Building a Viking Empire with Modern Industry-Chapter 85: The Whistles

The pale light of a misty dawn shone through the heavy canvas of the command tent as Ragnar was quietly awakened by his internal clock.

His sleep had been efficient, aided by the silence that followed the previous night’s chaotic liquidation of the Mercian raiders.

Because the "Spicy Mix" had done its job so thoroughly, the Director was finally able to get a few hours of downtime to recharge his cognitive faculties.

Seeing as how he would be conducting a site inspection of Nottingham today, Ragnar did not bother with his usual morning calisthenics.

Instead, he began to get dressed in his executive field attire. By now, his armor was comprised of the battle-tested "Mark IV" munitions plate, scrubbed clean of the soot from the grenades.

It was a matte-grey exoskeleton of industry, devoid of the vanity that plagued the southern kings.

He fastened his utility belt, checking the pouches: sulfur matches, a slide rule, and a fresh notebook for the audit.

He strapped his officer’s Messer to his hip a blade that had proven its ROI (Return on Investment) during the night’s close-quarters negotiation.

After dressing, he stepped out into the camp.

Ragnar stood at attention before his troops, who were now fully dressed in their standardized grey uniforms, their pikes held upright like the bars of a cage.

Currently, the "employees" that comprised his Imperial Corps were holding a brief "Post-Incident Review" for the few men who had been terminated the night before.

Although the Industrial Corps had achieved a kill ratio of nearly 20-to-1, seven brave pike-men had been lost in the initial axe rush before the grenades could be deployed.

Ragnar felt a cold, heavy weight in his chest for the loss of his Human Capital.

Unlike most Viking Jarls, who viewed warriors as expendable ammunition to be spent for glory, Ragnar viewed his men as high-value assets.

Every soldier lost meant a loss of training hours, a loss of specialized skill, and a vacancy in the organizational chart that could not be easily filled.

War was a necessary overhead for market expansion, but he hated the inefficiency of death.

If King Burgred had simply accepted the obsolescence of his kingdom and signed the merger, these men would still be collecting their pensions.

Yet, these peaceful ambitions could no longer contain Ragnar’s growing mandate for total monopoly.

As a man who had died from overwork in a cubicle in his previous life, the moment he tasted the agency of the Director, his drive for optimization became absolute.

Despite his relative benevolence compared to the blood-eagle-loving traditionalists, Ragnar was still a businessman.

And like all businessmen, he was inherently prone to the ruthlessness required to crush the competition.

In his old life, there was a saying, "It’s nothing personal, it’s just business." 𝚏𝗿𝗲𝐞𝐰𝚎𝕓𝐧𝚘𝘃𝗲𝐥.𝐜𝚘𝕞

But Ragnar was starting to realize that when someone tries to stab you with a rusty axe in the middle of the night, it becomes very personal.

He looked out at the sea of grey helmets. He couldn’t give a warm-hearted speech about Valhalla. That was for the old world. He needed to inflame their desire for a "Market Correction."

"I look upon every one of you standing here before me," Ragnar began, his voice projected by the acoustics of the valley, "and I see stakeholders. Men who have invested their sweat and blood into the Company."

He paced back and forth, his steel boots crunching on the gravel.

"Please make no mistake! The men who ambushed us last night may have been deluded customers wearing the discount armor we sold them, but they were still the Competition! They chose to violate the non-aggression clause while we slept! They chose to terminate seven of our colleagues! These men who have perished fell defending the supply line, the pension fund, and the Directorate!"

Ragnar stopped and slammed his fist against his breastplate.

"Henceforth, I decree that the family of any man who dies fulfilling his contract shall be given a ’Golden Parachute’ total tax exemption for ten years and a land grant in the new territories! I am certain that the men who have perished on this day desire but one thing from all of you, and that is to finalize the transaction! So I have decided... before we return to York, we shall march on the Castle of Nottingham and route out the Manager responsible for this breach of contract!"

Ragnar drew his sword, pointing it south toward the bridge.

"I promise to have King Burgred and anyone else deemed liable ’processed’, where their heads may be mounted on the factory gates as a warning to future competitors! EFFICIENCY IS VICTORY!"

Having finished his speech, the men gathered before him, numbered in the thousands, all began to chant the corporate slogan repeatedly.

As they did so, the "Range Department" fired a synchronized volley of crossbow bolts into the air.

Ragnar vowed to build a marble obelisk in the Titan plaza for these men when the concrete finally set.

Seeing that he had now stoked the flames of productivity in the hearts of his soldiers, he gave an order to General Bjorn.

"General, initiate the teardown. Pack up the assets. We move in T-minus sixty minutes! May the Market show mercy to our enemies, for we will audit them into the ground!"

With that said, the army began to gather their equipment. Tents were folded into uniform squares. Cooking fires were extinguished with sand. Latrines were filled.

Within an hour, the army of over 5,000 men was once more on the march.

The Castle of Nottingham was nearby, and it had invoked the ire of the Director.

Though Ragnar would not harm unarmed civilians or potential future employees, those who resisted the hostile takeover were considered "Obstructionists" and would suffer the same fate as the night raiders.

Nobody expected Ragnar to lay siege to Nottingham immediately after fighting the Franks. King Burgred certainly assumed the Vikings would need weeks to recover and celebrate.

This miscalculation would give Ragnar the element of surprise.

The power of "Spicy Mix" and Torsion Spikes was not something these feudal armies could easily contend with.

It would be quite some time before his chemical warfare tactics became known to the wider world, and even longer before anyone had the industrial base to replicate them.

For the time being, Ragnar’s Industrial Corps would become the most dominant monopoly on the British Isles.

Nottingham was merely the first of many acquisitions that would take place over the coming months as Ragnar began his audit of the South.

As the morning rain began to fall across the Midlands, the grey column moved like a serpent of steel along the Roman road.

Ragnar rode alongside his officers at the head of the formation.

General Bjorn was among them, his plate armor shrouded in his oilskin cloak, water beading off the treated fabric. He wore a grim smile beneath his visor.

His army was well equipped for the weather, and due to the high-calorie rations, they were marching with an energy that baffled the local Saxon scouts watching from the woods.

Riding alongside Bjorn, Ragnar decided to conduct a pulse check on the operational status.

"General, how are the men holding up? We are marching to a siege immediately after a defensive engagement. Is the fatigue index within acceptable limits?"

Bjorn laughed, a deep, rumbling sound that competed with the thunder in the distance.

Despite the dreary weather, the General was in high spirits.

"Director, they are ready to dismantle the castle brick by brick.

It is a rare sight to see an army marching toward a siege with such enthusiasm. Probably because they all know that King Burgred is hoarding the silver he owes us."

Ragnar nodded. Financial incentives were the best motivators.

"They know that the Castle of Nottingham has high walls," Bjorn continued. "But they also know that we have the ’keys’."

"The keys?" Ragnar asked, raising an eyebrow.

"The Chemistry," Bjorn grinned, patting a saddlebag filled with ceramic grenades. "Not even stone can stand against the ’Spicy Mix’ if we apply enough heat."

Hearing this news, Ragnar felt satisfied.

"Good," Ragnar said, looking ahead. "We will need that heat. We are not just taking the castle, Bjorn. We are sending a message to Wessex."

To reach Nottingham, they would have to cross the Trent Bridge.

Though King Burgred had retreated behind his walls, he had left a rearguard of levies to block the crossing.

"General," Ragnar said, pulling out his telescope. "It seems we have a bottleneck at the bridge."

"Do we deploy the heavy infantry?" Bjorn asked.

"No," Ragnar said, observing the huddle of frightened Saxon peasants holding spears on the bridge.

"The Whistles,"

"And the Torsion Spikes."