted into the wind. "The Cavalry is coming!"