The donkey, Matilda, was having a very productive week..
Ragnar stood inside the shed, watching the wooden gears turn.
"It works better than I calculated," Ragnar admitted, checking the consistency of the slurry. "The fibers are breaking down perfectly."
Brother Osric, now wearing a leather apron over his monk’s robes, bead with pride. "We have optimized the mix, Director. Twenty percent birch bark, eighty percent linen rags. It dries white and crisp."
"And the output?" Ragnar asked.
"Two hundred sheets a day," Osric reported. "If we add another donkey, we could double it."
Ragnar nodded. "Do it. The Weasel can find another donkey. We need to stockpile."
He picked up a finished sheet of paper. It was rougher than modern printer paper but miles ahead of the thick, greasy vellum the monks were used to. It was light. It was foldable. It was dangerous.
"Pack the first batch," Ragnar ordered. "Gyda needs it for the ledger. And I need it for the Manual."
He walked out of the shed, leaving the rhythmic pounding behind. The paper mill was a success, but paper was useless if you didn’t have anything to say.
Bjorn was standing on top of the highest sand dune, holding two large sticks. Attached to the sticks were squares of red and white cloth the first prototypes of the Signal Corps flags.
"I feel ridiculous," Bjorn shouted down to Ragnar. "I look like a bird trying to mate."
"You look like a communications tower," Ragnar shouted back. "Now, give the signal for ’Enemy Sighted’!"
Bjorn sighed, a sound that carried over the wind. He held the red flag straight up and the white flag horizontally to the right.
"Good!" Ragnar checked his slate. "Now, ’Hold Position’!"
Bjorn crossed the flags over his chest.
"Excellent! Now, ’The King needs a beer’!"
Bjorn dropped the flags and made a drinking motion with his hand.
"We need to work on that one," Ragnar laughed.
He climbed the dune to stand beside his brother. From this height, they could see the entire encampnt. The smoke from the Blast Furnace, the towering trebuchets, the neatly organized tents of the Builder’s Corps. It was a machine of war, humming with efficiency.
But then, Ragnar saw sothing else.
On the southern horizon, moving along the coast road, was a dust cloud. It wasn’t a raiding party. It was an ocean of n.
"Visitors," Bjorn said, his playful tone vanishing. He gripped the flags like weapons.
Ragnar squinted. He saw banners. Not the simple raven of King Horik. These banners were elaborate, trimd with gold and black fur.
"That’s not the enemy," Ragnar realized, a cold knot forming in his stomach. "That’s managent."
An hour later, the camp was in a frenzy.
King Horik was running around his tent, yelling at his servants to find his "good cape." Jarl Sigurd was frantically trying to hide the accounting books. Even Ulf looked nervous, polishing his axe with aggressive speed.
"Who is coming?" Ragnar asked, stepping into the chaos. "Is it the Saxons?"
"Worse," King Horik hissed, adjusting his gold chain. "It’s the Commanders. The Sons of Lothbrok."
The Sons of Lothbrok.
In his previous life, in the 21st century, Ragnar had read the history books. He had watched the TV shows. Ragnar Lothbrok was a semi-mythical figure, the ultimate Viking hero. But his sons... his sons were historical facts. They were the ones who led the Great Heathen Army. They were the ones who conquered kingdoms.
They were the board of directors, and Horik was just a regional manager.
"They are here to inspect us," Ulf whispered to Ragnar. "They want to know why we haven’t attacked York yet. They want to know why we are building chimneys on the beach."
"Let them co," Ragnar said, straightening his tunic. "We have results."
The procession that entered the camp was terrifying.
First ca the elite Huscarls, n who looked like they ate rocks for breakfast. Then ca the standard bearers.
And then, the leaders.
There was Ubba, a mountain of a man who made even Bjorn look average. He carried a hamr that looked like it weighed ten stone.
There was Halfdan, lean and scarred, with eyes that constantly scanned for throats to slit.
And finally, carried on a shield by four massive warriors, ca Ivar the Boneless.
Ragnar stared. In his old world, historians debated Ivar. Was he brittle-boned? Was he hyper-mobile? Was he just unable to walk?
Here, in the flesh, Ivar was a nightmare. His legs were withered and useless, twisted beneath him. But his upper body was imnse, corded with muscle. His eyes were a piercing, unnatural blue the sa color as the gas fla in a Bunsen burner.
He didn’t look like a cripple. He looked like a king who had discarded the need for walking because he had servants to do it for him. The procession stopped in the center of the camp, right in front of the Blast Furnace.
Ivar signaled with a single finger. The bearers lowered the shield.
Ivar dragged himself forward on his arms, moving like a spider. He looked at the roaring furnace. He looked at the trebuchets. He looked at the "Hole of Truth" testing station.
King Horik stepped forward, bowing low. "Lord Ivar. Lord Ubba. Welco to our... forward operating base."
Ivar ignored him. He crawled over to a pile of cast-iron cannonballs (Ragnar’s latest experint for the trebuchets). He picked one up. It was heavy, perfectly round, and seamless.
"Who made this?" Ivar asked. His voice was soft, high-pitched, and terrifying.
Ragnar felt a shove from behind. It was Gyda.
"Go," she whispered.
Ragnar stepped forward. "I did, Lord Ivar."
Ivar turned his head. He looked at Ragnar the engineer, the "bastard son," the man from the future.
Ragnar felt a strange sensation. It was a bizarre form of celebrity awe mixed with historical dread.
In his past life, Ivar the Boneless was a legend. He was the Napoleon of the North. A tactical genius who dismantled the Anglo-Saxon Heptarchy piece by piece. He was the one who killed King Aelle. He was the one who captured York.
But in the history books, Ivar was cruel. He was a monster. He didn’t care about logistics or industrial safety standards. He cared about suffering.
Ragnar realized he was standing in front of a man who possessed a genius-level intellect for violence.
I am an engineer, Ragnar thought. I build things. Ivar destroys things. We are natural opposites.
But he also felt a strange kinship. Ivar was disabled. In a Viking society that worshipped physical perfection, Ivar had risen to the top through sheer willpower and tactical brilliance.
He had "hacked" the system of Viking leadership.
He’s like , Ragnar realized. He uses his brain because his body failed him. He’s the original user of ’Leverage’.
"You are the Builder?" Ivar asked, breaking Ragnar’s train of thought. He tossed the iron ball in the air and caught it. "I heard rumors. Rumors of fat ships. Rumors of magic rocks that burn. Rumors of a King who pays his n to collect garbage."
Ivar smiled. It wasn’t a nice smile.
"I expected a giant," Ivar said, looking at Ragnar’s average fra. "Or a wizard. You look like a clerk."
"Appearances can be deceiving, Lord," Ragnar said, keeping his voice steady. "This ball looks like a rock. But it is heavier than stone and harder than iron. It breaks walls."
Ubba stepped forward, looming over them. "Horik says you promised to take York in two days. We have been sieging cities for years. It takes months."
"That was before," Ragnar said. He pointed to the trebuchet. "That is a force multiplier. It does the work of a hundred n."
"Force multiplier," Ivar repeated the phrase. He tasted it. He liked it.
"Show ," Ivar commanded. He dragged himself toward the God Hamr. "Show how you multiply force."
"Ragnar!"
A sharp whisper snapped Ragnar out of his daze. It was Bjorn, standing beside him with the semaphore flags still tucked in his belt.
"He’s looking at you," Bjorn hissed. "Stop staring at his legs."
Ragnar shook his head, clearing the "historical fanboy" fog. He wasn’t reading a textbook. He was in a muddy camp, and the most dangerous man in Europe was waiting for a demo.
"Right," Ragnar said. "Vinod... I an, Bjorn. Load the machine. Standard payload. Target the shipwreck."
He turned to Ivar. "Lord Ivar," Ragnar said, gesturing to the viewing platform (a pile of crates). "If you would join the King. We are about to conduct a live-fire exercise."
Ivar’s eyes glead. "I like fire."
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