The sound of a steam whistle shrieked across the borderlands.
Ragnar, Director of Industry, was already awake. He stood inside his command tent, running a cloth over the flank of his horse.
The horse was a massive, sullen beast nad Calculus. Unlike the nimble ponies the Vikings favored, Calculus was a draft horse mixed with a destrier a creature built for torque, not speed.
"Stand still," Ragnar murmured, tightening the buckles on the horse’s barding.
The horse wore a suit of segnted, tempered steel plates, painted a matte grey to prevent rust.
"We have a schedule to keep," Ragnar told the horse.
He climbed into the saddle. He didn’t wear the traditional chainmail. He wore the "Executive Armor" a breastplate of high-carbon steel, polished to a mirror finish, with a high collar to protect against stray arrows. On his hip sat The Typewriter (his repeating crossbow) and a pouch of sulfur matches.
He rode out of the tent. The Industrial Corps was already mustered. It was a sight that would have made a traditional Jarl vomit with rage. Five thousand n stood in perfect silence. They were arranged in a grid.
The front ten rows were the "Pike Division". These were the converted Huscarls. They wore heavy plate armor on their chests and held 12-foot ash pikes tipped with steel bodkins. They looked like a forest of tal.
Behind them stood the "Range Departnt". Two thousand Tech-Thralls and Broken n, ard with the repeating crossbows.
And on the flanks... the "Project Vulcan" wagons. Large, reinforced carts carrying barrels of a thick, black substance, with hand-pumps and brass nozzles attached.
General Bjorn rode up on his own massive steed. He was checking a clipboard.
"Morning attendance is 100%," Bjorn reported, chewing on a piece of dried beef. "The n are nervous, Director. Guthrum has more axes."
"Axes rely on kinetic energy delivered by a human arm," Ragnar said, adjusting his gloves. "We rely on stored potential energy delivered by a machine. Physics wins, Bjorn."
"I hope Physics can take a hit," Bjorn grunted. "Because Guthrum looks angry."
Across the valley, about two kiloters away, the Great Army of East Anglia was waking up.
It was a chaotic sea of noise. Drums beat erratically. n scread insults at the sky to psyche themselves up. They sharpened axes on rocks and drank ale for breakfast.
King Guthrum sat on his horse, Bone-Crusher, watching the silent grey square of Ragnar’s army.
"Look at them," Guthrum laughed, pointing with his axe. "They stand like statues! They are afraid to move!"
"They look like sheep waiting for the butcher," Jarl Hrolf sneered. "They hold sticks! Long sticks! What kind of Viking fights with a stick?"
"They have forgotten the joy of the charge," Guthrum declared. "We will remind them."
Guthrum raised his axe. "Form the wedge! We punch through the center! We shatter their sticks and take their iron!"
"VALHALLA!" the Danes roared.
The sheer volu of the shout shook the leaves on the trees. It was the sound of five thousand predators ready to feed.
Back on the Industrial line, the noise washed over them. A few of the younger pike-n trembled.
"Hold," Bjorn bellowed, riding down the line. "Do not break formation! The man who steps back loses his pension!"
Ragnar watched the enemy massing. He didn’t feel fear. He felt the cold detachnt of an engineer watching a stress test.
"Artillery," Ragnar said calmly. "Elevation 15 degrees. Load the ’Broom’ canisters."
Leif the Lesser (Director of Intelligence, currently acting as Artillery Commander) signaled the wheelbarrow teams.
Fifty portable Torsion Spikes were wheeled to the front gaps in the pike line. They weren’t loaded with single bolts. They were loaded with leather canisters packed with scrap iron, nails, and broken glass.
"Range?" Leif asked.
"Wait for the whites of their eyes," Ragnar said. "Or at least, the yellow of their teeth."
Across the field, Guthrum blew the horn.
BWAAAAAAP
"CHARGE!"
The Danish army surged forward. They ran screaming, a tidal wave of fur, steel, and rage. They covered the ground fast, fueled by adrenaline and the desire to smash the "dolls" of York.
Ragnar watched them co. 800 ters. 500 ters.
"They are fast," Bjorn noted.
"They are exhausted," Ragnar corrected. "Running in chainmail burns energy. By the ti they hit us, they will be panting."
300 ters.
"Artillery," Ragnar said. "Fire."
Leif dropped his hand.
Fifty Torsion Spikes fired at once. The sound was like a giant carpet being beaten.
The leather canisters flew through the air. They hit the optimal range of 100 ters right in the face of the charging wedge and disintegrated.
A cloud of shrapnel shredded the air. It was catastrophic. The front ranks of Guthrum’s army simply ceased to exist. Nails punched through wooden shields. Scrap iron tore through chainmail. The charge didn’t stop; it evaporated.
"Reload!" Leif scread. "Ten seconds!"
The Danes stumbled over the bodies of their comrades. The montum was broken. The screams of rage turned into screams of pain.
"What sorcery is this?!" Guthrum shouted, wiping blood from his cheek. A nail had grazed him. "They throw... garbage?!"
"Keep moving!" Jarl Hrolf yelled. "Get in close! Their sticks are useless up close!"
The Danes pushed forward, stepping over the dead. They were Vikings. They didn’t stop for casualties.
They hit the 50-ter mark.
"Pikes!" Ragnar ordered. "Brace!"
The front three rows of the Industrial Corps dropped their pikes. The butts of the ash poles were slamd into the earth, braced by the heavy boots of the Huscarls. The steel points lowered, creating a hedgehog of death.
The Danes crashed into the wall.
The Danes tried to swing their axes, but the pikes were too long. They were skewered before they could get within striking distance. The Huscarls held firm, their heavy plate armor absorbing the few throwing axes that made it through.
"Push!" Guthrum scread from the back. "Push them over!"
The mass of the Danish army pressed against the pikes. The wood groaned. A few pikes snapped.
"They are bunching up," Ragnar observed. "Density is increasing."
This was the mont. The enemy was stalled. They were packed tight, pushing against the wall, unable to move forward or backward.
"Project Vulcan," Ragnar said into his gaphone. "Open the valves."
On the flanks, the wagons rolled forward. The "Tech-Thralls" began to pump the handles.
From the brass nozzles, a stream of thick, black liquid arched over the heads of the pike-n. It sprayed onto the struggling mass of Danes.
"Oil?" Guthrum spat, slick with the stuff. "They try to grease us?"
Ragnar lit a sulfur match. He touched it to an arrow held by a nearby archer.
"Illuminate the problem," Ragnar ordered.
The archer fired. The burning arrow arched gracefully through the air. It hit the oil-soaked center of the Danish wedge.
The Napalm (a sticky mix of bitun, pine resin, and whale oil) caught instantly. A wall of orange fla erupted, thirty feet high.
The screams changed pitch. The Danes in the front tried to run back, but the Danes in the back were still pushing forward. They were trapped in the oven.
"Heat output is optimal," Helga noted, watching from a safe distance with a clipboard.
"It’s horrifying," Bjorn whispered, watching n turn into torches.
"It’s war," Ragnar said coldly. "And the war is over."
He raised his sword.
"Counter-Charge!" Ragnar bellowed. "Pikes up! Advance!"
The Huscarls lifted their pikes. They stepped forward in unison.
The surviving Danes, burned, bleeding, and terrified, took one look at the advancing wall of grey-clad demons and broke.
"Run!" Jarl Hrolf scread, throwing down his shield. "The Gods have left us!"
"Cowards!" Guthrum roared, trying to rally them. "Stand and fight!"
But then, Ragnar signaled the Cavalry. From the side, five hundred riders appeared. They were light cavalry ard with The Typewriter crossbows.
They rode alongside the fleeing Danes, firing bolts into their flanks. They just mowed them down like wheat.
Guthrum watched his army dissolve. He looked at the wall of fire. He looked at the grey square marching relentlessly forward.
Guthrum turned Bone-Crusher around and fled.
Ragnar rode Calculus through the smoking remains of the battlefield.
He stopped near a pile of discarded Danish shields.
"Casualty report?" Ragnar asked.
Bjorn checked his list. "We lost twelve n. Mostly from a pike snapping back and hitting them in the face. Three hundred minor injuries from the heat."
"And the enemy?"
"Total liquidation," Bjorn said grimly. "We have two thousand prisoners. The rest are... carbon."
Ragnar nodded. He looked at the horizon. The road to rcia was open.
"Gather the prisoners," Ragnar ordered. "We need labor for the new coal mines. Offer them the standard Tech-Thrall contract. Five years of service, then citizenship."
"You want to hire the n who just tried to kill us?" Bjorn asked, incredulous.
"I don’t want to hire them," Ragnar said, watching the smoke rise. "I want to acquire them. A dead Viking is useless. A live Viking can dig coal."
He turned Calculus back toward the city.
"Send a ssage to King Burgred," Ragnar added.
"What should it say?"
Ragnar smiled, a cold, sharp smile that matched his steel armor.
"Tell him the rger with East Anglia is complete. And tell him..." Ragnar paused, looking at the devastation. "...tell him I’m coming to audit his books."
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