Two months had passed since the surrender of The Fang. anwhile, far across the narrow sea in a different kind of conquest was unfolding.
867 AD, Granada, Al-Andalus
In the newly consecrated industrial quarter of Granada, the rhythmic clatter of water-driven pistons filled every corridor, the first great factory stood as a living monunt to the future.
Perhaps no sight in all the diterranean could rival the sheer ambition of this creation, for within its vast stone halls nearly five hundred workers toiled without cease at the primitive yet revolutionary looms that Prince Al-Hakam had raised from the sacred blueprint gifted by the Iron Father himself.
Stacks upon stacks of fine linen now filled the royal warehouses to bursting, each bolt destined for ports from Alexandria to Constantinople.
Al-Hakam, newly elevated Prince of Granada, walked slowly through the main production hall with his wife Safiya at his side. It beca clear that with this single factory alone the Prince could beco a trading power unmatched in so years.
In fact, with these creative machines working night and day, he could soon grow richer than the Caliph himself... richer, perhaps, than the Emperor of Francia!
"By now," Al-Hakam said, "the Caliph sends us congratulations and requests more Fire-Lances, yet he does not yet understand that the blueprint Ragnar gave us has changed the balance"
Safiya smiled. "Perhaps in three or four years we will surpass the North. Still, my husband, we must move carefully. The Caliph’s spies watch these halls even now..."
Al-Hakam stopped beside one of the massive steam-presses.
"Nevertheless, the risk is worth every dirham. Ragnar knew exactly what he was giving us. With this factory and the others we shall soon build, Granada will beco the beating heart of diterranean comrce."
Safiya laughed softly. "In fact, my love, I have already begun negotiations with Venetian rchants... They will pay triple the usual price for our linen once they see its quality and quantity."
Al-Hakam turned to her, taking both her hands in his own as the great looms continued their tireless dance behind them. "I never imagined such power could co from a single parchnt. Yet here we stand, richer with every passing hour."
anwhile, far to the north and west.
Ulster, Ireland
In the stone hall of a minor Ulster chieftain nad Connor mac Nessa, a small council of Irish lords had gathered around a crackling hearth while winter rain lashed the thatched roof above them.
"If there was one thing we all feared," Connor said, "News from the Norse traders who survived Kattegat has reached every shore... ships of iron that move without sail, thunder that falls from the sky, and a mountain fortress shattered in a single afternoon."
One of the younger lords, a fiery-haired man nad Aedan, slamd his cup upon the table.
"By now the stories grow wilder with every telling. They say he spared the survivors at Kattegat on purpose so the terror would spread. Apparently even the Gore-King himself surrendered rather than face another hour of that iron rain. If Ragnar can break a mountain in Norway, what chance do our wooden halls and earthen ramparts have when he finally sails west?!"
An older chieftain nad Fergus stroked his grey beard thoughtfully before speaking. "Perhaps we should not wait for him to co...
The Norse in Dublin already whisper of offering tribute before he demands it. Unlike the old days when we fought Viking raiders with steel and courage, this new enemy brings machines. In fact, so say he has already sent envoys to the High King in Tara offering trade and protection in exchange for ports and timber."
Connor rose slowly. "Half the land already flies his banners. And there it was the mont I realized our old ways are dying. He will turn our green fields into forges and our warriors into workers if we let him."
Aedan laughed bitterly, though there was no joy in the sound. "Still, would that be so terrible? The stories say his people eat better than kings, that even the lowest laborer in his factories has salted at and warm beds. Perhaps bending the knee to the Iron Father is better than starving under the old feuds."
Fergus shook his head. "None of that truly mattered until now. We have always fought invaders with axe and spear. Yet this man brings a new kind of war. By now every chieftain in Ulster must choose: stand against the tide and be swept away, or sail with it and claim a place in the new world he is building."
Connor turned from the fire at last, "Therefore we send envoys to the Iron Empire as proud lords seeking alliance."
Since then, the tales from the distant North had spread across every hall and monastery in Ireland, carrying with them the terrifying legend of the Iron Father who had conquered half of England in the span of rely two years.
Realizing that his own vassals were beginning to speak openly of seeking alliance with this new power, Áed Findliath, High King of Ireland, felt a headache bloom behind his eyes.
Evidently the stories grew more fantastic with every retelling. After so ti the High King could no longer pretend the threat remained distant.
In the hall of Tara, sacred seat of the High Kings, Áed sat upon the Stone of Destiny with his provincial lords gathered before him.
During that heavy council the fire in the great hearth crackled as though echoing the turmoil in his soul. The High King commanded armies from Connacht, ath, and Ulster against both rival Irish kings and the Viking invaders who had carved out fortified coastal bases, most notably the Kingdom of Dublin.
Despite the Viking threat, Irish rulers had been relatively successful, winning roughly fifteen out of twenty recorded battles through cunning, courage, and the unyielding spirit of their people. Yet now, in this very hall, his own lords dared speak of bending the knee to a foreign conqueror...
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