Building a Viking Empire with Modern Industry-Chapter 53: Invisible Devils

The interviews continued.. 𝒻𝑟𝘦𝘦𝘸ℯ𝒷𝑛𝘰𝓋ℯ𝘭.𝘤𝘰𝘮

Ragnar, the Director of Industry, sat behind his desk, rubbing his temples. The Great Jernheim Talent Search had yielded excellent results for Chemistry and Infrastructure, but the final critical ministry was proving to be a headache.

The Ministry of Public Health.

"Why do we need a Minister of Health?" General Bjorn asked, leaning against the wall and picking his teeth with a splinter. "If a man dies, he goes to Valhalla. If he lives, he works. It is a simple system."

"It is an inefficient system," Ragnar corrected, looking at the mortality charts Gyda had prepared. "We are losing 15% of our workforce to ’Camp Fever’ (Dysentery) and ’Lung Rot’ (Pneumonia). A dead worker cannot pay taxes, Bjorn. And a sick worker produces 40% less iron."

Ragnar pointed to the door. "Send in the finalists."

Two people entered the room. They couldn’t have been more different.

The first was Halfdan the Carver. He was a battlefield barber-surgeon, a massive man with arms stained permanently red (or maybe it was henna, Ragnar hoped). He wore an apron made of thick leather and carried a terrifying array of saws and knives on his belt. He smelled of strong alcohol and old blood.

The second was Eira of the Woods. She was a small, wiry woman with wild hair stuck full of twigs. She was a "wise woman"—the kind usually accused of witchcraft by the Church. She carried a basket of moss, dried frogs, and pungent herbs. She smelled of earth and mold.

"Welcome," Ragnar said. "Kneel."

"Long live the Industry!" Halfdan bellowed, dropping to one knee with a thud.

Eira hesitated, looking at the strange, clean room, before curtsying awkwardly. "Good health to the Director."

Ragnar gestured for them to rise. "I have a problem," Ragnar began, channeling the vibe of a corporate crisis meeting. "My city is growing. But my people are rotting. The latrines are overflowing. The wounds from the factory are getting infected. I need a system to keep the biological assets functioning."

He pointed to a table where a "patient" lay. It was actually a side of pork with a deep, festering gash cut into it, rubbed with dirt to simulate gangrene.

"This is a worker," Ragnar said. "He cut his leg on a rusty gear. It is turning black. What do you do?"

Halfdan the Carver stepped forward immediately. He pulled a rusted saw from his belt.

"I cut it off!" Halfdan shouted confidently. "I cut above the rot. Then I sear the stump with a hot iron. The man lives. He has one leg, but he lives. I can do it in thirty seconds. Efficiency!"

Ragnar nodded slowly. It was the standard Viking medical procedure: fast, brutal, and survivable (mostly).

"And you?" Ragnar asked Eira.

Eira crept forward. She didn’t look at the leg. She looked at the dirt rubbed into the wound.

"The leg is not the problem," Eira whispered. "The problem is the Invisible Devils."

Bjorn snorted. "Devils?"

"Tiny beasts," Eira insisted, waving her hands. "They live in the dirt. They live in the bad water. If you wash the wound with the ’Stinging Water’ (Alcohol) and sew it shut with silk dipped in honey, the Devils cannot eat the flesh. The leg stays."

Halfdan laughed. "Honey? Silk? You want to make the leg pretty? While you are sewing, the rot spreads! Chop it off, I say!"

"If you chop it off," Eira countered, her voice gaining strength, "he cannot work the treadle-wheel. A one-legged man is half a man. A healed man is a whole asset."

Ragnar watched them.

Halfdan was the Logistics Manager. He understood the brutal reality of triage. He had the stomach to make hard calls. He was the Engineer.

Eira was the Researcher. She understood the theory even if she called bacteria "Invisible Devils." She was the Scientist.

Ragnar smiled. He had found his team.

"Halfdan," Ragnar said.

"Yes, Director! Shall I chop the pig?"

"No," Ragnar said. "I appoint you as the Minister of Public Health. You have the authority. You have the voice. If a man refuses to wash his hands, you have my permission to threaten him with the saw."

Halfdan puffed out his chest, looking like he had just been crowned King. "I will saw the filth away, Director!"

Rira’s shoulders slumped. She gripped her basket of moss. She had expected this. Men always chose the knife over the herb. She turned to leave, her eyes downcast.

"Eira," Ragnar called out.

She froze. "You are hereby appointed as the Surgeon General and Head of Research," Ragnar announced. "You are the brain. Halfdan is the hand. He does not cut until you say cut. He does not burn until you say burn. You will teach him about the ’Invisible Devils’."

Eira looked up, stunned. "You... you believe me? About the tiny beasts?"

"I do," Ragnar said seriously. "I call them Bacteria, but ’Devils’ works for the marketing campaign."

Eira’s face lit up with a terrifying intensity. It was the look of a fanatic who had finally found a patron. She bowed so low her nose touched the floor.

"I will kill them all, Director," she hissed. "I will boil the water. I will scrub the world."

Ragnar wasn’t done. He stood up and walked around the desk.

"Halfdan, Eira. Come here."

He reached into his drawer and pulled out two items.

They were books. Bound in the thick, new paper from the Jernheim Mill, with leather covers.

Ragnar had spent the last three nights writing them from memory, translating 21st-century medical science into 9th-century Old Norse.

"This," Ragnar said, handing a thick volume to Halfdan, "is the Standard Operating Procedure for Sanitation. It details how to build a latrine that doesn’t poison the well. It details how to quarantine the sick. It is not a suggestion. It is Law."

Halfdan took the book with trembling hands. He couldn’t read well, but the diagrams of latrine trenches were self-explanatory.

"And this," Ragnar handed a smaller, denser book to Eira, "is the Codex of the Flesh."

"It contains the secrets of the body," Ragnar whispered. "The circulation of blood. The theory of germs. The recipe for Penicillin... or at least, how to find the right mold on bread."

Eira clutched the book to her chest like it was a holy relic. She could read—she had learned from the monks to better understand herbal texts.

"Why?" Eira asked, tears welling in her eyes. "I am a peasant. He is a butcher. Why give us these secrets?"

Ragnar looked at them. He saw the same hunger he had seen in the Tech-Thralls. The hunger to be more than what the world said they were.

"Because the Jarls think sickness is a punishment from the Gods," Ragnar said quietly. "They pray when they get a fever. I don’t want prayers. I want hygiene."

He placed a hand on Halfdan’s massive shoulder and the other on Eira’s bony one.

"You are not high-born. You do not have ancestors to brag about. That is why I chose you. The Jarls are too proud to wash their hands. You... you are used to the muck. Now, go clean my empire."

As they left the room, Halfdan was already looking at the book’s pictures, muttering about "strategic latrine placement," while Eira was practically vibrating with the desire to go find some moldy bread.

Ragnar watched them go. He felt a drain on his mental stamina. Writing the textbooks had exhausted him, but it was the only way to "upload" the knowledge to his civilization.

"Productivity will increase by 20% if we stop the diarrhea," Ragnar muttered to himself, marking a checkbox in his notebook.

Just as the door closed, Gyda entered from the side room. She looked grim.

"The Cabinet is full," she said, placing the ledger on the desk. "Health, Transport, Industry, War, Intelligence. We have a government."

"We do," Ragnar nodded, leaning back. "We are ready for the Five-Year Plan."

"You might need a Five-Day Plan," Gyda said, dropping a scroll onto the desk.

It was a message from Leif the Lesser. The seal was broken.

"What is it?" Ragnar asked.

"Guthrum," Gyda said. "The Raven Flight just delivered this. Guthrum isn’t just coming with three thousand men. He has formed a coalition."

Ragnar picked up the scroll.

"To the Thrall-Lover of York. I bring the Jarls of East Anglia. I bring the Danes of the Five Boroughs. We do not come to trade. We come to erase your ink."

Ragnar read the numbers. Five thousand men. A massive host by Viking standards.

"He is moving fast," Ragnar noted. "He wants to hit us before we can fully mobilize the new recruits."

"He thinks we are soft," Gyda said, sharpening her dagger. "He thinks because we build schools, we have forgotten how to fight."

Ragnar stood up. He walked to the window and looked out at his city.

"Guthrum is right," Ragnar said softly. "We have forgotten how to fight like Vikings."

He turned to Gyda, a cold, industrial light in his eyes.

"We don’t fight like Vikings anymore.."

He grabbed his helmet.

"Summon the Cabinet. Tell Helga to double the production of ’Dragon Fire’. Tell Torbjorn I need five thousand uniforms by Tuesday."