Building a Viking Empire with Modern Industry-Chapter 47: Final Liquidation

The Royal Palace, Tamworth - Capital of Mercia

King Burgred of Mercia sat in his private solar, a heavy silver goblet in his hand. Across from him stood a man who looked like he had crawled through a swamp to get there. It was one of the few surviving assassins from the York operation.

"How did it go?" Burgred asked, his voice low and dangerous. He swirled the wine in his cup. "Did the Builder fall? Is the factory burning?"

The assassin flinched. He was missing an ear a souvenir from a close encounter with a ’Broom’ canister.

"Your Highness," the assassin stammered, sweat dripping onto the expensive rug. "It was... a catastrophe. The Builder knew. He had traps inside the traps. He dropped fire on the berserkers. He used... machines that spit iron like rain."

Burgred just stared at the man.

"And the gold?" Burgred asked. "The chest of pennies I sent to Jarl Einar?"

"Lost, sire. Einar is dead. The Builder’s wife... she shot him. They say she keeps the books better than she keeps mercy."

A heavy silence hung in the room. The assassin trembled, waiting for the guards to drag him away.

"Get out," Burgred finally whispered.

The assassin didn’t wait to be told twice. He scrambled backward and fled the room, happy to be alive and unemployed.

Burgred drained his cup. He stood up and walked to the window, looking North.

"He builds schools," Burgred muttered to himself. "He builds furnaces. And now, he crushes coups with plumbing."

He rang a small bell on his desk. His chief Ealdorman entered.

"My King?"

"Double the patrols on the border," Burgred commanded, his voice turning icy. "And send riders to Wessex. Tell King Aethelred that the heathens aren’t just raiding anymore. They are industrializing."

Burgred crushed the silver cup in his hand.

****

The City of York

Today was a significant day in the corporate calendar of Jernheim. It was Audit Day. The news of the failed coup had rippled through the city like a shockwave. The traditionalists the men who had longed for the ’Old Ways’ were terrified. They had expected Ragnar to be weak without his army. instead, he had crushed a rebellion of two thousand men using nothing but boiling oil, quicklime, and a very angry wife.

The common folk, however, were ecstatic.

For the thralls, the ’Broken Men’, and the new ’Tech-Thralls’, Ragnar gave them salaries. He gave them shoes. He gave them a reason to wake up that wasn’t just avoiding a beating.

"Long live the Director!"

"Long live the Industry!"

The chants echoed through the streets as the crowds gathered in the main square. The ’Broken Men’ acted as ushers, directing traffic with their colored flags.

However, there was another group that wasn’t cheering. The remaining Jarls the ones who hadn’t joined Einar but hadn’t helped Ragnar either stood in the back, sweating. They realized that the era of "Might makes Right" was over. The era of "Compliance makes Right" had begun.

In the center of the square, a wooden structure had been erected.

It wasn’t a traditional execution block. It was a scaffold with a complex system of pulleys and counterweights.

Ragnar stood on the balcony of the Governor’s Palace, looking down at the scene. He wore his steel sallet helmet and a clean tunic. Beside him stood Gyda, holding the Ledger.

"Are you sure about this?" Gyda asked quietly. "A public execution is... old-fashioned."

"It is necessary," Ragnar replied, his voice devoid of emotion. "We are not killing men, Gyda. We are killing an idea. The idea that you can disrupt the workflow and get away with it."

He looked at the prisoners being led out.

There were ten of them. The surviving ringleaders of the sewer assault. At the front, limping heavily from a bolt wound in his shoulder, was Father Wilfrid.

Ragnar felt no pity. If Wilfrid had succeeded, Gyda would be dead. The school would be ash. The future would be cancelled.

"Bring them up," Ragnar ordered.

The crowd jeered as the prisoners were marched up the wooden steps.

"Traitor!"

"Saboteur!"

A rotten turnip hit Father Wilfrid in the face. He stumbled, but the guards Tech-Thralls armed with heavy batons pushed him forward.

Wilfrid looked up at the balcony. He saw Ragnar. He saw the cold, mathematical stare of the Engineer.

"You cannot do this!" Wilfrid shouted, his voice cracking. "I am a man of God! I am an envoy of Mercia! This is an act of war!"

Ragnar leaned over the railing. He picked up his birch-bark megaphone.

"You are not a man of God today, Wilfrid," Ragnar’s voice boomed across the square.

"You took Mercian gold," Ragnar continued, reading from a sheet of paper Gyda handed him. "You hired mercenaries. You tried to destroy the Governor’s Palace. You violated Article 2 of the York Industrial Act: Sabotage of Critical Infrastructure."

Ragnar looked at the crowd.

"What is the penalty for Sabotage?"

"LIQUIDATION!" the crowd roared back. It was terrifying how quickly they had adopted the corporate terminology.

Wilfrid looked around wildly. "I demand a trial! I demand a duel!"

"Your trial was the explosion in my hallway," Ragnar said coldly. "And you lost."

He signaled to Erik the Lame, who was standing by the lever of the gallows.

"Erik," Ragnar said. "Close the account."

Erik grinned. He didn’t hate the priest because he was Christian. He hated him because the priest had tried to burn down the place that gave Erik a pension.

"Processing," Erik grunted.

He pulled the lever.

Ragnar had designed a drop-hatch system. The floor dropped out from under the ten men simultaneously.

The ropes snapped tight.

The crows, which had been circling the towers of York since the siege began, descended. They didn’t care about politics. They only cared that the feast had been served.

"Caw. Caw."

Ragnar watched the bodies sway gently in the wind. He didn’t feel triumph. He felt a grim satisfaction. The bottleneck had been removed.

He turned to Gyda. "Send the head of the priest back to King Burgred," Ragnar ordered calmly. "Put it in a box with a bill for the damage to the palace doors."

"A bill?" Gyda raised an eyebrow.

"Yes. Itemize the cost of the wood, the oil, and the labor required to clean the blood," Ragnar said. "Let him know that war with us is expensive."

Gyda smiled. It was a sharp, dangerous smile.

"I will add a surcharge for emotional distress," she said, making a note in her ledger.

Ragnar looked out at the city. The Huscarls were patrolling the streets. The factory smoke was rising again. The school bell was ringing.

"Now," Ragnar said, taking off his helmet. "We have a kingdom to stabilize. And I have an idea for a new project."

"Oh no," Gyda sighed, though she took his arm. "What is it now?"

"Agriculture," Ragnar said, looking at the fertile fields beyond the walls. "The famine is coming in winter. We need to industrialize the farms."

He looked at the swaying bodies one last time, then turned his back on death to focus on life.

"Bjorn!" Ragnar shouted. "Get the shovel! We’re going farming!"