Building a Viking Empire with Modern Industry-Chapter 57: Siege

The Great Hall of Thetford, East Anglia

King Guthrum stumbled into his own fortress, his boots leaving muddy, bloody prints on the rush-covered floor. He didn’t look like the warlord who had promised to "purify" the North three days ago.

His surviving Jarls followed him, silent and grim. They were missing helmets. They were missing shields. Some were missing the will to live.

"My King," a steward gasped, running up with a goblet of wine. "What happened? Where is the Great Army?"

Guthrum knocked the goblet away. "The army is gone.."

He collapsed onto his throne, staring at the wooden beams of the roof.

"They didn’t fight us," Guthrum whispered, his voice trembling. "They stood in a box. They pointed sticks at us. And then... the sky rained iron. And fire. Liquid fire."

The steward looked confused. "But... they are just Northmen, sire. Like us."

"They are not like us," Guthrum roared, suddenly sitting up. "They are grey demons! They don’t scream! They don’t chant! They just crank handles and people die!"

He looked around the hall. The reality of his situation crashed down on him. They were a machine that couldn’t be tired, couldn’t be bargained with, and wouldn’t stop until the job was done.

"Close the gates!" Guthrum ordered, panic rising in his chest. "Get every man on the walls. Every thrall, every farmer, every woman who can throw a rock. If they have a pulse, put a spear in their hand!"

"But sire," the steward stammered, "the harvest..."

"Forget the harvest!" Guthrum screamed. "If we don’t hold the walls, we will be the harvest!"

The steward ran to obey. Guthrum gripped the arms of his throne. He hoped the wooden walls of Thetford were strong enough. He hoped the Old Gods were watching.

But deep down, he knew the Old Gods didn’t have a defense against Napalm.

Ragnar rode Calculus through the muddy streets of the outer village. The town of Thetford lay ahead, dominated by a large wooden fortress on a motte-and-bailey hill.

The local villagers were cowering in their huts, peeking out through cracks in the wattle-and-daub. They expected the Vikings to do what Vikings always did: kick down the doors, steal the pigs, and burn the roof.

Instead, the Industrial Corps marched in perfect silence.

Five thousand pairs of standardized boots hit the ground in unison. The soldiers looked straight ahead, ignoring the terrified locals.

A young pike-man, excited by the victory, broke formation and headed toward a wandering goat.

"Sven!" Ragnar’s voice cut through the air like a whip.

The boy froze. "That goat is an asset," Ragnar said calmly, riding over. "It belongs to the future tax base of East Anglia. If you steal it, you are stealing from the Company. Do you want to be audited?"

Sven paled. "No, Director!"

"Get back in line," Ragnar ordered. "We are here to acquire the kingdom, not the livestock."

Ragnar turned to General Bjorn, who was riding beside him eating a raw turnip.

"Set up the perimeter," Ragnar commanded. "I want the camp established by 18:00 hours. Latrines first. Hygiene is non-negotiable."

"And the siege lines?" Bjorn asked, pointing at the fortress on the hill. "Thetford is wood, Director. We could storm it now. The men are eager."

Ragnar shook his head. "We have the technology to make them surrender without scratching the paint."

He looked at the fortress. It was a classic designs: a wooden palisade, a ditch, and a keep. Strong against swords. Weak against physics.

"Deploy the Range Department," Ragnar said. "Find the sweet spot."

...

It took two hours to set up the Siege Camp.

To the Saxon defenders watching from the walls, it was baffling. The Vikings didn’t run at the ditch screaming. They didn’t build ladders. Instead, men in grey tunics walked around with strange triangular instruments (surveyor’s levels) and long ropes. They measured the distance from the wall. They stuck flags in the ground. They argued about angles.

"What are they doing?" Guthrum asked his Jarls, peering over the wooden parapet. "Are they praying?"

"They are measuring us," a Jarl whispered.

Finally, Ragnar found his spot. It was a small rise about 400 meters from the walls.

"Here," Ragnar said, planting a stake. "This is the Office."

Bjorn looked at the distance. "Director, this is far. Our bows can’t reach."

"Their bows can’t reach," Ragnar corrected. "Which means we can work in peace."

He signaled the heavy wagons.

"Unpack the God Hammer."

It was a counterweight trebuchet, but optimized with modern mechanics. It used a hinged counterweight bucket filled with lead ingots and a throwing arm made of laminated oak.

While standard siege engines were lucky to hit a barn at 200 meters, the God Hammer with its perfectly calculated pivot point and lubricated axle could lob a 200-pound stone over 400 meters with terrifying accuracy.

"And the Spikes," Ragnar added.

The Tech-Thralls wheeled out twenty heavy Torsion Spikes. These were the siege models massive ballistae anchored to the ground.

"Effective range of a Saxon longbow: 200 meters," Ragnar recited, checking his notebook. "Effective range of the Siege Spike: 500 meters. We have a 300-meter buffer zone where we are gods."

By dusk, the camp was fortified. A trench was dug (sanitation first!). The tents were pitched in neat rows. The smell of stew wafted toward the starving defenders.

Ragnar sat in his command tent sipping a cup of herbal tea prepared by Helga.

"The assets are in position," Ragnar said to his Cabinet. "We begin the night shift."

Darkness fell over Thetford. The defenders on the walls were shivering, clutching their spears, waiting for the attack.

They expected torches. They expected screams.

Instead, they heard a mechanical groan.

A dark shape soared through the night sky. It was a barrel. It crashed into the wooden palisade. It just smashed open.

"What was that?" Guthrum shouted. "Stones?"

"It... it smells," a guard gagged. "It smells like the demon piss they used on the battlefield."

It was Napalm (or rather, the thick, tarry precursor Ragnar called ’Dragon Sludge’).

"Reload," Ragnar’s voice drifted up from the darkness, calm and amplified by his megaphone. "Adjust azimuth two degrees left."

Another barrel hit the main gate. Splashing the black goo everywhere.

"They are painting us," Guthrum realized with horror. "They are priming the wood."

For an hour, the God Hammer worked rhythmically. It covered the front of the fortress in flammable sludge.

The defenders cowered. They couldn’t fight back. Their arrows fell short, landing harmlessly in the mud 200 meters from Ragnar’s camp.

"It is time to close the deal," Ragnar said, putting down his tea.

He signaled the Torsion Spikes.

"Incendiary Bolts. Volley Fire."

The Tech-Thralls loaded heavy bolts wrapped in oil-soaked rags. They lit them.

"FIRE!"

Twenty streaks of fire zipped through the night air. They flew straight and true, burying themselves in the sludge-covered wood of the fort.

The reaction was instantaneous.

The wooden walls, soaked in bitumen and whale oil, erupted into a wall of flame fifty feet high. The heat was intense enough to be felt back at the siege camp.

"Get water!" Guthrum screamed, backing away as the gatehouse turned into a torch. "Put it out!"

"Water does nothing!" a Jarl yelled. "It floats! The fire floats!"

Inside the fortress, panic set in. The "conscripted army" the farmers and thralls Guthrum had forced onto the walls threw down their spears and ran. They weren’t going to burn for a King who had already lost.

Ragnar watched from his folding chair, his face illuminated by the distant orange glow.

"Thermal output is within predicted parameters," Ragnar noted.

"It is beautiful," Gyda said, standing beside him. She was cleaning her nails with a dagger. "In a terrifying way."

"It is persuasion," Ragnar said. "We aren’t burning the whole town. Just the gate. Just enough to show them the eviction notice."

He picked up his megaphone.

"KING GUTHRUM!" Ragnar’s voice boomed over the crackling fire.

"YOUR WALLS ARE GONE! YOUR ARMY IS LIQUIDATED! YOUR INSURANCE DOES NOT COVER ACTS OF INDUSTRY!"

The sound of his voice, amplified and distorted, terrified the remaining defenders more than the fire.

"I OFFER YOU A MERGER!" Ragnar shouted. "SURRENDER NOW, AND YOU RETAIN YOUR LIFE AS A JUNIOR PARTNER! REFUSE, AND WE MOVE TO HOSTILE TAKEOVER!"

Inside the burning keep, Guthrum coughed in the smoke. His Jarls were looking at him. Their faces were black with soot.

"We cannot fight fire with axes," Hrolf choked out. "The wall is gone. If we stay, we cook."

Guthrum looked at his legendary axe, Bone-Crusher. It seemed small and useless now. He looked at the fire eating his kingdom.

He realized that the age of heroes was over. The age of the accountant had begun.

"Open the... what is left of the gate," Guthrum whispered. "Wave the white flag."

The next morning, the sun rose over a smoldering, but largely intact, Thetford. The fire had been contained to the outer defenses (thanks to the precise targeting of the God Hammer).

Ragnar rode Calculus up the hill. The Industrial Corps marched behind him, pikes upright.

Guthrum stood in the mud, surrounded by his defeated Jarls. He looked broken.

Ragnar dismounted. He didn’t gloat. He didn’t chop off heads.

He walked up to Guthrum and handed him a document.

"What is this?" Guthrum asked weakly.

"The Articles of Incorporation," Ragnar said. "You are no longer King of East Anglia. You are now the Regional Manager of the East Anglian Branch."

Guthrum blinked. "I... I live?"

"You live," Ragnar nodded. "You know the land. You know the people. I need a manager. But you answer to the Board of Directors in York. You pay taxes to Jernheim. And you adopt the Industrial Code."

Ragnar pointed to the fields.

"No more raiding. You will plant clover. You will build roads. You will send your iron to my foundries."

Guthrum looked at the document. He couldn’t read it, but he understood the power dynamic. He had been bought.

"And if I refuse?"

Ragnar gestured to the God Hammer, which was currently being reloaded by the Tech-Thralls.

"Then you are fired," Ragnar said. "Literally."

Guthrum signed. Or rather, he pressed his thumb into the wax.

"Excellent," Ragnar smiled, rolling up the scroll. "Welcome to the Company, Guthrum."

He turned to Gyda.

"Acquisition complete. East Anglia is ours."

"That brings our total arable land to 200,000 acres," Gyda calculated instantly. "And adds three ports to our logistics network."

"Good," Ragnar said, looking South again. "Because Wessex is next. And King Aethelred is not going to sign as easily."

"Sir!" Bjorn shouted, running up from the rear. "We found something in Guthrum’s cellar! Not gold!"

"What is it?"

"Wool," Bjorn grinned. "Tons of it. High-quality English wool."

Ragnar’s eyes lit up.

"Torbjorn!" he shouted for his Minister of Textiles. "Get the looms ready! We just cornered the market on winter coats!"