Ragnar sat atop his massive black stallion, Calculus.
The horse, now outfitted with custom-fitted "Mark II" plate barding, trotted gallantly at the front of the Track-Laying Division.
Aside from the two thousand veteran "Iron Gear" employees he had at his back, Ragnar also led three thousand "Mandatory Interns"—conscripted levies raised from the recently liquidated Kingdom of rcia.
Beside him rode the Site Managers of these mostly shovel-based units; they were Saxon Thanes clad in their traditional mail, but wearing the humiliating grey armbands of "Junior Managent."
This army was one of three which had begun to march on the strategic bottlenecks of the South.
By laying track to these areas, Ragnar would effectively bring the logistics of Wessex into a stranglehold in one fell swoop.
As such, Ragnar smiled as the n in his army sang along to the industrial shanty he had commissioned Gyda to write; it had beco the earworm of the season.
"Clang! Clang! The hamr falls!
We build the road and break the walls!
Aethelred sits in a golden chair,
But the Iron Horse is almost there!"
The Saxon interns and noblen marching beside Ragnar were quite confused about the chipper nature of the Vikings.
The veterans of the Industrial Corps knew that thus far, overti pay had been generous, and now they had a bunch of locals to do the heavy digging.
Thus, they were in a perfect mood.
As for the interns, they were mostly just happy to be eating the high-calorie "Nutrient Bricks" instead of tree bark.
Before long, Ragnar’s forces had arrived at the fortified town of Leicester. This was the gateway to the South, a stubborn holdout that had refused the initial buyout offer.
Ragnar raised a steel-gauntleted hand.
"Halt! Establish the Branch Office!"
The army stopped with a synchronized crash of boots. They made camp outside of the enemy’s longbow range, but well within the operational radius of Ragnar’s new toy.
Though he only had the prototype "Screaming Kettle" (Locomotive No. 1) and three heavy Torsion Spikes mounted on experintal flatbed wagons, it would be more than enough to file a permanent noise complaint against the city walls.
The engineers, who at this point were well accustod to "Rapid Site Deploynt," quickly laid a temporary spur line.
They pushed the flatbed wagons forward, locking the wheels behind sandbag barriers.
When the massive Torsion Spikes were cranked back the many Saxon interns beca frightened. They had seen these machines liquidate the Earl of Derby, and the PTSD was still fresh.
Seeing the distraught expressions on the faces of the interns, the "Can-Openers" of the Heavy Infantry began to laugh.
"Look at them," a Viking Sergeant chuckled, lighting a pipe. "They fear the springs. Wait until they hear the Whistle."
If these interns looked like they were about to void their bowels, Ragnar could only imagine the faces of the Leicester garrison when the steam pressure hit critical mass.
Ragnar decided to take a mont to comnt on the situation. He turned to Ealdorman Aelfgar, the Saxon consultant who looked like he wanted to be anywhere else.
"Tell , Aelfgar... is there anything more beautiful than the sll of burning coal and the promise of a hostile takeover amid a cold winter’s sunset?"
If General Bjorn were here, he would probably grunt and say Ragnar needed a hobby that didn’t involve steam burns. But Aelfgar, trembling in his saddle, just gazed off into the sunset and tried to process the industrial horror before him.
"Director," Aelfgar stamred. "The people of Leicester... they are good Christians. They believe the smoke from your engine is the breath of Satan."
Ragnar rely chuckled at the man’s market analysis and smiled as he inhaled deep fus of sulfur.
"Satan doesn’t have my profit margins, Aelfgar. Now, what are you standing around for? Make sure the periter is fenced! We don’t want unauthorized soliciting from the locals!"
Fearing the backlash of the Director, the officers quickly got to the task of assembling the "Siege Site." Under the violet sunset, thousands of grey tents were quickly set up.
Trenches were dug in perfect geotric lines. Barbed wire (made from twisted scraps of rcian chainmail) was strung between posts. "Hard Hat Area" signs—pictograms of a skull being crushed by a rock—were posted on the periter.
Ragnar had failed to use proper zoning in the early days of his conquest, which was an inefficiency he regretted.
By digging a semi-modern trench system, he was capable of providing a vastly superior line of defense against sallying knights, allowing his "Typewriter" crossbows to create interlocking fields of fire.
As the sun faded away and the moon replaced it, the glow of the blast furnace inside the "Screaming Kettle" illuminated the camp like a chanical heart.
Ragnar decided to take the first shift of "Site Supervision." Thus, he grabbed a clipboard and a thermos of coffee, climbing into the forward trench where several Saxon interns were shivering in the mud.
Seeing the "Iron Director" jump in the hole with them, these new conscripts were quite shocked. They expected Ragnar to be in a silk pavilion, drinking wine from a skull. Yet here he was, checking the structural integrity of the sandbags.
"You there," Ragnar pointed to a young Saxon boy with a shovel. "Your digging angle is inefficient. Use your legs, not your back. You are a company asset; I don’t want you out on disability leave."
The boy stared at him, terrified. "Y-Yes, Lord Viking."
"Director," Ragnar corrected gently, handing the boy a Nutrient Brick. "Eat this. It tastes like sawdust, but it builds muscle."
Ragnar leaned against the trench wall, gazing into the distance at Leicester’s walls. Torches flickered on the ramparts.
The defenders were watching the steam engine with superstitious dread.
It would take a few days to lay the track right up to their gate. And when he did, he wouldn’t even need to fire a shot. He would just blow the whistle until they surrendered from sleep deprivation.
"You know," Ragnar said to Aelfgar, who had nervously followed him into the trench. "The Romans built roads to move legions. But they used stone. Stone is heavy."
Ragnar patted the cold iron of a rail tie.
"This is dynamic, Aelfgar. This is speed. It would be quite so ti before the other European powers begin fielding railways. Probably a thousand years, if I hadn’t interfered."
Aelfgar looked at the tal bars. "You speak of ti as if you have broken it, Director."
"I haven’t broken it," Ragnar smiled, his eyes reflecting the glow of the locomotive’s firebox. "I have just optimized it."
Due to Ragnar’s influence on this tiline’s events, the Industrial Revolution would co into existence far earlier than it had in his past life.
When it did, Ragnar would finally be facing so stiffer resistance perhaps from the Franks or the Byzantines stealing his blueprints. But for now, the advantages that steam and standardized logistics presented were too great for his enemies to overco.
Military historians (who would all be employed by Jernheim University) would study Ragnar’s "Grand Trunk Line" campaign for generations.
This war would symbolize the end of the era of mud and blood, and the beginning of the era of soot and schedules.
"Director!"
A scout from the Mobile Strike Wing slid into the trench, breathless.
"Report," Ragnar said, not looking up from his clipboard.
"The Leicester garrison... they are opening the gates, sir. They are sending out a rider."
Ragnar raised an eyebrow. "Surrender?"
"No, sir. It’s a priest. He’s carrying a bucket of holy water. He says he intends to... exorcise the train."
The Saxon interns in the trench gasped. Aelfgar crossed himself.
Ragnar looked at the massive, hissing locomotive behind them. Then he looked at the lone priest walking across the field with a bucket.
A slow, wicked grin spread across Ragnar’s face.
"Leif!" Ragnar shouted over his shoulder.
Leif the Elder popped his head out of the engine cab, looking like a coal-dusted goblin. "Director?"
"Prepare the Steam Vent," Ragnar ordered. "Let’s see if his holy water can out-pressure my boiler."
"And the Torsion Spikes?"
"Load them with the ’Marketing Pamphlets’," Ragnar laughed. "We are going to give them a demonstration of the new world order."
Ragnar climbed out of the trench, dusting the dirt from his greaves.
"Co, Aelfgar. Let us go greet the custor. I believe he is about to realize that his warranty has expired."
User Comments
0 comments from readers