Building a Viking Empire with Modern Industry-Chapter 82: The Restoration of Management

The Royal Palace, Winchester

Prince Aethelwold looked at the parchment in his hands, addressed from the "Directorate of York," with disbelief.

He could not believe that the heathen Viking was so bold that he would openly threaten to sue the Kingdom of Wessex for "Breach of Corporate Contract" and "Lost Future Revenue."

The justification for doing so.. citing King Aethelred’s previous seal of approval.. was solid enough to prevent the local Ealdormen from coming to Aethelwold’s aid, especially in this time of economic uncertainty where nobody wanted to lose their access to cheap northern steel.

However, this was not the most abysmal piece of news that he had received; there was also a courier from the Welsh border, bearing the royal seal of his father.

King Aethelred, having heard that his son had cut off the supply of luxury velvet and tax revenue, openly declared Aethelwold’s decision to embargo the North as "fiscal suicide" and demanded that Aethelwold relinquish his Regency immediately in favor of his stepmother, Princess Judith.

By indulging in his fanatical desires to keep the "Industrial Heresy" away from the pious south, he had cost himself the favor of his father, who now deeply questioned his son’s capability as a steward of the treasury.

"This is simply outrageous!" Aethelwold sputtered, crumpling the letter. "Does the King not see? The Northmen are selling us our own doom!"

However, if he were to burn this letter and defy his father’s demands, Aethelwold would truly be acting in rebellion.

This would open the stage for Ragnar to justifiably march his "Imperial Corps" on Winchester to "enforce the contract." This was not something a spineless administrator like Aethelwold was willing to risk; he had heard what happened to the Frankish heavy cavalry at Titan.

The rumors of "liquid earth" and "can-openers" had terrified the court.

As such, he admitted defeat. With a trembling hand, he signed the transfer of power.

The doors to the council chamber opened, and Princess Judith swept in.

She was wearing a gown of deep purple Jernheim Velvet, looking every inch the victorious CEO taking over a failing branch.

"You may leave, stepson," Judith said, her voice dripping with sweet venom. "I have a supply chain to restore."

Aethelwold fled the room, leaving Judith to immediately declare all of his embargoes null and void under the authority of the Crown.

...

The Titan Defense Perimeter, Northumbria

When Ragnar received this news via the Raven Flight, as well as the confirmation from King Aethelred, he was greatly pleased; he had settled this dispute peacefully while humiliating the "Junior Executive" for his unwise market manipulation.

This was enough punishment for trying to disrupt the quarterly earnings.

After all, whether or not Aethelwold was a pious fool with an unhealthy obsession for poverty, he was still a useful idiot, and as such, Ragnar did not truly desire to see his head on a spike.

However, the war machine was already greased.

It had been close to a week since the Frankish Crusade had been liquidated at the Battle of Titan.

The survivors were currently working in the chain gangs, digging the foundations for the new sewage plant.

But the army was mobilized, the men were pumped full of adrenaline and overtime pay, and Ragnar could not simply send them home.

Furthermore, King Burgred of Mercia had massed his troops on the border near Nottingham, hoping to scavenge the remains of the North after the Franks were done.

Now that the Franks were dead, Burgred was caught in a very awkward position.

Ragnar stood in the command tent, looking at the map.

"We have a casus belli," Ragnar told General Bjorn. "Burgred mobilized with hostile intent. He attempted to poach our assets while we were engaged in a merger with the Franks. We cannot let that slide."

Ragnar wrote a letter addressing the Lords of Mercia.

He declared King Burgred a "Bad Faith Actor" who tried to violate the non-compete clause of their peace treaty.

As a result, Ragnar would act by marching upon Nottingham to "audit" the Mercian military capabilities.

After sending the letters, Ragnar approached his solar in the temporary governor’s lodge. Gyda was there, reviewing the inventory of captured Frankish plate armor.

"10,000 suits," Gyda said, marking the ledger. "Most need dent repair, but the steel quality is excellent."

"Melt it down," Ragnar ordered. "We don’t need chivalry. We need rebar."

He walked over to his heavily pregnant Prime Minister.

It would be some time before he returned to York, as his plans to secure the southern border might take a matter of weeks. Nevertheless, as the Director, it was his duty to oversee the field operations.

Ragnar kissed Gyda on the cheek. She looked up, her sharp eyes scanning him for any sign of hesitation.

"Make sure to come home with a profit," Gyda said, adjusting his grey sash. "And don’t build another city without checking the zoning laws first."

Ragnar smiled with confidence and adjusted his sallet helm.

"As long as we stick to the physics, I should be back before the baby is authorized to launch."

With that said, Ragnar placed a hand on her stomach before departing from the room.

After doing so, he found his trusty steed Calculus in the stables.

He mounted the massive horse before taking off into the misty rain of the Northumbrian spring, where he would unite with his army before marching onto Nottingham.

After meeting up with his army, which was already mustered and clad in the new standardized "wet-weather gear," Ragnar rode alongside his officers at the head of the formation.

General Bjorn was among them.

His munitions-grade plate armor was shrouded in a heavy cloak made of canvas treated with linseed oil a primitive waterproof poncho that kept the rust away.

His army was well equipped for the English rain, and due to the extensive macadam road networks Ragnar had paved using the Roman foundations, they would be able to quickly make their way to the border of Mercia.

Riding alongside Bjorn, Ragnar decided to conduct a pulse check on the human resources.

"General, what is the morale index? We are marching in the mud, and the Franks are already defeated. Are the shareholders restless?"

Bjorn smiled as he faced the oncoming drizzle, which was filled with a chilling breeze; despite the wet weather, Ragnar had supplied his forces with warm wool socks and waterproof boots; as such, Bjorn was dry, and so were his forces.

"They are ready and willing to liquidate the enemies of the Directorate. It is a rare sight to see an army marching in the rain with such high spirits. Probably because they all know of the bonus structure we implemented for the captured horses."

Hearing this news, Ragnar felt satisfied; the morale of his troops was high despite the atmospheric conditions. So much so that they were marching to the beat of a song in which Ragnar had commissioned from the Ministry of Propaganda to replace the old pagan chants.

It wasn’t a song about Valhalla or dying gloriously. It was a song about production.

Thousands of voices joined in unison, their boots hitting the paved road in rhythm.

"Iron in the mountain, coal in the deep,

The Director is waking while the Saxon Kings sleep!

With a hammer of steam and a heart made of steel,

We break the old world beneath the Iron Wheel!"

"Heave! Ho! The Piston must go!

We pave the road where the blood used to flow!"

To his army, this rhythmic shanty acted as a metronome, keeping their pace efficient. It terrified the local peasants who watched from the treeline.

To reach Nottingham, they would first have to march through the buffer zone of the Don Valley. Though King Burgred was technically an ally on paper, his army was currently tasked with "border security" (looting).

As the grey column of the Imperial Corps crested the hill, Ragnar pulled out his telescope a new invention using ground lenses from the glassworks.

He looked down at the valley.

Below, the Mercian army was arrayed.

They were wearing the armor Ragnar had sold them. Dented, rusted chainmail. Heavy Danish axes that were unbalanced. Round shields that had seen better days. It was a scrapyard army, bought at a premium price.

"Look at them," Ragnar chuckled, handing the telescope to Bjorn. "They are wearing our garbage."

Bjorn looked through the lens and laughed.

"They think they are well-equipped because they bought ’Viking Steel.’ They don’t realize they bought the liquidation stock."

"Burgred is holding the bridge," Ragnar noted. "He thinks his numbers will stop us."

"Signal the ’Range Department’,"

"Move the Torsion Spikes to the ridge. And tell the ’Can-Openers’ to prep for a breach."

He looked at the pitiful Mercian force blocking his path.

"We are going to give them a product demonstration." Ragnar said, pulling down his visor.

The Mercian army had no idea that their armor was obsolete.

They had no idea that the "Iron Wheel" was coming to crush them.

Ragnar’s well-equipped army would easily handle such a meager force, which would come at the most as a delay to the inevitable expansion of the market.

"Forward!" Ragnar commanded.