Building a Viking Empire with Modern Industry-Chapter 60: Market Force

The Monastery of Lindisfarne, Northumbria

Brother Aethelstan, formerly known as Aethelstan the Merciless, was currently scrubbing the stone floor of the monastery’s refectory. It was a far cry from his previous life as a Jarl of Guthrum’s army.

Aethelstan had been "liquidated" during the East Anglia merger. But unlike his peers who ended up as fertilizer or Tech-Thralls, Aethelstan had been given a choice by the Builder: "Die, or audit your soul."

He chose the soul.

Now, he was an initiate in the Order of Saint Cuthbert a place that had surprisingly become a dumping ground for Vikings who had failed Ragnar’s corporate standards but were too valuable to execute.

He scrubbed harder, his knuckles white. Around him, other former warriors were doing menial tasks. Some were baking bread. Others were copying manuscripts.

"You missed a spot, Brother," a voice said behind him.

Aethelstan turned. It was the Prior, an old Saxon with eyes like flint. He pointed to a speck of dirt near the table leg.

"In the eyes of God, cleanliness is next to godliness," the Prior intoned. "And in the eyes of Director Ragnar, cleanliness is mandatory."

Aethelstan gritted his teeth. "Yes, Father."

He went back to scrubbing. He hated this. He hated the silence. He hated the lack of ale. But mostly, he hated the memory of the Napalm. He still woke up screaming, smelling the burning pitch.

Later that afternoon, Aethelstan was in the training yard not for combat, but for "Spiritual Discipline." This involved carrying heavy stones from one side of the yard to the other, then carrying them back.

"Pointless," Aethelstan muttered, dropping a rock. "It is inefficiency."

"It is humility," another monk whispered. This monk was missing an ear—a souvenir from a Torsion Spike. "We carry the weight of our sins."

"My sin was standing in front of a machine," Aethelstan spat. "I didn’t lose because I was wicked. I lost because I didn’t have a ’budget’."

He kicked the stone. Suddenly, a bell rang.

"Brother Aethelstan!" a novice shouted from the cloister. "You are summoned to the Abbott’s solar!"

Aethelstan wiped the sweat from his brow. The Abbott rarely summoned initiates. Usually, it meant you were being transferred to the potato fields.

He washed his hands and walked to the main building. Inside the solar, the Abbott was not alone.

Standing by the fireplace, warming his hands, was a man in a long black cloak. He didn’t look like a monk. He looked like a shadow that had learned to walk.

It was Leif the Lesser, Ragnar’s Director of Intelligence.

Aethelstan froze. He recognized the man. Leif was the one who had "processed" the prisoners after the battle.

"So," Leif said, turning around. He held a cup of wine in his hand. "You are the Jarl who tried to flank our pikes."

Aethelstan stood tall, despite his monk’s habit. "I tried to win. Your machines cheated."

"War is not a game," Leif smiled, taking a sip. "There is no cheating. Only winning and losing. And you lost."

The Abbott coughed nervously. "Director Leif brings news from York."

Leif placed a letter on the desk. It bore the seal of the Iron Gear.

"The Director has noticed your... spirit," Leif said. "He reads the monastery reports. You complain about inefficiency. You reorganized the kitchen duty roster to save twenty minutes a day. You built a better wheelbarrow for the stone-carrying penance."

Aethelstan blinked. "The old wheelbarrow squeaked. It was annoying."

"Exactly," Leif pointed at him. "You have the mindset."

Leif walked closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper.

"The Church in the South Wessex and Mercia is causing problems. They are preaching against our Industry. They call our soap ’Devil’s Grease’. They call our plows ’instruments of Hell’."

"They are idiots," Aethelstan grunted. "The soap works."

"We know," Leif agreed. "But they are convincing idiots. They are urging the Saxon lords to attack our trade routes. To steal our inventory."

Leif picked up the letter. "Director Ragnar doesn’t want to burn down every church in England. That is bad PR. He wants to... reform them. He wants a voice inside the Church who understands the value of Progress."

Aethelstan looked at Leif, then at the Abbott. The Abbott looked terrified, clearly having been "persuaded" (bribed) to go along with this.

"You want me to be a spy?" Aethelstan asked.

"I want you to be a Missionary," Leif corrected. "A Missionary of Industry. I want you to go South. Not as a Viking. But as a humble monk who has seen the light. The light of the Blast Furnace."

Leif handed him a small, heavy pouch. It clinked.

"This is your operating budget. Your mission is simple: Infiltrate the southern monasteries. Spread the word that Jernheim is not a threat to God. Tell them that God loves efficiency. Tell them that clean water is a divine right."

Aethelstan looked at the pouch. He looked at his scrub brush in the corner.

"And if I refuse?"

"Then you go back to the latrines," Leif shrugged. "Forever."

Aethelstan felt a spark he hadn’t felt since the battle. It wasn’t the rage of the berserker. It was something colder, sharper. It was Ambition.

He realized he had been given a second chance. Not to be a warrior of the axe, but a warrior of the mind.

"I will need better shoes," Aethelstan said. "Walking to Wessex in sandals is inefficient."

Leif grinned. "We have a new line of boots. Rubber soles. Very durable."

*****

Meanwhile, in Wessex

King Aethelred of Wessex sat in his council chamber, looking at a map of England. The northern part of the map Northumbria and East Anglia was shaded in grey charcoal.

"They are growing," Aethelred muttered.

Across the table sat Princess Judith, his stepmother. She was wearing a dress made of a fabric no one in Wessex had ever seen before. It was deep purple, soft as water, and shimmered in the candlelight.

Jernheim Velvet.

"They are a market force, Aethelred," Judith said, smoothing the fabric on her arm.

"You wear their cloth!" Aethelred accused, pointing at her sleeve. "While the Archbishop calls for a crusade!"

"The Archbishop wears scratchy wool," Judith replied coolly. "And he smells like wet dog. The Northmen send soap that smells of lavender. Tell me, stepson, which would you rather have in your court?"

Aethelred slammed his fist on the table. "They are heathens! They burned Thetford!"

"They burned a gate," Judith corrected. "And then they paved the roads. Guthrum is richer now than he was as a King. He sent me a crate of turnips the size of my head."

"We cannot trade with them!" Aethelred shouted. "It is a sin!"

"It is a sin to be poor," Judith countered. "Mercia is already buying their plows in secret. If we do not trade, we fall behind. And if we fall behind..."

She leaned forward, her voice dropping to a whisper.

"...do you think your wooden walls will stop the Screaming Stones?"

Aethelred paled. He had heard the stories of the whistling rocks. The sound that drove men mad.

"What do you suggest?" he asked weakly.

"Inviting them," Judith smiled. "Not an army. A diplomat. Invite the Builder. Or his wife. Let us see these ’monsters’ up close. Let us see if we can... acquire their secrets."

Aethelred hesitated. He looked at the map. He looked at the luxurious fabric on Judith’s arm.

"Send the invitation," he decided. "But double the guard. And hide the silver."

Judith stood up, hiding a triumphant smile. She touched the velvet sleeve. Gyda had been right. The envy was working.

"I will write to them immediately," Judith said. "I am sure they will be... efficient in their reply."

...

Back at Lindisfarne

Aethelstan stood at the monastery gate. He was wearing the new boots. They were comfortable.

Leif handed him a walking staff.

"One more thing," Leif said. "The staff is hollow. Just in case the theological debate gets... heated."

Aethelstan took the staff. He felt the weight of the hidden steel.

"I will spread the word," Aethelstan promised. "The Gospel of the Gear."

"Good luck, Brother," Leif said. "Try not to convert too many people. We don’t have enough housing in York."

Aethelstan turned and walked south, down the muddy road.