Building a Viking Empire with Modern Industry-Chapter 197: Merciless Iron
At the moment, Bjorn was tirelessly pacing along the freshly turned earth of the new defensive trench, barking harsh commands to the exhausted villagers and the disciplined Grenadiers who hauled heavy timber logs into place.
Since the sun had dipped below the jagged peaks of the fjord, the looming threat of the Gore-King’s retaliation hung over Kattegat like a suffocating shroud, driving the men to work with desperate, feverish energy.
Seeing his men shivering in the biting, coastal wind, Bjorn struck his massive, fur-clad chest, his voice booming effortlessly.
"Keep those pikes angled outward toward the trees!" the giant general roared, kicking a loose clod of frozen dirt into the ditch. "If those cannibals charge blindly in the dark, I want them skewered through their bellies before they can even smell the smoke of our campfires!"
The laborers redoubled their efforts, their breath pluming in the freezing air as they hoisted another massive pine trunk into the growing barricade.
That is, until a sudden, unnatural rustle in the distant, snow-laden pines caused the giant warrior to freeze in his tracks, his calloused hand instinctively dropping to the hilt of the heavy broadsword at his hip. Bjorn narrowed his eyes, peering into the pitch-black abyss of the forest, waiting for the glint of iron or the rush of a berserker’s charge.
Only the howling wind answered him, tossing the branches in a mocking dance.
"Keep your crossbows cranked and your eyes open!" Bjorn warned the rooftop sentries, finally relaxing his grip on his blade. "The Gore-King’s hounds are out there, licking their wounds. We will not be caught sleeping!"
While the formidable defenses of the surface were being hastily erected, a vastly different kind of preparation was underway deep beneath the freezing waters of the bay. Encased within the iron belly of the Gyda, the temperature was suffocatingly hot.
Eventually, Ragnar descended the narrow, spiraling metal staircase into the deepest hold of his flagship. Though the captured chieftain, Kjell, was bruised, battered, and bound by heavy iron links to a thick steel pipe.
Ragnar stepped into the dim. Pulling a polished wooden cup from a nearby barrel of fresh water, Ragnar extended it toward the chained prisoner.
"Drink, Kjell," Ragnar offered, his voice smooth and devoid of any malice. "After all, a man cannot speak clearly when his throat is parched from a lost battle, and we have a great many ledgers to balance tonight regarding your king’s territories."
Rather than accept the mercy, Kjell bared his rotting, blood-stained teeth, hacking up a glob of dark phlegm and spitting it directly onto the polished leather of Ragnar’s right boot.
The captive threw his head back and laughed, a harsh, grating sound that bounced violently off the confined iron walls of the dungeon.
"I will drink nothing but the blood of your Iron Guard, you soft, southern coward!" Kjell bellowed, straining against his unforgiving chains until the veins in his thick neck bulged. "You think these metal walls can hold me? You think your fire-sticks can stop the true masters of the North?"
Despite this blatant disrespect, Ragnar did not flinch, nor did his polite facade waver for a fraction of a second. "With this said, I see you prefer the crude language of agony over the civilized discourse of a negotiated settlement," Ragnar sighed.
He turned his gaze to the shadowy corner of the hold, where a lean, terrifyingly quiet man named Silas stood waiting.
"Master Silas," Ragnar commanded, gesturing toward the defiant berserker with the tip of his cane.
"The subject is stubbornly retaining the information we require regarding King Erik’s supply lines, his mountain strongholds, and the numerical yield of his forces. Please begin your... audit."
Silas offered a stiff, formal bow, stepping into the light while unrolling a heavy leather satchel filled with gleaming, sterilized surgical tools, iron pincers, and a small, glowing brazier of hot coals.
"As the Master of the Forge commands. Efficiency is victory."
Nevertheless, Kjell continued to mock them, his bravado entirely unshaken as the inquisitor approached him with a pair of red-hot iron tongs.
"Do your worst, you pathetic tinkerer! The Gore-King sees all! He will feast on your marrow, and he will drink the blood of your women from their own skulls!"
A second later, a horrific, blood-curdling scream ripped through the thick metal door. However, the Director remained as cold and unyielding as the hull of his ship.
Afterward, Ragnar slowly made his way back up to the upper decks of the ironclad. Stepping over the brass railing onto the gangway, he looked out across the dark waters toward the shoreline of Kattegat.
Ultimately, his meticulous planning and the back-breaking labor of his loyal men had borne fruit.
The first defensive walls were finally raised, towering wooden palisades reinforced by deep, treacherous earthworks that completely sealed the narrow valley entrance. The Grenadiers stood vigilant upon the parapets.
Yet, as Ragnar listened to the distant, howling wind sweeping down from the unforgiving Norwegian mountains, he knew that the true war was only just beginning.
The Gore-King would not ignore the massacre of his vanguard, nor would he allow an invading industrialist to claim his lucrative timber resources without a brutal, apocalyptic fight.
The savage hordes of the North would descend upon them with a fury the world had never seen, testing the very limits of their steel.
...
Operating the intricate valves of a nearby steam pipe, Silas released a controlled hiss of scalding vapor that rattled the chains binding Kjell to the central steel pillar.
Eventually, the towering brute’s spirit shattered entirely, the arrogant fire that had once burned in his eyes completely extinguished by the grinding gears of Ragnar’s relentless machinery.
Kjell’s head slumped forward against his chest, his breathing ragged and shallow as he finally surrendered to the inevitable.
Rising from his wooden stool, Ragnar grasped his silver-tipped cane. Opening a thick, leather-bound ledger, Ragnar uncapped his ink quill, hovering the sharp nib over the pristine parchment...
"Tell me everything there is to know about the Gore-King’s domain, from the depth of his grain silos to the thickness of his fortress walls."
