Seeing his son carrying a dispatch tube bearing the unmistakable wax seal of Ragnar’s personal cipher, Leofric’s suffocating political exhaustion evaporated in an instant.
The dull ache in his temples vanished, rapidly replaced by a joyful energy that straightened his spine.
"Out," Leofric commanded. "The audience is concluded, Lord Duncan. Take your silver, take your horse, and return to your King."
"But, my Lord Commander, what ssage shall I carry back?" the envoy pleaded, frantically motioning for his n to gather the heavy chests before the giant warrior changed his mind and simply seized them.
"Tell him the Iron Empire is busy," Leofric growled. "Now, clear the hall before I have the guards toss you out into the smog."
As the terrified diplomats scrambled to evacuate the chamber, Leofric turned his back on them, striding purposefully toward Ragnar’s massive desk situated in the corner of the room. Breaking the dark wax seal with his thumb, he unrolled the thin strip of vellum, revealing lines of seemingly random, nonsensical letters.
Pulling a brass cipher wheel from a locked drawer, Leofric carefully aligned the internal rings to the predetermined weekly code, his eyes darting back and forth as the gibberish slowly translated into clear directives.
As he read the translated text, Leofric’s eyebrows shot up toward his hairline. The dispatch detailed the arrival in Kattegat, the treacherous ambush orchestrated by the Gore-King, the brilliant but costly tactical trap, and the tragic, explosive loss of the ironclad.
But it was the final paragraph, written in Ragnar’s own unmistakable, commanding syntax, that made the Lord Commander throw his head back and let out a joyous laugh.
"By the blood of the forge," Leofric chuckled, slapping his hand down onto the desk. "The madman actually found a mountain he wants to blow up!"
Hearing the laughter, three of his veteran lieutenants stationed by the doors quickly stepped forward, their hands resting eagerly on the hilts of their swords.
"What are the orders, Lord Commander?" the tallest lieutenant asked, recognizing the familiar, predatory grin spreading across his commander’s scarred face.
"The Director has encountered a hostile market in the North," Leofric announced, rolling the parchnt back up and tucking it securely into his belt. "He requires a highly aggressive restructuring of the local landscape. We are to mobilize the expeditionary reserves imdiately."
The lieutenants straightened up, their. "How many n do we marshal, sir?"
"Two thousand of our finest Grenadiers, fully equipped with repeating crossbows and winter gear," Leofric ordered,. "I want them pulled from the Leicester barracks and marched to the eastern docks by midnight. Furthermore, requisition six of our experintal siege mortars from the foundries, along with every barrel of high-explosive black powder we can safely load onto the swift-cogs."
"Siege mortars, sir?" a lieutenant questioned. "Are we breaching a city wall?"
"No, we are breaching a mountain, straight through a frozen gorge," Leofric grinned, grabbing his fur cloak from the back of Ragnar’s chair and throwing it over his broad shoulders.
"The Director has a cannibal king trapped in a stone fortress, and he intends to bring the roof down upon his head. Send word to the shipwrights to prepare the fleet for an imdiate, heavy-load departure. We sail with the morning tide!"
As his lieutenants rushed out of the hall to shout orders into the smoke-filled streets of City Titan, Leofric looked down at his son, who was watching the flurry of activity with wide eyes.
"Go tell the cooks to pack heavy travel rations, Osric," Leofric told the boy, tossing him a silver coin from his pouch. "The Iron Legion is going to war, and we have a very important delivery to make to your uncle Bjorn."
Leaving the empty audience chamber behind, Leofric strode out into the roaring heart of the city.
...
In the grand palace of Granada, Al-Andalus
Within the opulent, vaulted audience chamber, Vizier Al-Hakam stood before the elevated throne of the Caliph. Though the journey back from the misty Isles of the North had been fraught with treacherous storms and restless tides, the Vizier looked entirely rejuvenated, dressed in flowing robes of erald silk embroidered with threads of pure gold.
Resting his chin upon a heavily jeweled hand, the Caliph listened intently as Al-Hakam presented a leather-bound ledger, detailing the unprecedented success of their rcantile expedition.
"The galleys have safely dropped anchor in our southern ports, Your Eminence," Al-Hakam reported. "The cargo holds are bursting with the fruits of our new pact. We have secured exclusive rights to the ’Fire-Lances,’ and the first shipnt of these devastating weapons is currently being transferred to the royal armories. Furthermore, we have established a permanent, highly lucrative line of comrce for their heavy steel."
"A monuntal achievent, Al-Hakam," the Caliph murmured, stroking his dark beard as a murmur of awed whispers rippled through the assembled crowd of nobles and guildmasters. "You have brought the thunder of the North to our shores, ensuring our dominance over the Franks and the petty kings of the coast. But tell , how did you pry such closely guarded secrets from the hands of these barbarians?"
Before the Vizier could formulate a suitably humble response, his wife, Safiya, stepped forward from the ranks of the nobility. She refused to let her husband’s monuntal triumph be chalked up to re luck or standard diplomacy.
"If I may speak, Your Eminence," Safiya interrupted gracefully, offering a respectful bow before raising her eyes to et the Caliph’s gaze. "It was not a simple transaction of silver for iron. The ruler of that dismal, freezing island is no ordinary barbarian. He is an absolutely insane, iron-obsessed Norseman."
A ripple of nervous laughter spread through the court, but Safiya’s expression remained perfectly serious.
"He calls himself the Iron Father," she continued, gesturing proudly toward her husband. "He is a man of a terrifying ambition. Since he seized control of the Isles, he has turned away every diplomat and envoy sent by the old kingdoms. Yet, it was my husband who walked directly into the heart of his city, navigated the Norseman’s ruthless logic, and bound him in a pact of mutual prosperity. Al-Hakam alone convinced this Lord of the Forge that our sulfur and saltpeter were the keys to his future!"
Seeing his trusted Vizier’s legendary diplomatic acun so eloquently defended by his astute wife, the Caliph’s eyes widened with profound respect.
He rose slowly from his throne, raising his hands to silence the murmuring court.
"The lady speaks the truth..." the Caliph proclaid. "For generations, we have relied on the strength of our cavalry and the sharpness of our swords to protect our borders. But the world is shifting. A new age of fire and iron is dawning in the North, and we cannot afford to be left in the shadows of history!"
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