Building a Viking Empire with Modern Industry-Chapter 229: The prize
With the first volley successfully delivered, the profound silence of the Scottish highlands was entirely eradicated. Ragnar stood near the jagged precipice of a towering coastal cliff. Below him, nestled deep within the sprawling, rocky valley, the Tang warlord’s newly conquered fortress was rapidly transforming into a blossoming inferno.
The tactical deployment had proceeded exactly as his blueprints dictated.
While the ironclad fleet remained safely anchored behind the dense fog and towering rocks of the loch, out of the enemy’s direct line of sight, the siege mortars had executed their parabolic bombardment flawlessly. The problem of engaging a numerically superior force equipped with direct-fire brass cannons had been mathematically solved. By utilizing indirect fire, Ragnar had neutralized the enemy’s primary advantage without exposing a single hull of his own ships to danger.
As Ragnar took another relaxed sip of his wine, the rhythmic crunch of heavy boots on frost-covered stone drew his attention. He turned slightly to see Torstein, his forward reconnaissance scout, emerging from the shadowed mountain path. The scout was breathing heavily, his leather armor damp with the freezing highland mist.
"Report," Ragnar commanded.
Torstein dropped to one knee, bowing his head respectfully before delivering the intelligence gathered from the perimeter of the besieged fortress.
"My King, the strike was absolute, Our forward observers managed to infiltrate the outer bailey just before the fragmentation shells made impact. The enemy encampment is in a state of unadulterated panic."
Ragnar offered a nod, gesturing for the scout to continue detailing the logistical outcome of the bombardment.
"The eastern warlord, Jiedushi Shen, was violently awakened by the concussive shockwaves, He was seen fleeing his private bedchamber in a state of terror, surrounded by his weeping wives and his extensive harem. The suddenness of the strike shattered whatever divine authority he had projected over his men just hours prior. Furthermore, the damage assessment is catastrophic for their vanguard..."
"Specify the casualty count," Ragnar stated deliberately.
"More than two thousand of their elite warriors are already dead, Iron Father," Torstein reported.
"Those who were not killed instantly by the iron fragments are currently trapped beneath collapsed structures. The black powder ignited the canvas and the wooden palisades. Hundreds, perhaps thousands more, are actively burning in the fires that are sweeping through the lower courtyards."
After securing this vital intelligence, Ragnar dismissed the scout with a wave of his hand.
With the scout gone, Ragnar turned his gaze back toward the burning valley.
Truthfully, Ragnar acknowledged within the quiet confines of his own mind, it was a ghastly and painful way to embrace death. The human body was simply not designed to withstand the kinetic trauma of jagged iron shrapnel, nor the agonizing, all-consuming embrace of chemical fire. For the soldiers trapped in the valley below, their final moments were a slow, excruciating descent into an inescapable abyss. The screams of the burning men, though muffled by the distance and the wind, were a testament to the horrific reality of industrialized warfare.
However, as Ragnar reclined slightly against the sheer stone face of the cliff, a wicked smile touched his lips. He did not allow the grisly nature of the battlefield to cloud his intellectual superiority. He engaged in a step-by-step geopolitical deduction, weighing the immense suffering of two thousand men against the macro-economic and demographic future of the continent.
What if they lived?
If he allowed Jiedushi Shen and his fifty thousand highly disciplined, gunpowder-equipped soldiers to consolidate their beachhead in Alba, the consequences would be apocalyptic for the Western world. The Tang Dynasty, even a rogue faction of it, possessed an administrative and logistical capability that dwarfed the fragmented feudal kingdoms of Europe. Shen would not merely occupy these three castles; he would instantly transition his military force into a highly synchronized labor engine.
Within a year, the eastern warlord would enslave the native Picts and Saxons. He would tap into the deep, untouched coal seams of the Scottish Highlands.
Using the vast knowledge of his alchemists and siege engineers, Shen would construct mass-production foundries, manufacturing endless rows of brass cannons and fire lances.
Once his industrial base was secured, the warlord would inevitably march south. A modernized, eastern army of that magnitude would sweep through the British Isles like a plague of locusts. Then, they would cross the channel.
The heavily armored Frankish knights, the divided Duchies of the mainland, and even the formidable walls of the Byzantine Empire would crumble before a coordinated, artillery-backed invasion.
Millions of innocent souls would be slaughtered, displaced, or subjected to brutal subjugation.
Therefore, Ragnar concluded with cold certainty, the agonizing deaths of the two thousand warriors burning in the valley below were not an act of cruelty. It was a preemptive strike of geopolitical mercy. By erasing this eastern threat in its infancy, he was personally saving millions of European and Viking lives.
While Ragnar was finalizing these heavy, complex justifications within his mind, he felt a warm presence approach his side.
Gyda stepped up to the precipice. She stared down at the inferno.
"It is a massacre..."
Ragnar turned to her, his expression softening marginally. He kissed the crown of her head, entirely undisturbed by the apocalyptic scene playing out below them.
"It is the necessary cost of our future, my dear."
Gyda leaned into his embrace, "Your brother will order the second volley soon. Should we not signal the fleet to level the entire fortress? We have the ammunition to bury all fifty thousand of them in the rubble."
When Gyda proposed this straightforward tactical escalation, Ragnar chuckled softly. He took a final sip from his mug, .
"And destroy the very prize we came here to claim? You wound my economic sensibilities, Gyda."
Gyda looked up at him, her brows furrowed in mild confusion. "The prize? I assumed our objective was the total eradication of the eastern threat."
"Eradication of their leadership, yes. But the total annihilation of their forces would be a tragic waste of human capital and intellectual property..." Ragnar explained,
"I designed this initial strike specifically to hit their infantry tents while deliberately avoiding the reinforced stone keeps where their supply trains and officers reside. I wanted the warlord to wake up in terror. I wanted him to see his invincible army burning in the mud.
By dawn, Jiedushi Shen will realize that his Heavenly Fire is utterly obsolete against our indirect artillery. His fifty thousand men will realize they are trapped in a foreign wasteland, being bombarded by an invisible enemy they cannot even point their weapons at.
We will continue to bombard their perimeter, slowly tightening the noose, but we will leave a clear path for surrender. When their morale collapses, they will inevitably turn on their commander. They will bring me Shen’s head in exchange for their lives."
Ragnar traced a finger along Gyda’s jawline, "And when they surrender, we will absorb their surviving engineers, their skilled laborers, and their Heavenly Fire alchemists into our own industrial machine... Why build a new workforce from scratch when the East has so graciously delivered fifty thousand disciplined laborers directly to our doorstep?"
Gyda’s eyes widened slightly as the sheer magnitude of his conspiracy finally clicked into place. The bombardment was never meant to be a simple extermination; it was a highly orchestrated, violent negotiation meant to acquire a captive labor force and classified foreign technology.
"You are a terrifying man, Ragnar," Gyda whispered.
