While Ragnar was setting his plans into motion, General Bjorn had begun another round of employee onboarding.
With the ti it took to train new hires, the Directorate could field another Security Division when rcia finally defaulted on its loans.
The "Security Force" of the Iron Empire was a well-oiled machine at this point, with a large batch of veterans acting as Shift Supervisors; their experience from Ragnar's previous audits allowed them to maintain quality control over the many new recruits who ford the majority of the new units appearing.
Heavy Infantry and Crossbown had been prioritized in recruitnt.
As for the Cavalry they were costly to insure and maintain, and as such had taken a backseat to the more cost-effective foot soldiers.
By now, three-quarters of all of Ragnar's forces were equipped with the "Mark II" Repeating Crossbow, allowing a massive volu-of-fire advantage on the battlefield.
Because of this, Ragnar had decreed the "Mark I" single-shot crossbow to be halted in production, and the existing stock was to be liquidated to the Scots at a markup.
When Ragnar finally marched to war in an attempt to restructure England, all his troops would be equipped with the repeaters.
Aside from the standard "Iron Gear" infantry, units of Grenadiers were fostered by the more chemically-inclined conscripts and were utilized as shock troops.
Ragnar had also begun forming "Sharpshooter Squads" comprised of lightly armored soldiers with special heavy crossbows designed for long-distance armor penetration.
These crossbows were based on the steel-limbed arbalests from Ragnar's historical knowledge, but with a twist: they utilized a windlass crank system integrated into the stock for faster reloading.
These precision weapons employed special bodkin bolts with hardened steel tips and were capable of an effective range of 400 yards.. far outstripping the standard bows of the Saxons.
The Sharpshooter Squads would be used as snipers on the battlefield and would precisely execute high-profile targets, such as enemy officers or particularly loud bards.
These Sharpshooter units were dressed in grey and green camouflaged cloaks and wore very little in terms of heavy plate; after all, they were engaging targets at such a distance they seldom needed the protection afforded by a breastplate.
The Sharpshooter recruits were handpicked from the most capable hunters and trained explicitly in windage and elevation.
They would indeed have a fearso reputation on the battlefield when they were finally deployed.
While Ragnar's forces improved in efficiency and market share, the blockade at the borders of the Midlands was still ongoing.
Reinforcents had arrived to Ealdorman Aethelred's forces outside Crewe, and he was now forced once more to march on the concrete walls of the Station Fortress.
His feudal soldiers boldly held onto their ladders as they charged at the low, nacing complex in front of them.
Trepidation filled every step, as those who had been present to witness the "Spicy Mix" spectacle of the last charge were all too aware of what awaited them.
Nevertheless, the n were pushed forward towards the steel-reinforced concrete walls in which the Directorate forces were garrisoned.
After advancing towards their objective, the chanical thrum of the repeating crossbows began to echo in the air, and the bolts rained down upon the invaders who prayed for their survival.
However, if the Saints truly existed, they were seemingly on a coffee break; after the first volley of bolts landed into the enemy's formation, they punched through shields and mail alike.
The impact itself was deadly.
However, the Grenadiers added to the chaos by lobbing clay pots of "Spicy Mix" over the walls.
The explosions caused absolute carnage, shredding the wooden ladders and sending splinters flying like shrapnel.
This was only the first shift. As such, the crossbows were rapidly reloaded before being fired once more.
anwhile, the defenders of the garrison began firing their heavier arbalests at the enemy officers when they appeared within range. The large steel bolts tore through the heavy plate of the Thanes, rendering their expensive armor practically useless.
Blood spilled with every successful hit, and bodies fell into the mud.
Despite this, the West Saxons continued to advance, hoping to get to the fortress and scale the walls.
Yet such a thing never occurred as they were quickly torn to shreds by the defender's mighty weapons. It did not take long before the survivors began to rout back to their siege camp once more.
Despite the rcenaries received from King Aethelwulf, Ealdorman Aethelred's army had once more failed to reach the sturdy walls of the Station Fortress. Filled with fury from the recent depreciation of his assets, the Ealdorman began to curse to himself as he witnessed the bloody spectacle unfold.
"I can't even build a God-damned siege tower without it being blown to kindling by those wretched pots! How the hell am I supposed to audit this fortress!?"
The Thanes of his army were circled around him, and every one of them could feel the Ealdorman's pain.
King Aethelwulf of Wessex had ordered the man to invade the Midlands from the South, and despite his best efforts, he could not even get close to the fortress which blocked his path. Every ti he attempted to do so, his n would be torn asunder by the efficient weapons the defenders possessed.
It was not simply a matter of explosive power but the exceptional discipline in which the defenders held.
Archers and Slingers did not stand a chance to get a shot off before getting sniped by the Sharpshooters.
Due to the range of the arbalests, Ealdorman Aethelred could not advance siege engines into a position without them getting disabled by the bolts above.
Trying to invade the Directorate was a nightmare for Aethelred, especially since he was morally against the idea, to begin with.
Was this God's punishnt for daring to march on the center of Industry? This was a question Aethelred had asked himself many tis since he first arrived at the Crewe border.
Nevertheless, King Aethelwulf would not accept failure; the rest of rcia was being raided, so why were he and the other Commanders having such a hard ti advancing into the coal fields?
No matter how Aethelred tried to inform the King of Ragnar's weapons, it was of no use; one would have to personally witness their destructive power to believe their effects, for they were sothing that had never been seen before in this feudal world.
Eventually, one of Aethelred's Thanes voiced a suggestion on how to proceed.
"My Lord... why don't we just wait for the King to conquer the rest of rcia before we attempt to attack again? Morale is shaking, and there is no point sending more n to the liquidation.
Before long, we will have a strike on our hands. It is simply impossible to enter through Crewe..."
What the man said was the most reasonable course of action for the West Saxons at the border. Any further attacks would be a waste of manpower.
Since they could not enter through the rail line, they would have to wait for Aethelwulf to march on Nottingham from the south, which could only happen after the rest of rcia was taken.
Of course, Aethelred was fearful that if he took this approach, his liege would punish him severely for his "breach of contract," as such, he was hesitant to adopt such a strategy.
Thus he tried to encourage possible alternatives from his Thanes.
"Are there any other ideas on how to break through this fortress that has blocked our path?"
After a few monts of silence, one of the other Thanes decided to voice his idea, despite knowing it would probably be rejected.
"We could just... renegotiate?"
The mont he said this, all eyes stared at him as if he were an imbecile; as such, he quickly coughed before explaining himself further.
"There are probably less than 500 n in that garrison, and Ragnar has these forts all over the rail line. Do we really believe King Aethelwulf can win this rger?
Is it not better to defect to the Directorate now and be treated with a pension plan? I hear Ragnar is quite generous to those who sign the non-disclosure agreent willingly."
After explaining himself thoroughly, the other Thanes present began to take his idea as a realistic suggestion.
They had already lost thousands of n in their multiple attempts at the wall without injuring any of the defenders; even in a field battle, the weapons the Vikings used would be disastrous to fight against. Maybe the man had a point?
After a heated debate, Aethelred had finally co to a decision. He would no longer waste the lives of his n trying to invade the Directorate; it was a pointless endeavor, but he also would not surrender to Ragnar until he knew who would win the market share.
As such he gave his commands.
"We will sit back and do nothing until we can see who a clear winner of this market is. If Aethelwulf's armies begin to pressure Ragnar's, we will launch another offensive; if they are soundly defeated, we will send a resu to Ragnar. Does anyone disagree with this approach?"
After having a vote, the result was unanimous; the army at the Southern Border of the Directorate would no longer actively engage in this conflict, giving Ragnar and his forces so reprieve.
...
anwhile, in the Irish Sea
While the stalemate at the border continued, Ragnar stood on the deck of Project: Leviathan.
It was a monstrosity of iron and steam.
A low, flat hull plated in rivet-studded iron sheets, sitting heavy in the water. A single, massive smokestack belched black coal smoke into the sky.
It had paddle wheels churning the grey water into white foam.
"Pressure holding at 90%," Leif the Elder shouted over the roar of the engine.
Ragnar nodded, leaning on his silver cane as the salt spray hit his face.
Vizier Al-Hakam stood beside him, clutching the railing and looking slightly green.
"It moves against the wind..!" Al-Hakam whispered, staring at the paddle wheels.
The Ironclad was steaming south from Edinburgh, hugging the coast.
Its destination: the port of Chester, where the West Saxon rcenaries were landing their supplies.
"Target sighted!" the lookout shouted from the armored pilothouse.
Ragnar raised his telescope. In the distance, a fleet of Frankish cogs and longships lay anchored in the harbor of Chester.
They were unloading crates of food and weapons for the West Saxon army.
"They have no idea we are coming," Ragnar noted. "They think the wind protects them."
"Shall we signal them to surrender?" Al-Hakam asked.
Ragnar turned to the gunnery crew - handpicked Sharpshooters trained in ballistics.
"Load the High-Explosive shells!" Ragnar ordered. "Target the flagship!"
The crew sprang into action, loading the massive shell into the breach. Leif adjusted the steam pressure valve to assist with the loading chanism.
"Range: 800 yards," the gunner called out.
"Fire!" Ragnar commanded.
BOOM!
The ship shuddered as the cannon fired.
A plu of smoke erupted from the barrel. Seconds later, the Frankish flagship exploded in a ball of fire and splinters.
The Frankish fleet erupted into chaos. Bells rang, n shouted, and sails were frantically unfurled. But there was no wind. They were sitting ducks.
"Reload!" Ragnar shouted, his voice filled with the thrill of innovation. "Target the docks! I want to burn their inventory!"
As the Leviathan stead closer, churning the water like a sea monster, Ragnar smiled.
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