Weeks had gone by, and Ragnar had fully recovered from his "Administrative Leave".
However, at the other end of Europe, in the heart of the Frankish Empire, the political market was experiencing extre volatility.
King Charles the Bald was currently reading a report in regards to the "Sandwich Incident" in which Grandmaster Roland fought with Ragnar.
The King was greatly frowning as he read the contents, his brow furrowed beneath his golden circlet. One of his most valuable assets was dead, along with 25,000 knights and levies.
The results were disastrous; he was not expecting the "Iron Demon" to field such a highly efficient kill-zone in such a short ti.
Then again, he was also not expecting Ragnar to possess liquid fire that burned underwater. Too many variables had changed between the ti Roland marched to war and the event of the liquidation itself.
The result of the battle was a significant loss to the Frankish military-industrial complex. 25,000 n were no small number, and Charles was counting on many of those n to return and bolster his ranks to defend his southern border.
Now that the news of their defeat had spread, the Emirate of Cordoba had begun to move their armies to liberate the disputed territories in the Pyrenees.
There was no mistake; at any mont, the Franks could be facing the might of the Caliphate, a war they would have been better off dealing with if they still had the heavy cavalry who embarked with Roland.
Not only was the South unstable, but King Charles was now facing pressure by the Papacy to raise another army and invade England once more; the Crusade to end Ragnar's "Steam Heresy" had just begun in the eyes of the Pope.
Yet Charles had no intention of doing such things.
If they could not defend their own borders, then what was the point of marching into the industrial at-grinder known as Wessex?
In fact, Charles was beginning to suspect that attacking a man who could mass-produce grenades was a poor investnt strategy.
The Papal Legate was standing before him impatiently as he watched the King read through the reports of what had transpired. Eventually, the Legate could contain his eagerness no longer and asked what the King intended to do about the situation.
"His Holiness demands a response to the loss in Sandwich. Ragnar's victory will only further embolden the heathens who flock to his cause.
If he can defy the might of the Church without punishnt, then why can't they? So what do you intend to do about this?"
King Charles glared at the Legate viciously before responding, slamming the report onto his oak table.
"I have already done enough. If Ragnar could defeat an army of twenty-five thousand n with a steam engine and a few pipes, then it ans he is not an opponent I can underestimate!"
The Legate was shocked that the King would praise Ragnar's ability despite suffering massive losses against him. So much so that he foolishly condemned the King for his views.
"You complint a condemned Heretic? I am beginning to question your faith, Your Majesty!"
Hearing these words, King Charles stood up, his chair scraping loudly against the stone floor. He walked over to the Legate, looming over the smaller man.
"Listen here, you pompous ink-spiller. England is an island fortress where Ragnar holds all of the advantages as the defender!
The man has acquired a vast fortune, has he not? Who is to say that he is not using that fortune to construct railways across its entirety, making it even more difficult to conquer? Do you fools in the Vatican have any idea what is going on in the North? I sent the flower of my chivalry into Wessex because you fools told he was just a raider, and they are all dead now!"
The priest who acted as the ssenger of the Vatican was so frightened by the fury of the King that he began to clutch his rosary beads, which caused Charles to turn away in disgust.
He walked to the window, looking out at the rainy streets of Paris.
"Return to the Vatican and ask his Holiness what he desires most of the Frankish Kingdom: to hold back the Moors in the South, or to crush the Heresy that has spread throughout the British Isles? Because I cannot fulfill both of his requests at the sa ti!"
With this said, the Priest from the Vatican fled the King's chambers and quickly left the Palace, where he intended to report back to Ro as quickly as possible.
After the ssenger departed, King Charles sighed as he gazed into his fireplace and let out his thoughts.
"A Storm is brewing in the South, and I do not have the ti or resources to wage war against the Iron Empire. If the Pope is foolish enough to send to England, then Paris will be lost forever."
Shortly after saying that, a frantic Duke walked into his chambers with a scroll in his hands and announced his presence.
"Your Majesty, may I have a mont of your ti?"
The weary King sighed before nodding his head, signaling for the Duke to continue.
"The Moors are on the move; they have laid siege to Barcelona as we speak. And Your Majesty... they have new weapons."
"What kind of weapons?" Charles asked, dread pooling in his stomach.
"Steel," the Duke whispered, his face pale. "Their swords... they cut through our mail like linen. And they have arrows that pierce plate. It is said they are trading with the Northn."
With this news, his worst fears had been realized. King Charles responded to this information by sighing heavily before pulling out a flagon of wine and filling it into two goblets. After handing off one of the cups to the other man, he took a sip from his glass before expressing his thoughts.
"So it begins..."
If what the Duke had reported was true, the Kingdom would have a difficult road ahead as they tried to defend the Pyrenees from the Caliphate's invasion. Now that they were down 25,000 knights, it would not be an easy feat.
On top of this new invasion from the South, they were currently dealing with Viking raids along the Seine.
Judging from the expansion rate of Ragnar's market share, it would not be long before such a war would be unwinnable for the Franks; the "Iron Brand" was likely to flourish in Europe as its products were appealing to the nobility and common folk alike.
Now that the Moors had invaded, England was no longer his concern; the Papacy would have to find so other fool to wage that war.
All of these thoughts swirled in the mind of the King as he silently drank from his cup; when he was finished with the wine within, he tossed the goblet aside and instructed the Duke of his orders.
"Alert the n; we ride for the South. Hopefully, the garrisons we have stationed there can hold off the enemy long enough for our reinforcents?"
After hearing this order, the Duke was confused and, as such, attempted to clarify the issue at hand.
"And the Iron Demon?"
King Charles grabbed ahold of his sword belt and tied it around his waist as he casually dismissed the issue.
"Let soone else deal with him; we have bled enough. Send an envoy to Normandy. Tell them to... normalize trade relations."
With that said, the Frankish Kingdom completely disregarded the events in Sandwich and the defeat of Roland and his army; after all, they had far more pressing concerns to attend to. As such, the King had begun to muster the forces in the central region of France.
The war in the South had begun, and they had limited ti to make it before they were overwheld by Andalusian steel.
The Frankish War against the Caliphate had just begun, buying Ragnar so much-needed ti to build up his infrastructure.
When the Pope heard that the Franks had snubbed him and marched to the South, he would be greatly infuriated; to enact his vengeance upon Ragnar, he would need a new army to fight against him.
Unfortunately for him, all of the Catholic monarchs were currently undergoing so form of crisis, and the Andalusians to the South had already begun to form Strategic Partnerships with Ragnar.
As such, safety and security for the people of the Iron Empire had been secured for the ti being. Sothing in which Ragnar would take full advantage of to bring his vision of a Fortress Britain into reality.
When the Catholic Church could finally muster an army large enough to invade again, the island would be one giant, self-sustaining machine.
***
City Titan, The Director's Office
Ragnar sat at his desk, his silver-geared cane leaning against the heavy oak. He was reading a telegraph transcript from his spy in Paris.
"FRANKS. MOVING. SOUTH."
"MARKET. OPEN."
Ragnar smiled, taking a sip of black coffee from the gold-plated skull of Grandmaster Roland. He looked at Gyda, who was feeding Magnus while simultaneously reviewing the quarterly budget.
"The Franks have pivoted," Ragnar announced. "They are going to fight the Moors."
Gyda looked up, her eyes sharp. "That gives us a window, Ragnar. How long?"
"Two years, maybe three," Ragnar estimated. "Ti enough to extend the railway to Scotland. And ti enough to finish Project: Leviathan."
"The iron ship?" Gyda asked.
"The iron ship," Ragnar confird. "But first... we need to consolidate. The influx of Frankish refugees needs to be processed. I want them building the new Industrial Park in London."
Ragnar stood up, leaning on his cane. He walked to the window, looking out at the smog and steam of his city.
"The Crusade failed, Gyda. And now... we have the monopoly."
Ragnar turned back to his wife, his eyes gleaming with the fire of ambition.
"Send a ssage to Al-Hakam. Tell him the steel shipnt is on its way. And tell him... I have a new product he might be interested in."
"What product?"
Ragnar grinned, tapping the skull mug.
"Insurance."
With the threat of invasion gone, Ragnar could finally focus on the true goal: turning his Directorate into an unstoppable economic engine.
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