Building a Viking Empire with Modern Industry-Chapter 41: Devil in the Longhouse

The Deep Woods, North of York

Smoke from the central fire pit swirled up toward the blackened thatch roof, mixing with the smell of unwashed bodies, stale ale, and concentrated resentment.

Jarl Einar stood by the fire, his face flushed with the triumph of his own speech. He had just finished explaining how they would smash the machines, burn the paper mill, and mount the Builder’s head on a spike.

The assembled traditionalists fifty disgruntled Jarls, Huscarls, and former raid-leaders were roaring their approval. They were ready to storm York right now, fueled by liquid courage and wounded pride.

But as the cheers reached a fever pitch, a dry, raspy voice cut through the noise like a rusty saw blade.

"And then what, Einar?"

The cheering died down instantly. The men turned to look at the back of the hall.

Sitting in the shadows, sharpening a knife on a whetstone, was Old Grim.

Grim was a legend. He had raided with Ragnar Lothbrok (the father, not the engineer). He had scars that were older than most of the men in the room. He didn’t care about politics, but he knew war.

"If you don’t mind me asking, Jarl Einar," Grim said, testing the edge of his blade against his thumb. "How exactly do you plan to kill the Builder? You saw the siege. You saw the ’God Hammer’. You saw the Torsion Spikes that punch through three shields at once."

Grim stood up, his joints popping. "We are fifty men with axes," Grim continued, pointing the knife at Einar. "Ragnar has five hundred ’Broken Men’ armed with repeating crossbows. He has the Huscarls of Ivar the Boneless acting as his wall. He has a giant who signals the archers before you can even draw a breath."

Grim spat into the fire.

"You speak of glory, Einar. But if we march on the Governor’s Palace tonight, we won’t find glory. We will find ourselves pinned to the cobblestones like butterflies in a collection. We are obsolete."

The silence that followed was heavy. The bravado in the room evaporated.

The Jarls looked at each other. They looked at their notched axes. Then they remembered the sound of the Torsion Spikes and the way the York gate had exploded into splinters.

"Grim is right," a younger Huscarl muttered, sitting back down. "We can’t get close. The ’Aegis’ is unbreakable."

Einar, who had the wind knocked out of his sails, didn’t panic. He didn’t get angry. Instead, a slow, greasy smile spread across his bearded face.

"Grim, you old wolf," Einar said, stepping away from the fire. "You are thinking like a Viking. You are thinking of a frontal assault. But we are not going to fight the machine head-on."

Einar pointed toward the darkened entrance of the Longhouse.

"Before I answer your question, allow me to introduce a... consultant."

All eyes turned to the door. A figure stepped out of the night and into the firelight.

He was not a Viking. He wore a long, hooded cloak of expensive dark wool. He was clean-shaven, his hands were soft, and around his neck hung a heavy silver cross.

It was Father Wilfrid.

Confusion swept through the hall. Then, rage.

"A Priest?" Jarl Sigurd shouted, leaping to his feet. "You bring a follower of the White Christ into our council?"

"He is a spy!" another warrior yelled, reaching for his axe. "Gut him!"

The traditionalists hated the Industrial Corps, but they hated Saxon priests even more. To them, these men were the reason their temples were being burned in the south. They were the enemy.

"Hold!" Einar roared, stepping in front of Wilfrid. "He is a guest! He is under my protection!"

"He is a tick!" Grim growled, his hand tightening on his knife. "Why is a Saxon dog breathing our air?"

Vimal... I mean, Einar, ignored the insults. "This man is here to help us. He comes with a message from King Burgred of Mercia."

The crowd became even more unruly. "Mercia? We are at war with Mercia!"

"We are at war with everyone!" Einar shouted back. "But the enemy of my enemy is my friend. Listen to him!"

Seeing that the mood was teetering on the edge of a riot, Father Wilfrid lowered his hood. He didn’t look scared. He looked like a man who was used to dealing with dangerous animals.

"Peace, warriors of the North," Wilfrid said. His Norse was accented, but passable. "My master, King Burgred, sends his greetings. He desires... a correction."

Wilfrid walked further into the room, his eyes scanning the angry faces.

"We have had our differences," Wilfrid admitted smoothly. "You burn our monasteries. We kill your raiders. It is the way of things. But my King believes that the current situation in York is... unnatural."

"What do you care about York?" a warrior heckled.

"We care because the ’Builder’ is a threat to us all," Wilfrid replied, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "He does not just destroy walls. He destroys order. He teaches slaves to read. He replaces birthright with... mathematics."

Wilfrid paused for effect.

"We tried to contact King Horik," Wilfrid lied effortlessly. "But he is bewitched by the Builder. He would not listen. He has turned his back on the Old Ways just as much as he has turned his back on decency."

Most of the Jarls nodded. They felt this deeply. To them, Ragnar’s "York Industrial Act" was blasphemy. It upended the social order they had lived by for centuries.

But Old Grim wasn’t nodding. He frowned, watching the smooth-talking priest.

Idiots, Grim thought. They are nodding along like sheep.

Grim remembered the raids on the coast. He remembered how Saxon Kings would promise land and silver, only to ambush the Vikings in a swamp.

Don’t they remember? Grim thought furiously. The Saxons want us dead. All of us. They don’t care about ’tradition’. They care that Ragnar is winning. And now that the Builder has made us strong, they want us to kill him for them.

Grim lamented inwardly. The nobility of the Viking age had fallen so low that they would ally with a priest just to save their own egos.

Einar, unaware of Grim’s internal monologue, clapped a hand on Wilfrid’s shoulder.

"Our friend here," Einar announced, "is ready to finance our revolution."

At a signal from Wilfrid, two hooded servants shuffled into the Longhouse. They carried a heavy, iron-bound chest. They set it down in front of the fire with a heavy thud.

Wilfrid kicked the latch open.

The firelight caught the contents. It was gold.

Hundreds of Mercian gold pennies. Silver chalices looted from Frankish churches and re-gifted. Heavy arm-rings of twisted gold.

The nobles and Zamindars... sorry, the Jarls and Huscarls... stared. Their anger vanished. Their mouths hung open.

In the flickering light, you could almost see them drooling.

"The Builder pays you in ’Pension Points’ and paper promises," Wilfrid said softly, picking up a gold coin and letting it drop back into the chest with a satisfying ring. "King Burgred pays in reality."

"With this," Einar shouted, seizing the moment, "we can buy loyalty! We can bribe the gate guards! We can hire the mercenaries from the coast! We don’t need to fight the Torsion Spikes. We will buy the men manning them!"

The greed in the room was palpable. It smelled stronger than the smoke.

"But that is not all," Wilfrid added, reaching into his robe.

He pulled out a rolled parchment.

"The Builder loves his maps," Wilfrid sneered. "So we brought you one."

He unrolled it on a table. "This is the schematic of the Governor’s Palace. Specifically, the old Roman sewer tunnels that run beneath the kitchen."

Wilfrid tapped a spot on the map.

"The Builder’s ’Aegis Protocol’ protects the walls. It protects the streets. But it does not protect the drains. Tonight, while he sleeps, you can enter the heart of his Industry."

Einar grabbed the map. His eyes were wide with bloodlust.

"We go tonight," Einar declared. "We take the gold. We take the tunnel. And we cut the head off the snake."

"TO YORK!" the Jarls roared, grabbing handfuls of gold coins.

Old Grim watched them. He didn’t take any gold. He just sheathed his knife.

They are walking into a trap, Grim thought. Or they are walking into a slaughter. Either way, the Old Ways die tonight.

He slipped out the back door into the mist. He wasn’t going to warn Ragnar. But he wasn’t going to die for Einar either. He was going to find a high hill and watch the fireworks.

Meanwhile, in the trees outside...

Leif the Lesser, the former thief and star rugby player, clung to a pine branch. He had seen the gold. He had heard the plan about the sewer.

His heart was hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird.

"Sewer," Leif whispered to himself. "They are going for the drains." 𝑓𝑟𝑒𝘦𝓌𝑒𝑏𝑛𝑜𝘷𝑒𝘭.𝒸𝘰𝑚

He looked at the piece of paper in his hand the audit report Gyda had sent him to complete.

He shoved it into his tunic. He slid down the tree trunk, scraping his hands on the bark. He hit the ground running.

He had to get to the Palace. He had to warn the Director.

Because if Einar got into the palace, the only thing that would stop him was the Mistress of the Ledger. And Leif wasn’t sure even she could audit fifty angry Vikings with axes.

"Run, Leif," he panted. "Run the curve."

He sprinted into the darkness, racing against the sunrise and the impending coup.