Building a Viking Empire with Modern Industry-Chapter 98: Meeting

Ragnar sat on the high seat of Nottingham’s Great Hall.

He had removed the dragon-carved cushions of the late King Burgred and replaced them with a stack of ledgers to improve his posture.

Kneeling before him were the surviving Thanes of the Midlands—the "Middle Management" of the now-defunct Kingdom of Mercia.

Having lost their King to a wrist-caster bolt and their armies to a barrage of Torsion Spikes, these men were left with zero leverage to defend against Ragnar’s hostile takeover.

Seeing as how their castles were within the "effective liquidation range" of the Industrial Corps, they knew their quarterly earnings were about to hit zero.

These relatively pragmatic men had traveled to Nottingham to officially sign the transfer of assets to the Directorate.

Ragnar, who had a faint smudge of ink on his cheek, was tapping a charcoal pencil against his armored knee while listening to the terms of surrender the Thanes presented.

At the head of the group was an older man with thinning grey hair and a nervous twitch in his left eye.

He was Ealdorman Wulfric, a man who owned vast tracts of sheep-grazing land and was the appointed spokesman for the dozen or so Mercian Lords who had gathered to file for bankruptcy protection.

The man kept himself standing with a trembling staff and slowly enunciated his words, terrified that a "Can-Opener" might decide to process him.

"Director Ragnar... on behalf of the Ealdormen of Mercia, we present the terms of our restructuring. First and foremost, we will recognize the Directorate as the... interim administrator of the Midlands until King Aethelred of Wessex negotiates a final treaty. In return for this compliance, we request that you leave our manors unburnt and our silver vaults... un-audited."

Ragnar nodded his head and smiled..

"I accept the condition of ’Interim Administration.’ As for the audits... we can discuss the tax brackets later. Are there any more demands?"

Wulfric nodded as he continued to speak the terms that the terrified nobility had come up with to save their skins.

"As you know, our fields were... regrettably impacted by the ’Spicy Mix’ during the recent conflict. The harvest is ruined. As such, we would request aid in regards to the famine we are now facing in our lands. Our serfs are eating tree bark."

Ragnar thought for a moment about this. While the turnip harvest in Northumbria was operating at 300% efficiency, transporting that much food south would strain the wagon logistics.

However, if he did not feed the workforce, productivity would drop to 0%. Starving peasants could not lay heavy iron rails.

As such, he decided to open a line of credit.

"Very well," Ragnar announced, his voice echoing in the stone hall. "The Directorate will supply the Midlands with Class-C Nutrient Bricks."

Wulfric looked horrified at the description, but he bowed nonetheless.

"We... we thank you for your generosity. Anything else?"

The older man hesitated. This was the dangerous part.

"If... if King Aethelred comes north and reaches a settlement with you... we request that you honor the feudal hierarchy! If the King of Wessex is confirmed as the Suzerain of England, you must not act as a Usurper! If you are truly waging war for the sake of ’Breach of Contract’ and not conquest, then you will have no problem accepting this!"

This put Ragnar in a logical bind. If he accepted, he was technically subordinating himself to a Saxon King.

If he denied it, he was declaring total war on the entire island, which would unite every Saxon against him before his railway was built.

Ragnar tapped his finger on the ledger several times, calculating the political ROI. He needed time to lay the track. He needed Aethelred to feel safe enough to negotiate, rather than fight to the death.

After several moments of near-silence Ragnar finally voiced his decision.

"I accept... with a caveat."

Wulfric blinked. "A caveat?"

"I recognize King Aethelred’s authority over feudal matters," Ragnar said smoothly. "However, the Directorate retains exclusive rights to all mineral extraction, infrastructure development, and... heavy manufacturing. Aethelred can rule the souls; I will rule the steel."

Wulfric didn’t understand what "heavy manufacturing" meant, but he knew it wasn’t "land," so he breathed a sigh of relief.

"If that is all, then I hereby recognize the incorporation of the Midlands into the Jernheim Supply Chain."

Seeing Ragnar accept the terms made many of the other Thanes smile weakly.

Truthfully, they didn’t care who sat on the throne as long as they got to keep their fancy hats and their serfs.

They felt that Ragnar was sincerely acting as a businessman rather than a Viking warlord who wanted to burn the world down for Odin.

They were wrong, of course. Ragnar didn’t want to burn the world down. He wanted to pave it.

As a result of this surrender, the Midlands were temporarily under Ragnar’s control. He planned to act as the "Regional Manager" while preparing for the final negotiation with Wessex.

For now, Ragnar had to think of a way to convince the population that laying iron bars in the mud was a glorious career path.

...

Later that afternoon, the Great Hall was cleared of the Saxons. Ragnar stood by a large table covered in maps.

General Bjorn approached him, holding a mug of ale.

"Director," Bjorn grunted. "You were too soft on them. ’Interim Administrator’? We conquered them! We should be imposing the Blood Eagle, not signing treaties."

Ragnar laughed, rolling up a map of the Trent River.

"Bjorn, my friend, you are thinking like a Raider. A Raider takes the gold and leaves. A Director takes the land, the people, and the future value."

Ragnar pointed to a line drawn in charcoal that stretched from York to Nottingham.

"If I declared myself King of Mercia today, Aethelred would mobilize every spear in Wessex. We would fight a grinding war for ten years. But if I act as a ’Contractor’ restoring order..."

Ragnar tapped the map.

"...Aethelred will hesitate. He will try to buy me off. And while he hesitates, we will build the Iron Horse."

Bjorn looked at the map, confused.

"This ’Iron Horse’... Leif keeps talking about it. He says you want to melt down all the captured swords to make... a road?"

"Not a road, Bjorn. A Railway," Ragnar corrected, his eyes gleaming with the madness of innovation. "Imagine moving ten tons of steel from York to Nottingham in a single day. Without horses. Without fatigue."

"It sounds like magic," Bjorn muttered.

"It is Thermodynamics," Ragnar smiled. "And it is going to strangle the Saxon economy before they even realize they are in a chokehold."

Ragnar walked over to the window, looking down at the courtyard. The Saxon Thanes were leaving, clutching their crates of Nutrient Bricks. They looked defeated, but alive.

"Besides," Ragnar added. "I need those Thanes. They know who owes taxes. If I killed them, I’d have to do the paperwork myself."

Bjorn laughed, a deep rumble. "You truly are lazy, Director."

"Efficient," Ragnar corrected. "Now, send a rider to Titan. Tell Gyda the acquisition is complete. And tell her to send the ’Interns’. We have a lot of digging to do."

******

Meanwhile, in City Titan

While Ragnar was playing politics in the Midlands, the "Home Office" was buzzing with activity.

Gyda sat in her solar, reading the latest intake reports. The refugee population had doubled. The "Mandatory Internship" program was in full swing.

Helga the Brewer burst into the room, holding a glass beaker filled with a bubbling black liquid.

"Prime Minister!" Helga shouted, her goggles askew. "I’ve done it! I figured out the viscosity problem!"

Gyda looked up from her ledger. "The lubricant for the locomotive?"

"Yes!" Helga beamed. "The rendered animal fat was too thick in the cold. But if we mix it with... well, let’s just say the Earl Godwin’s horses were put to good use."

Gyda grimaced but nodded. "Waste not, want not. Is the prototype engine ready for the bench test?"

"Leif says the boiler holds pressure," Helga said, vibrating with excitement. "He wants to fire it up tonight. He calls it... The Screaming Kettle."

"Good," Gyda said, rubbing her belly. "Ragnar will be pleased. If this machine works, we won’t just control the North. We will control time itself."

She looked out the window at the smoking chimneys of the Blast Furnace. The sky was dark with industry.

"Let Aethelred keep his crown," Gyda whispered. "We will own the ground he walks on."