Building a Viking Empire with Modern Industry-Chapter 75: The Hostile Audit Begins!

The Coast of Scarborough, Northumbria

The moon was new, casting the North Sea in a shroud of impenetrable darkness. The waves lapped gently against the hull of the Sanctus Michael, the flagship of the Frankish invasion fleet.

Grandmaster Pierre de Valois stood on the prow, his silhouette encased in Milanese plate armor that cost more than a Saxon village.

He was the CEO of the Order of the White Cross, a subsidiary of the Frankish Empire specializing in "Hostile Takeovers" of the religious variety.

Pierre didn’t check a pocket watch or a ledger. He checked the edge of his bastard sword.

"The signal?" Pierre asked, his voice echoing inside his great helm.

"It is lit, Grandmaster," a squire whispered, pointing toward the cliffs.

High above the beach, atop the formidable stone walls of Scarborough Fortress, a single torch waved three times. The traitor—the "Rat" from the tavern—had delivered the keys.

"God wills it," Pierre growled. "Launch the boats. We are conducting an immediate restructuring of this coastline."

***

The Ramparts of Scarborough

Pierre was the first to scale the narrow path leading to the sea gate.

He moved with surprising speed for a man wearing eighty pounds of steel. He was a veteran of the Lombard Wars, a man who believed that war was the sport of kings and that "industry" was a dirty word used by peasants who couldn’t afford horses.

The sea gate creaked open.

Standing there was the Rat, the Bishop’s messenger, holding a lantern and looking terrified.

"It is done, my Lord," the Rat hissed. "The Saxon garrison is asleep. The Viking mercenaries are drunk in the hall."

Pierre didn’t thank him. He simply shoved the man aside with a gauntleted hand.

"Secure the perimeter," Pierre ordered his knights. "Purge the heathens."

The Frankish knights flooded into the courtyard. They were the Cataphracts—heavy cavalry dismounted for the assault. They moved like tanks of the era, their mail and plate clinking softly.

They reached the Great Hall. Pierre kicked the door open.

Inside, about fifty men sat around tables. They were Ragnar’s "independent contractors"—mercenaries Ragnar had deemed too undisciplined for the Imperial Army and stationed here as a sacrificial delaying force (though they didn’t know that).

The mercenaries looked up, bleary-eyed.

"Who in Hel are you?" a burly Dane shouted, grabbing his axe.

Pierre didn’t speak. He stepped forward, his sword gleaming in the torchlight.

The Dane roared and charged, swinging his axe in a wide arc. It was a powerful blow, capable of splitting a shield.

CLANG!

The axe struck Pierre’s pauldron. But this wasn’t rusted Saxon iron. This was Frankish tempered steel. The axe skidded off the curved armor harmlessly. 𝒇𝙧𝙚𝓮𝔀𝓮𝒃𝙣𝓸𝒗𝒆𝒍.𝙘𝒐𝒎

Pierre didn’t flinch. He used the momentum to step inside the Dane’s guard. He drove the pommel of his sword into the man’s face a "Murder Stroke."

The Dane collapsed. Pierre finished him with a thrust through the throat.

"Liquidate them," Pierre ordered calmly.

The hall erupted into violence. The mercenaries fought bravely, but they were outclassed. Their axes bounced off the Frankish plate.

Their wooden shields splintered under the heavy broadswords. It wasn’t a battle; it was a slaughter.

Within twenty minutes, the Great Hall was silent, save for the groans of the dying and the prayers of the Franks.

Pierre wiped his blade on a tablecloth. He looked around the fortress. It was strong. High stone walls, deep wells, a commanding view of the coast.

"A fine asset," Pierre noted. "The Church was generous."

He walked out to the courtyard. Thousands of Frankish troops were pouring through the gates. Heavy warhorses were being led up the path. Crossbowmen were taking positions on the walls.

Scarborough had fallen without a true siege. The beachhead was secured.

...

Two days passed while Pierre consolidated his holdings. He established a command center in the Keep. He had 10,000 men the finest army in Western Europe encamped within the walls and the surrounding hills.

On the third morning, a ship arrived from the south. It bore the Papal Legate, Bishop Humbert, a man who looked like he had been preserved in vinegar.

Pierre met him in the courtyard.

"Grandmaster," Humbert said, stepping off his litter. "I see you have successfully acquired the asset."

"The heathens were inefficient," Pierre scoffed. "They relied on walls, but walls are useless without faith."

Humbert smiled thinly. He handed Pierre a sealed scroll.

"The Director in York... this ’Ragnar’... he knows we are here," Humbert said. "His spies are everywhere. But he does not move. He sits in his mud-pit of a city."

"He is afraid," Pierre declared. "He knows that against the Order, his little machines are toys."

Humbert’s expression grew serious.

"Do not underestimate him, Grandmaster. He has... unconventional methods. The Bishop of Canterbury speaks of stones that scream and fire that floats."

Pierre laughed. It was a booming, arrogant sound.

"Tricks!" Pierre shouted, addressing his gathered captains. "Smoke and mirrors! These Northmen are scavengers. They find Roman ruins and think they are engineers. I bring Structure. I bring Discipline. I bring the Heavy Charge!"

He unrolled the scroll. It was a map of Northumbria. A red circle was drawn around the confluence of the rivers south of York.

"The target is here," Humbert pointed. "He calls it City Titan. It is a blasphemy. A city built not for God, but for Money."

"Then we will bankrupt it," Pierre said, drawing his sword.

He turned to his commanders. "Prepare the men! We march at dawn. We will ride straight to this ’Titan.’ We will smash their pikes. We will burn their ’factories.’ And I will personally drag this Director out of his office by his hair."

The Frankish knights cheered. They were eager. They had heard rumors of the North’s wealth—the velvet, the high-quality steel. They viewed this not just as a crusade, but as a hostile takeover with a massive bonus structure.

The next morning, the Order of the White Cross moved out.

It was a terrifying sight.

Five thousand heavy cavalry rode in the vanguard. Their horses were barded in chainmail and leather. The knights wore full plate. Their lances were twelve feet long. When they moved, the ground shook.

Behind them marched three thousand Genoese crossbowmen—mercenaries hired for their armor-piercing capabilities.

And behind them, the baggage train, carrying siege ladders and battering rams.

Pierre rode at the front on a massive white destrier named Absolution. He felt the wind in his face. He looked at the rolling green hills of Northumbria.

"It is good land," Pierre mused to his lieutenant. "It is wasted on turnips. We will turn it into pasture for our warhorses."

"Grandmaster," the lieutenant asked. "What of the Viking army? The reports say they wear... identical clothing."

"Uniforms?" Pierre sneered. "Like servants? A true warrior wears his own crest! He fights for his own glory! These ’industrial soldiers’ are drones. When we charge, they will break. Peasants always break against knights."

He truly believed it. For five hundred years, the heavy cavalry charge had been the ultimate weapon. It was the nuclear option of the Middle Ages. No infantry force had ever successfully stopped a full charge of Frankish knights on open ground.

Pierre didn’t know that Ragnar wasn’t planning to fight on open ground.

He didn’t know about the Lucerne Hammers. He didn’t know about the Landmines. He didn’t know about the Star Fortress waiting at the end of the road.

He was marching into a meat grinder, convinced he was walking into a buffet.

...

York, The War Room

While Pierre marched, Ragnar stood over the map in York.

Leif the Lesser placed a token on the map near Scarborough.

"They have moved, Director," Leif reported. "Ten thousand effectives. Five thousand horse. They are taking the old Roman road straight for Titan."

Ragnar nodded. He looked at General Bjorn.

"They are taking the road," Ragnar said. "Because they are heavy. They need the pavement."

"The pavement we built," Bjorn grunted.

"Exactly," Ragnar smiled. "We built the road to bring goods to the city. Now, it brings the enemy to the kill zone."

He picked up a model of the Star Fortress.

"Is the concrete set?" Ragnar asked Cedric.

"Cured and hardened, Director," Cedric confirmed. "It’s harder than granite."

"And the ’Welcome Mat’?" Ragnar asked Helga.

Helga grinned, her fingers stained yellow with sulfur.

"The pressure plates are primed. The charges are buried. I used the ’Spicy Mix’."

Ragnar looked at the map. He saw the inevitable collision.

The Old World—arrogant, heavy, driven by tradition—crashing into the New World—efficient, brutal, driven by physics.

"Deploy the Imperial Corps," Ragnar ordered. "Take positions at the Titan Defense Perimeter. Raise the banners."

"Which banners?" Bjorn asked. "The Raven?"

"No," Ragnar said, putting on his helmet. "The Gear."

He turned to Gyda, who was calmly organizing the medical supplies.

"Prime Minister," Ragnar said. "Clear my schedule for next week."

"Why?"

"Because I have a meeting with Grandmaster Pierre," Ragnar said, his eyes cold. "And I intend to terminate his contract with extreme prejudice."