Despite Grandmaster Roland's violent "resignation" via grenade, the hostile takeover continued to wage on the blood-soaked sands of Sandwich.
Of course, in the middle of the thermal chaos and black smoke, the rear guard of the Order of the Sacred Fla did not imdiately notice that their CEO lay dead on the ground.. or rather, what was left of him.
However, the surrounding Frankish knights and squires quickly realized that the banner of the Golden Fla had fallen.
They gazed over to see Ragnar, covered in soot and sand, standing over their leader's corpse.
"Avenge the Grandmaster!" a Knight-Commander scread, his voice cracking with hysteria. "Kill the rchant of Death!"
They began to surge toward Ragnar, ignoring the burning naphtha and the whistling crossbow bolts, desperate to liquidate the Viking Director.
However, General Bjorn was not about to let his boss be depreciated. He bellowed an order to the "Iron Gear" heavy infantry.
"Shield Wall! Protect the Asset!"
The Vikings slamd their tower shields into the sand, forming a grey wall of steel between the fanatics and Ragnar.
A fierce clash broke out on the beach. Despite the Frankish knights being clad head-to-toe in expensive, gilded plate armor, they soon found themselves being dismantled by the sheer chanical efficiency of the Northn.
From atop the railway embanknt, the Marksman Division - the elite crossbown Ragnar had trained to shoot with the rhythm of a trono - began to pick off the exposed targets.
These n were Ragnar's "Quality Control" officers. For now, they pelted the heavily armored knights with armor-piercing bolts while the infantry held the line with pikes and hamrs.
"Aim for the visors!" the Marksman Captain shouted. "Don't waste bolts on the breastplates!"
Eventually, the lee seed to turn in favor of the Directorate.
After all, the Frankish leadership structure was decapitated, and at this point, Ragnar's "Dragon's Breath" flathrower had terrified the majority of the army.
As for the Frankish peasant levies they no longer had the resolve to fight. They watched the "Iron Demon" blow up a Grandmaster and realized their union benefits were non-existent.
Entire ranks of peasants dropped their spears and rusty swords as they realized they were greatly outmatched by the technology of the North.
Noticing the decrease in resistance from the commoners, Ragnar wiped the blood from his visor and limped forward. He grabbed the brass gaphone from his belt.
"Attention, Frankish Contractors!" Ragnar shouted, his voice cutting through the din of battle. "Any levy who turns on the Knights will be spared the liquidation! I offer amnesty! I offer hot food! I offer a signing bonus!"
Ragnar's lieutenants quickly relayed this news across the lee.
The effect was instantaneous. There was no love lost between the starving peasants and the arrogant knights who had burned their villages to "purify" them before the voyage.
Given the option between burning to death or getting a hot al, the choice was statistically obvious.
"Down with the Knights!" a peasant shouted, stabbing his spear into the back of a squire's leg.
"Up with the Iron Demon!" another cried, throwing a rock at a mounted Crusader.
Despite being surrounded by Ragnar's forces and subjected to the hostile takeover of their own human resources, the remaining Knights of the Sacred Fla fought to the last man. For a Crusader, surrendering to a heathen industrialist was worse than bankruptcy.
Before long, the Sacred Fla was extinguished. The beach was silent, save for the crackling of fires and the hissing of the steam engine.
Ragnar had lost well over 400 n in the conflict.. mostly the Saxon "Interns" who had held the first line.
The Frankish heavy cavalry had an enormous advantage in mass, and they had crushed many good employees.
Ragnar frowned. "That represents a 6% loss in workforce," he muttered.
After the battle was officially closed, Vizier Al-Hakam approached Ragnar.
The Director was sitting on a crate of ammunition, while a field dic tended to his leg.
Roland's final strike had crushed Ragnar's greave and bruised the bone badly, but nothing was broken. The alcohol stung like acid, but Ragnar didn't flinch. He just drank from his own flask of coffee.
Al-Hakam looked at the carnage, then at the smoking train, and finally at Ragnar.
"Director," the Vizier said, his voice filled with a mixture of horror and professional admiration. "I have seen many battles. I have seen the Mamluks charge. I have seen the fires of Byzantium. But this... this was industrial slaughter."
"It was an Audit, Vizier," Ragnar corrected, wincing as the dic tightened the bandage. "We balanced the books."
Al-Hakam gestured to the body of Grandmaster Roland, which lay in the sand a few yards away. The golden armor was blackened, the silk tabard burned away.
"What should we do with the remains of the CEO?" Al-Hakam asked.
Ragnar stared at the corpse of the man who had called him a demon. Ragnar's own arrogance had almost cost him his life; he had charged into lee combat like a raider instead of staying in the boardroom like a Director.
He needed a reminder. A nto Mori. A symbol to remind him that no matter how much steel he forged, flesh was weak.
Ragnar stood up, testing his weight on the injured leg. A wicked, marketing-savvy idea ford in his head.
"Bjorn!" Ragnar barked.
The massive General marched over, wiping brain matter from his hamr. "Director?"
"Cut off his head," Ragnar ordered calmly. "Boil it. Clean it. Then... Gold-Plate it."
Al-Hakam gasped. "Director? You intend to keep it?"
"I will turn his skull into a Coffee Mug," Ragnar declared, his eyes cold. "It will sit on my desk in City Titan. Every ti I sign a contract, I want to look into his empty eye sockets and rember: Never leave the train."
Bjorn grinned, a terrifying sight. "It shall be done, Director. A fine trophy for the boardroom."
"And the rest of him?" Bjorn asked, kicking Roland's leg.
"Bury him in the mass grave with the rest of his defective assets," Ragnar dismissed. "He doesn't get a severance package."
The Vizier was taken back by the notion. The idea of drinking caffeine from the skull of a Grandmaster was savage.
It was barbaric. But... it was also a powerful brand statent. Al-Hakam made a ntal note never to break a contract with this man.
As for the levies - the thousands of terrified Frankish peasants - they were gathered before the railway embanknt. They were surrounded by the "Iron Gear" guards, shivering in the cool evening air.
Ragnar limped up to the podium. He looked down at the destitute n.
Ragnar raised his hand. Silence fell.
"I hold no ill will towards any of you," Ragnar announced, his voice booming. "You were forced to fight against the Future. You were dragged from your farms by n who cared more for their pride than your lives."
Ragnar pointed to the smoking ruins of the Frankish fleet.
"Your ships are gone. Your lords are dead. You have no way ho."
A murmur of despair went through the crowd.
"However!" Ragnar shouted. "The Directorate is hiring! We have coal mines that need digging! We have tracks that need laying! We have factories that need sweeping!"
Ragnar pulled a stack of paper contracts from his belt.
"I offer you a Five-Year Contract. You work for , you get three als a day. You get a warm dormitory. You get dental. And after five years... you get a plot of land in the Midlands."
The peasants looked at each other.
Food? Warmth? Land? It was more than the King of Frankia had ever offered.
"What do you say?" Ragnar asked, spreading his arms. "Do you want to die as martyrs for a dead knight? Or do you want to live as Shareholders in the Iron Empire?"
"Shareholders!" a brave peasant shouted (he didn't know what the word ant, but it sounded better than 'serf').
"Efficiency is Victory!" the crowd roared back.
Ragnar smiled. He had just acquired 10,000 new employees for the cost of a speech.
"Bjorn," Ragnar said quietly as the cheers washed over them. "Process them. Issue them serial numbers and shovels. We have a railway to build to London."
"Yes, Director."
Ragnar turned to Al-Hakam.
"And you, Vizier. I believe you owe a shipnt of Cotton Seeds."
Al-Hakam bowed low. "I will send the fastest ship to Cordoba imdiately. The Caliph will want to hear of this victory."
"Good," Ragnar said, looking at the setting sun reflecting off the brass boiler of his train. "Because this is just the hostile takeover of the South. Next... we enter the Global Market."
Ragnar touched the bandage on his leg. It throbbed, a reminder of his mortality. He looked at the corpse of Roland one last ti as the interns dragged it away.
"You should have taken the deal, Roland," Ragnar whispered. "Conflict is just bad business."
With that, Ragnar climbed back into the cab of the war train.
User Comments
0 comments from readers