Building a Viking Empire with Modern Industry Chapter 16: Mass Times Acceleration [1]

The Dunes, Outside the Viking Encampnt

Ragnar sat on an empty barrel of salted fish, staring intently at a wooden lever.

To anyone else, it was just a stick on a pivot. To Ragnar, it was the difference between knocking down a wall and accidentally crushing his own army.

He was in the "Testing Zone," a secluded stretch of beach away from the main camp.

"It’s about the angle of release," Ragnar muttered to himself, rubbing his chin.

The trebuchet or rather, the scaled-down prototype they were using for calibration stood. Ragnar had introduced the concept of the "Adjustable Release Pin." In traditional history, this was an art form learned over decades.

"Knock, knock," a gravelly voice grunted.

Ragnar didn’t look up. "Co in, Leif. Watch your head on the counterweight."

Leif the Smith hobbled into the testing circle. He was holding a piece of iron that looked like a bent finger. His face was sared with soot, and he looked exhausted, but his eyes held a strange, manic gleam the look of a man who had discovered that tal could do things he never imagined.

Ragnar had found Leif three days ago, cursing at a piece of bronze. When Ragnar asked why, Leif had explained he was trying to make a tal that "didn’t get tired" when bent repeatedly. Ragnar had realized imdiately: This man is trying to invent spring steel in the 9th Century.

"I have found a gold mine," Ragnar had thought. He imdiately promoted Leif to ’Head of tallurgy.’

"Lord Builder," Leif said, holding up the iron finger. "I did what you said. I tempered it in oil, not water. It... it springs back."

Leif pressed the iron against the wooden fra. It bent, storing tension, and then snap—it returned to its original shape without breaking.

"Spring steel," Ragnar grinned, taking the piece. "Or close enough to it. With this, the trigger chanism won’t jam."

Leif looked at the tal with pure worship. "It is magic tal. It fights the hamr."

"It’s not magic, Leif. It’s grain structure," Ragnar said, standing up. "Install this on the Big One. If the trigger fails during the siege, we all look very stupid."

Leif nodded vigorously. "I will install it myself. No one else touches the Magic tal."

Ragnar watched the smith limp away toward the main construction site. He felt a surge of satisfaction. The "Academy of the Stick" was working. The "Iron Tithe" was working. The pieces were falling into place.

He was about to calculate the optimal projectile weight when a commotion broke his concentration.

"Lord Ragnar! Lord Ragnar!"

A young ssenger boy, barely twelve years old, ca sprinting across the sand. He tripped over a coil of rope, scrambled up, and kept running.

"Breathe, boy," Ragnar said, catching the kid before he collapsed. "Did the Saxons attack?"

"No, Lord," the boy wheezed. "The King. He summons you to the Command Tent. The Big Jarls are yelling."

Ragnar sighed. "The Big Jarls are always yelling. It’s their hobby."

"This is different," the boy whispered, eyes wide. "There is blood."

Ragnar’s smile vanished. He grabbed his belt. "Lead the way."

The atmosphere inside the royal pavilion was heavy enough to crush a shield. King Horik sat on his throne, his face a mask of thunder. To his left stood Ragnar’s father, Ulf, looking pale and worried. To his right stood Princess Gyda, her arms crossed, her knuckles white as she gripped a slate ledger.

Ragnar stepped inside. "Long live the King," he said, skipping the bow. "Who is bleeding?"

"We are," Ulf said grimly. "Or rather, our supplies are."

Ragnar frowned. "Explain."

Ulf stepped forward, holding a piece of vellum that looked like it had been chewed on.

"Ragnar," his father began, his voice low. "We have a problem with the logistics. The ’Iron Tithe’ worked too well. We have the iron, but we promised double the silver in return."

"We pay them from the loot of York," Ragnar said dismissively. "That was the deal."

"The n are getting restless," Ulf countered. "They see us feeding the four hundred ’Broken’ n three als a day. They see the Builders getting extra pork. And now, rumors are spreading that York’s walls are impenetrable. They fear they gave up their backup weapons for nothing. If we don’t breach that wall in the first hour... the army will turn on us."

Ragnar rubbed his forehead. "So, we are on a tir. I knew that."

"It is worse," Ulf said, lowering his voice. "We are out of grain. The ’Broken Corps’ eats a lot. We have food for maybe three days. After that, we start eating the horses."

"Don’t eat the horses," Ragnar said instantly. "We need them to drag the machines."

He looked at the King. "We attack in two days. The hunger will make them fight harder."

"If that were the only problem, I would sleep well," King Horik spoke up. His voice was dangerously quiet.

He pointed a finger at Gyda. "Tell him."

Gyda stepped forward. She didn’t look at her father; she looked straight at Ragnar. Her eyes were cold, furious.

"There was an incident in the West Sector," Gyda said sharply. "My Audit Team... the n I sent to collect the scrap iron from Jarl Einar’s camp..."

Ragnar stiffened. "Jarl Einar? The one with the braid that looks like a dead rat?"

"The sa," Gyda nodded. "He refused to give the scrap. He said he does not take orders from a ’woman with a book’ or a ’crippled builder.’ When my n insisted... he set his Huscarls on them."

Ragnar felt a cold heat rise in his chest. "Did he kill them?"

"He beat them," Gyda said, her voice trembling with suppressed rage. "He took their Ragnar Sticks the standard rulers and broke them. He threw Sven the Strong into a mud pit and told him that if a cripple ca near his tent again, he would cut off his other leg."

Silence filled the tent..

Ragnar felt a quiet, icy clarity. Sven. The man who squatted until he cried because he wanted to be useful. The man who called Erik "brother."

"Idiot," Ragnar whispered. "Stupid, suicidal idiot."

King Horik watched him closely. "You want to kill him."

"I want to put him in the trebuchet and fire him into the sea," Ragnar said, his voice flat. "Why is he still alive? You are the King. He attacked your officers."

"He has five hundred n," Ulf interjected quickly, stepping between Ragnar and the King. "Five hundred heavy infantry. They are the anchor of our left flank. If we arrest Jarl Einar now, his n will riot. We will have a civil war on the beach while the Saxons watch and laugh."

"So we do nothing?" Ragnar asked, looking at Gyda. "We let him break the Builders? If we let this slide, the Academy is a joke. The ’Standard Unit’ becos a suggestion, not a law."

"We cannot fight him now," Gyda said, though it clearly pained her to say it. "He has the backing of the traditionalists. They think your machines are toys. They are waiting for you to fail."

Ragnar realized the trap. Einar was betting that the machines would fail. If they failed, the Old Ways returned, and Ragnar would be sacrificed to appease the gods.

"So," Ragnar said, pacing the tent. "This is their response to the Industrial Revolution. Sabotage and brute force."

"What is your move, Builder?" King Horik asked, leaning back. He looked like he was enjoying the show. "Can your machines fix a mutiny?"

Ragnar stopped pacing. He thought about the spring steel Leif had just shown him. He thought about the stored energy in the Torsion Spikes.

"Jarl Einar thinks strength is hitting soone with an axe," Ragnar said softly. "He thinks because my n limp, they are weak."

He turned to Ulf. "Father, when will the Great Trebuchet be fully assembled?"

Ulf blinked, surprised by the pivot. "Tomorrow morning. Bjorn is fitting the counterweight arm now."

"Good," Ragnar nodded. "And the ammo?"

"We have the stones," Ulf said. "But we haven’t tested it with a full load."

Ragnar turned to the King.

"My King, do not arrest Jarl Einar. Invite him."

"Invite him?" Horik raised an eyebrow.

"Tomorrow at noon, we hold a ’Demonstration of Power,’" Ragnar said, his eyes hard. "Invite all the Jarls. Invite Einar. Tell him to bring his best shield. Tell him to bring his skepticism."

"And what will you do?" Gyda asked. "Talk him to death with math?"

Ragnar looked at her. He saw the Valkyrie’s Sting hidden under her cloak.

"No," Ragnar smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. "I’m going to show him that in the new world, you don’t need to be strong to crush a bug. You just need to have the bigger lever."

He turned to the ssenger boy who was still hovering by the entrance.

"Boy," Ragnar commanded. "Run to the Academy. Tell Bjorn to double the counterweight. Tell Leif to polish the release hook."

He looked back at the council.

"Jarl Einar broke a Ruler," Ragnar said, clenching his fist. "Tomorrow, I’m going to break his reality."

King Horik let out a short, barking laugh. "I love it when the smart ones get angry. It’s so... creative."

"Dismissed," the King waved his hand. "Prepare the show, Ragnar. If you fail, Einar eats you."

"He can try," Ragnar muttered, turning on his heel. "But he’ll choke on the splinters."

As he walked out into the cool English air, Ragnar’s mind wasn’t on the siege of York anymore. It was on a specific physics problem: How much force is required to humiliate a warlord without starting a war?

The answer, he decided, was mass tis acceleration.