Six hours before the assassination attempt.
The Deep Woods, North of York.
It was the hour of the wolf that grey, silent ti just before the dawn broke.
In a secluded clearing, far from the rhythmic of the Jernheim trip-hamrs and the sulfurous stench of the Blast Furnace, stood an ancient Longhouse. It was a relic of the old days, built of rough-hewn timber and slling of damp earth and blood.
Dozens of n moved through the mist toward the heavy wooden doors.
They did not wear the standardized, padded vests of the Industrial Corps. They did not carry the uniform 20mm Torsion Spikes or the Ragnar-issued identifying badges.
These n wore bearskins. They carried heirlooms axes with rusted notches, swords passed down from fathers who had raided Paris, and round shields painted with the symbols of the Old Gods. They were the Huscarls, the Jarls, and the traditionalists who felt the cold wind of change blowing from York, and they hated it.
Inside the Longhouse, the air was thick with smoke from a central fire pit.
At the head of the hall, sitting on a throne carved from the skull of a whale, sat Jarl Einar.
Einar was a mountain of a man, his beard braided in the traditional fork style. But today, he looked diminished. His eyes were bloodshot, and his hands, usually steady on the haft of an axe, twitched with a mixture of rage and ale-withdrawal.
He was the man Ragnar had humiliated. He was the man who had been forced to pay a "fine" for burning a mill. He was the man whose favorite thrall was now a "Level 2 Chemist" earning a salary.
He looked at the assembly. There were fifty of them the displaced elite of the Great Heathen Army. n who used to be kings of their own ships, now reduced to "Security Consultants" or "Middle Managent" under the Director’s new laws.
"Welco," Einar’s voice grated like stones grinding together. "Welco, brothers of the Axe."
He stood up, casting a long shadow against the soot-stained walls.
"We gather here not as employees," Einar spat the word like it was poison. "We gather as Vikings. As free n."
A murmur of agreent rippled through the hall.
"My grandfather," Einar began, his voice low and dangerous, "sailed to the diterranean. He burned cities. He took gold. He did not ask for a receipt. He did not file a ’Damage Report’ with a woman who counts beans."
He paced around the fire. "But look at us now. We have taken York. And what is our reward? Do we feast? No. We are told to stand in line. We are told to protect cripples. We are told that a ’Broken Man’ is worth more than a warrior with forty kills."
Einar kicked a log into the fire, sending sparks flying.
"This ’Builder’... this Ragnar... he is not one of us. He is a sorcerer. A bastard of Loki."
The crowd grew louder.
"He makes the iron flow like water!" one Jarl shouted. "It is unnatural magic!"
"He teaches the thralls to read!" another scread, clutching his axe. "My slave corrected my grammar yesterday! I had to beat him, and then I was fined five silver pieces for ’Damaging Company Property’!"
Einar nodded, feeding off their anger.
"He is destroying us," Einar roared. "He calls it ’Efficiency.’ I call it death. He wants to turn us into gears in his machine. He wants to take away the glory of Valhalla and replace it with a... a Pension Plan!"
The very word seed to hang in the air like a curse. "He says the Huscarls are shields," Einar continued, his face reddening. "He says we are the ’packaging.’ He puts the weapon in the hands of the weak and tells the strong to die protecting them. Is this the way of Odin? Is this the way of Thor?"
"NO!" the hall erupted.
"He has bewitched King Horik," Einar yelled. "He has seduced Ivar with his exploding pots. But I tell you this: machines break. Iron rusts. But blood? Blood rembers."
Einar drew his sword. It was not a "Standard Issue" blade from the Jernheim foundry. It was an old blade, folded steel, chipped and scarred.
"We must purge the rot," Einar declared. "We must smash the machines. We must burn the paper. We must kill the Builder."
"Kill the Builder!" the crowd chanted. "Break the Gears!"
As the chanting reached a fever pitch, a figure stepped out from the shadows in the corner of the Longhouse.
He did not look like a Viking. He wore a long, hooded cloak of dark wool. He was clean-shaven, and his hands were soft, holding a wooden cross that hung from his neck.
It was Father Wilfrid, a Saxon priest who had allegedly "fled" York. In reality, he was a spy for King Burgred of rcia.
He had been watching the Vikings unravel from the inside.
rcia was terrified of Ragnar’s industrial war machine. The brittle swords Ragnar sold them had caused chaos in their ranks, snapping during training drills. The "Secret Maps" had led three rcian patrols into quicksand. King Burgred knew he couldn’t beat the Vikings on the field—not when they had Torsion Spikes and repeating crossbows.
So, he had sent gold.
"The Lord Einar speaks the truth," Father Wilfrid said, his voice smooth and cultured, cutting through the guttural Norse shouting.
The Vikings turned to look at him. Usually, a priest in this room would be dead in seconds. But Wilfrid held up a heavy leather pouch.
He tossed it to Einar.
Einar caught it. He opened it. Gold coins. rcian minted gold.
"My King offers you this," Wilfrid said, stepping into the firelight. "And ten tis more. If you remove the ’Industrialist’."
"We do not need Saxon gold to kill a traitor," Einar grunted, though he pocketed the pouch imdiately.
"Of course not," Wilfrid smiled thinly. "But you need resources. The Builder controls the food. He controls the iron. He controls the pay. If you strike, you must strike hard. You need assassins who know how to bypass his ’Security Protocols’."
Wilfrid reached into his robe and pulled out a small glass vial.
"And you might need this."
"What is it?" Einar asked, peering at the green liquid.
"It is not a machine," Wilfrid said. "It is old magic. Nightshade. Put this in his ’porridge,’ and the machine stops forever."
Einar took the vial. He looked at it with a mixture of disgust and necessity. Poison was a woman’s weapon. But Ragnar was not a man; he was a system. And you destroy a system however you can.
"We do not need poison," Einar lied, tucking the vial into his belt. "We will use steel. But we accept the gold."
Einar turned back to his n.
"Tonight," Einar announced. "The Builder sleeps in the Governor’s Palace. He thinks he is safe behind his ’security clearance.’ He thinks his ’Broken n’ can stop real warriors."
Einar raised his sword high.
"We will show him that a graph cannot stop an axe. We will burn his paper mill. We will smash his furnace. And we will take back our army!"
"ODIN!" the n roared, clashing their weapons against their shields.
"Tonight, the Industry dies!" Einar scread.
The sound was deafening. It was the sound of the past trying to murder the future.
Outside, the mist swirled around the Longhouse.
Unbeknownst to Einar, high in a pine tree about fifty yards away, a small figure was perched on a branch.
It was Leif the Lesser, the forr thief and star player of the Blue Rugby Team. He was shivering in his padded vest, clutching a charcoal stick and a scrap of Ragnar’s paper.
He had been sent by Gyda to "audit the periter."
Leif watched the n pour out of the Longhouse, weapons drawn. He saw the gold. He saw the priest.
He didn’t try to fight. He knew the physics of fifty against one.
Instead, he slid down the tree.
"I need to run," Leif whispered to himself. "I need to run the curve."
He took off sprinting through the woods, clutching the paper that contained the nas of the traitors. He had to get to York. He had to warn the Director.
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