Building a Viking Empire with Modern Industry-Chapter 52: The Relay and the Roller

The Courtyard of the Governor’s Palace, York

Ragnar stood on the balcony, watching the chaos below.

Today was Day Two of the Great Jernheim Talent Search.

Having filled the positions for Chemistry, Infrastructure, and Textiles, Ragnar now faced the two most critical bottlenecks in his supply chain: Logistics (Transportation) and Communication.

"We are bleeding efficiency," Ragnar muttered, looking at a wagon stuck in the mud near the gate. "We mine the coal, but it takes two days to get to the furnace. We spot a Mercian scout, but it takes a day for the report to reach my desk. It’s unacceptable."

Gyda, the Prime Minister, stood beside him. She was eating a piece of dried venison with the precision of a surgeon.

"The Huscarls say the mud is a test from the Gods," she noted dryly. "They say if you cannot pull the cart, you are weak."

"The mud is a friction coefficient," Ragnar corrected. "And I am going to solve it."

He pointed to the courtyard. "Bring in the candidates for the Ministry of Logistics."

In the reference Chapter of Ragnar’s memory (from his past life), a wise king had asked candidates to build a road. But Ragnar already had Cedric for roads. Ragnar needed someone who understood movement.

Three men stood in the courtyard. They were burly, scarred, and looked like they could wrestle a bear.

Olaf the Ox: A man whose neck was wider than his head.

Sven the Strong: A former raider known for carrying two sheep at once.

Kari the Cartwright: A smaller man with grease-stained hands and a permanent squint.

Ragnar walked down the steps, followed by Gyda (holding the ledger) and Bjorn (holding a large stick to prevent cheating).

"Gentlemen," Ragnar began. "Long live the Industry."

"Long live the Industry!" the candidates grunted, though they looked confused by the slogan.

"Your task is simple," Ragnar said. He pointed to three massive crates sitting on the far side of the courtyard. Each crate was filled with lead ingots. They weighed roughly 500 pounds each.

"I need those crates moved to the gate," Ragnar pointed to the exit, about fifty meters away. "You have ten minutes. Speed is good. Not dying of a hernia is better."

"Begin!" Bjorn shouted.

Olaf the Ox didn’t hesitate. He spat on his hands, grabbed the first crate, and roared. HRRRAAAAGH! veins bulged in his neck. He lifted the crate three inches off the ground and began to waddle forward, his face turning purple.

Sven the Strong tried a different tactic. He tied a rope around the crate and began to drag it. The wooden bottom of the crate ground against the cobblestones with a screeching sound that made Gyda wince. Scrrraaaape. Friction was winning. Sven was sweating buckets after five meters.

Kari the Cartwright didn’t touch the crate.

He walked over to a pile of firewood stacked near the kitchen. He grabbed four round logs, each about the thickness of a man’s arm.

He tipped the crate up with a pry-bar, kicked the first log under it, then the second. He pushed.

The crate rolled forward on the logs. As the back log came free, he ran around and put it in the front.

It was the principle of the wheel. It was the reduction of friction. While Olaf was hyperventilating at the ten-meter mark and Sven was cursing the gods of friction, Kari was whistling as he rolled his 500-pound load across the finish line.

"Time!" Ragnar shouted.

Olaf dropped his crate with a thud that cracked a paving stone. Sven collapsed, gasping.

Kari dusted off his hands.

"Why carry the weight," Kari shrugged, "when the ground can carry it for you?"

Ragnar looked at Gyda. "Hired," Ragnar said. "Kari, you are the Minister of Logistics. I want you to design a wagon that doesn’t get stuck. I want ball bearings. I want axles that don’t snap."

Kari grinned, revealing a missing tooth. "I need grease, Director. Lots of pig fat."

"You’ll get it," Ragnar promised.

With the heavy lifting settled, Ragnar moved to the Great Hall for the final interviews: The Ministry of Communication.

This was trickier. The "Quality Control Department" (Leif’s spies) handled secrets. But Ragnar needed a public system. A Post Office. He needed to send orders, tax receipts, and love letters (well, audit reports) across the empire swiftly and securely.

The candidates entered.

Arne the Screamer: A man with a lung capacity that could shatter glass.

Egil the Runner: A wiry youth who claimed he could outrun a horse (he couldn’t).

Hilda the Hostess: A stern-looking woman who ran the largest network of inns in Northumbria.

Ragnar sat on his throne (which was actually an ergonomic office chair he had custom-built).

"Welcome," Ragnar said. "You are here because you claim to know how to move words."

He looked at them. "I need a network. My question is this: How do I send a message from York to the Scottish border a distance of 150 miles in less than 24 hours? A horse can only run 30 miles before it dies."

Arne the Screamer stepped forward. "I would set up a chain of men on the hilltops! I would shout to the next man! He would shout to the next!"

"And if it is a secret?" Ragnar asked. "Or a complex tax document? Can you shout a spreadsheet?"

Arne blinked. "I... I can shout numbers very loudly."

"Dismissed," Ragnar said. "Inefficient. High packet loss."

Egil the Runner stepped up. "I would use fresh horses, Lord! I would ride until the horse collapsed, then steal another!"

"That is theft," Gyda noted, writing something in her ledger. "And horses are expensive assets. We do not waste assets."

Egil shrank back. Then, Hilda the Hostess stepped forward.

"Your Highness," Hilda said, her voice calm. "The problem is not the horse. The problem is the rider."

Ragnar leaned forward. "Explain."

"A rider gets tired," Hilda said. "A horse gets tired. But the road does not get tired."

She pulled out a piece of charcoal and drew a line on the floor.

"We establish Stations," Hilda explained, marking dots on the line. "Every 20 miles. At each station, there are fresh horses and fresh riders waiting."

"Relays," Ragnar nodded. "Go on."

"The messenger arrives," Hilda continued. "He does not rest. He tosses the bag to the next rider. The next rider is already mounted. He goes. The message never stops moving. It flows like water."

"The Pony Express," Ragnar whispered in English.

"I call it the Raven Flight," Hilda corrected. "But there is a flaw."

"What flaw?" Ragnar asked.

Hilda frowned. She looked stuck. "Security. If the rider is attacked... or if he steals the message... the chain breaks. I do not know how to secure the package without sending an army with every letter."

Ragnar watched her. She had the concept (the beats of the reference material were playing out), but she needed the final piece of the puzzle.

Suddenly, a voice spoke from the back of the room.

"You don’t secure the rider," the voice said.

Ragnar looked up. Leif the Lesser was leaning against a pillar, peeling an orange.

"Leif?" Ragnar asked. "Do you have a suggestion?"

"I do," Leif grinned. "Locks."

Leif walked forward, tossing the orange peel to a goat that wandered into the hall.

"Hilda is right about the stations," Leif said. "But to fix the security, you use Locked Leather Satchels. The Station Master at York has a key. The Station Master at the border has a key. The riders? They don’t have keys. They are just engines."

Leif looked at Hilda. "And you create a Paper Trail. Every time a bag reaches a station, the Station Master stamps a logbook. Time in. Time out. If a bag goes missing between Station A and Station B, we know exactly which rider stole it."

Ragnar looked from Hilda to Leif.

"Hilda," Ragnar said. "You have the infrastructure. You know the inns. You know the roads."

"Leif," Ragnar continued. "You know the security. You know the locks."

"Hilda, you are the Postmaster General," Ragnar declared. "I want a station every 20 miles from here to the Wall. I want fresh horses. I want riders who are light, fast, and sober."

Hilda curtsied deeply. "It will be done, Director."

"And Leif," Ragnar added. "Your ’Quality Control’ agents will spot-check the bags. If a letter is opened... liquidating the rider is authorized."

***

That evening, Ragnar stood in the War Room. The walls were covered in new maps. He placed wooden tokens on the board.

Helga (Chemistry): Producing gunpowder and soap.

Cedric (Infrastructure): Paving the road to the coast.

Torbjorn (Textiles): Building the water-frames for the wool.

Kari (Logistics): Putting ball-bearings on the supply wagons.

Hilda (Communication): Setting up the relay stations.

The Cabinet was complete. The "Five-Year Plan" finally had the manpower to execute it.

"It is beautiful," Ragnar whispered.

"It is expensive," Gyda corrected, looking at the final tally. "The initial outlay for the horses alone is four thousand silver pennies."

"Investment, Gyda," Ragnar smiled, touching the steel ring on his finger. "We are building the nervous system of an Empire."

He looked at the map. To the south lay Mercia. To the west, the Welsh copper mines.

"We have the body," Ragnar said, clenching his fist. "We have the brain. And now, we have the nerves."

Suddenly, the doors to the War Room banged open.

Bjorn strode in, his face serious. He wasn’t holding a turkey leg this time. He was holding a broken arrow.

"Director," Bjorn rumbled. "A rider from the south just arrived. He bypassed the blockade."

"A Mercian?"

"No," Bjorn shook his head. "A Dane. From the Great Army in East Anglia. From Guthrum."

Ragnar stiffened. Guthrum was the other major Viking warlord in England. A rival. A traditionalist.

"What does Guthrum want?" Ragnar asked.

Bjorn placed the broken arrow on the table. It wasn’t broken by impact. It was snapped intentionally a Viking declaration of a broken truce.

"He heard about the execution of Jarl Einar," Bjorn said grimly. "He says you are killing Norsemen to please a machine. He calls you a ’Thrall-Lover’."

Bjorn paused. "He says he is coming to York. Not to trade. But to ’purify’ the North."

Ragnar looked at the arrow. He looked at his Cabinet of misfits, cripples, and intellectuals.

He didn’t feel fear. He felt the cold, hard logic of industry.

"Guthrum is coming?" Ragnar asked.

"With three thousand men," Bjorn confirmed.

Ragnar turned to Gyda.

"Prime Minister," Ragnar said calmly. "Approve the budget for Project Vulcan."

"Vulcan?" Gyda asked. "We haven’t tested it."

"Guthrum is the test," Ragnar said.

He picked up the broken arrow and threw it into the fireplace. 𝚏𝗿𝗲𝐞𝚠𝕖𝐛𝗻𝗼𝐯𝕖𝚕.𝚌𝗼𝗺

"He wants to purify us?" Ragnar watched the wood burn. "Then we shall introduce him to the purifying power of Napalm."