Building a Viking Empire with Modern Industry-Chapter 54: Middle Ages End Today

The Great Hall of Thetford, East Anglia

King Guthrum of the Danelaw sat on his high seat, tearing into a leg of roasted boar. Unlike the fasting Baron in the stories of old, Guthrum believed a leader should eat enough for three men to show his vitality.

He was a traditionalist. He believed in the axe, the shield-wall, and the favor of Odin. He did not believe in reading, washing his hands to kill "invisible devils," or filling out forms.

"The North has gone soft," Guthrum grunted, wiping grease onto his beard. "I hear they are farming clover. Clover! Like sheep!"

His Jarls laughed, banging their cups on the table.

"They say the ’Builder’ makes his men wear matching clothes," Jarl Hrolf sneered. "Like little dolls."

"We will strip those dolls and take their iron," Guthrum declared.

The heavy oak doors of the hall creaked open. A man stumbled in. He was a messenger Guthrum had sent to York three days ago to deliver the broken arrow—the declaration of war.

The messenger looked pale. He wasn’t injured, but he looked... confused.

"Speak," Guthrum commanded. "Did the Builder tremble? Did he beg for mercy?"

The messenger swallowed hard. He walked forward and placed a small, polished wooden box on the table.

"He... he gave me a receipt, King Guthrum."

"A what?"

"A receipt. And a bill."

Guthrum frowned. He smashed the box open with the pommel of his dagger. Inside was a scroll of high-quality paper, rolled tightly.

Guthrum couldn’t read well, but he recognized the neat, angular script of the Industrial Corps. He shoved it at his advisor, a captured Saxon scribe.

"Read it," Guthrum growled.

The scribe’s hands shook as he unrolled the paper.

"To the Management of the East Anglian Army," the scribe read, his voice trembling.

"Regarding: Unsolicited Hostility and Breach of Contract."

"Item 1: You have broken the peace. This has caused a disruption in our projected Q3 earnings."

"Item 2: By marching on York, you are violating the territorial sovereignty of the Industrial Zone."

"Item 3: Failure to cease and desist will result in the immediate liquidation of your assets, your army, and your person."

The scribe paused. "And... there is a total at the bottom, my Lord."

"A total?" Guthrum roared.

"It says... ’Estimated Cost of Funeral Services for 5,000 Danes: 0 Silver’."

Silence filled the hall.

Guthrum stood up, his face turning a shade of purple that matched the bruises on a corpse.

"He mocks us!" Guthrum screamed, overturning the table. The roast boar hit the floor. "He sends me a paper shield! He threatens to ’liquidate’ me like I am a barrel of ale!"

He grabbed his axe and swung it around.

"This Ragnar thinks war is a trade!" Guthrum bellowed to his men. "He thinks he can buy victory with insults! He has forgotten that iron is not for counting. Iron is for killing!"

He looked at his Jarls. "Muster the host! Every Dane, every mercenary, every man who can hold a spear! We march at dawn! We will burn his paper mill! We will smash his furnaces! And I will shove this ’receipt’ down his throat!"

"SKOL!" the Jarls roared, eager for the blood of the soft northerners.

Guthrum sat back down, breathing heavily. He didn’t know what "Q3 earnings" were, but he knew they sounded weak. He would show the Builder what real strength looked like.

***

The Border of Northumbria, Two Days Later

The morning mist clung to the ground, thick and grey.

Ragnar sat on a crate of "Standardized Bolt (Type A)" near a smokeless campfire. He was cleaning his helmet not with spit, but with a rag dipped in Helga’s new chemical polishing compound.

The full might of the Industrial Corps had deployed to the border overnight. It was a terrifying sight.

Traditionally, a Viking army was a chaotic mob of individuals. Everyone brought their own weapons, their own armor, and their own lucky charms. This was not that..

Ragnar looked out at his creation.

Five thousand men stood in perfect grid formation. Thanks to Torbjorn, they were all wearing identical uniforms: thick, grey wool tunics reinforced with boiled leather pads on the shoulders and knees. On their chests, the white stencil of the Iron Gear was painted.

General Bjorn approached Ragnar. He was wearing the new officer’s coat a long, heavy wool trench coat with brass buttons. He looked less like a Viking chieftain and more like a 19th-century colonel who had gotten lost in the Dark Ages.

"The men are rested, Director," Bjorn reported, consulting a pocket ledger. "Breakfast rations were consumed at 0600 hours. Morale is holding steady at 85%."

Ragnar nodded, putting his helmet on. "And the equipment check?"

"Completed," Bjorn grinned. "Leif’s foundry delivered the new shipment last night. The Pike-and-Shot doctrine... well, without the shot... is ready."

Ragnar stood up. He walked toward the lines.

This army was a hybrid. A mix of medieval ferocity and industrial standardization.

The front three rows were the "Heavy Assets". These were the Huscarls, They were holding Standard Issue Pikes 12-foot ash poles tipped with a razor-sharp steel bodkin point.

Behind them stood the "Range Department". These were the Tech-Thralls and Broken Men, armed with the repeating crossbows and the portable Torsion Spikes mounted on wheelbarrows.

And behind them all... the "Project Vulcan" team, guarding barrels of a thick, gelatinous substance that smelled of pitch.

Ragnar stopped in front of a young soldier. The boy couldn’t have been more than sixteen. He was nervous, fidgeting with his pike.

"Name?" Ragnar asked.

"Sven, sir. Son of Olaf."

"Do not fidget, Sven," Ragnar said calmly. "That pike was cast in a mold. It is identical to the man’s next to you. If you stand together, you are a porcupine. A wolf cannot eat a porcupine. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Director!" Sven straightened up.

Ragnar turned to Bjorn.

"We march into Mercian territory to meet Guthrum in the open field," Ragnar announced. "But before we go, we need to clarify the Rules of Engagement."

He climbed onto the ammo crate so the men could see him.

"Listen to me!" Ragnar shouted. His voice carried over the silent ranks.

"We are going to war. But we are not going raiding."

A murmur went through the ranks. Vikings lived to raid.

"Guthrum fights for loot," Ragnar continued. "He fights to steal cows and burn houses. That is inefficient. It destroys value."

Ragnar pointed south. "We are not here to burn Mercia. We are here to acquire it. When we win, those villages will be our customers. Those fields will be our supply chain. Those peasants will be our employees."

He looked them in the eye.

"Therefore: No raping. No burning of infrastructure. No killing of civilians."

"But Director!" a grizzled Huscarl shouted from the back. "What about the spoils? If we cannot take the gold, why fight?"

"You fight for the Bonus Structure!" Ragnar yelled back.

He held up a heavy bag of silver.

"Every enemy soldier you kill is worth 2 silver pennies. Every captain is worth 10. You bring me their badges, I pay you in cash. You don’t need to steal a chicken to get rich. You just need to be efficient at your job!"

The men cheered. It made sense. Stealing a cow was hard work; you had to drag it home. Getting paid silver for stabbing a Dane was much easier logistics.

"Anyone caught burning a house without a work order will be court-martialed!" Ragnar finished. "Am I understood?"

"YES, DIRECTOR!" five thousand voices roared in unison.

Ragnar stepped down.

"Bjorn," he said quietly. "Prepare the Napalm wagons. Guthrum is bringing a mob. I want to show him what happens when a mob meets an industrial accident."

Bjorn’s eyes gleamed. "Project Vulcan is primed. The pumps are greased."

"Good," Ragnar said, looking south toward the rising sun. "Let’s go finalize this merger."

...

The army began to move.

There was no screaming, no clashing of swords on shields. There was only the sound of five thousand boots hitting the earth in unison, and the squeak of well-greased wagon wheels.

Ragnar rode at the front on ’Calculus’. Beside him rode Gyda, wearing her blackened leather armor and checking the inventory list of the baggage train.

"We will need to secure a food source by Tuesday." she noted.

"Guthrum has a supply train," Ragnar said, staring at the horizon. "We will liquidate his inventory."

Gyda smiled. "I love it when you talk like that."

Ragnar touched the steel ring on his finger.

"The Middle Ages end today, Gyda," he whispered. "Guthrum is bringing an axe to a chemical warfare fight."