Building a Viking Empire with Modern Industry-Chapter 89: Audit by Fire

Ragnar sat on a stack of ammunition crates outside the crumbling walls of Nottingham Castle.

One might think a volcano had erupted in the Midlands if they were not accustomed to the industrial application of thermal dynamics.

Though the skies above were grey and the English rain was relentless, the heat radiating from the burning stone was palpable.

The cool breeze whipped across Ragnar’s face—the only part of him exposed to the elements.

He was covered from head to toe in the "Mark IV" munitions plate, now stained with the soot of industry.

The Imperial Corps looked less like Vikings and more like a factory that had grown legs and decided to march to war.

"Director," General Bjorn grunted, biting into his own brick. "The thermal stress on Section Three is reaching critical mass. The mortar is turning to glass."

"Excellent," Ragnar nodded, checking his pocket watch. "The limestone is porous. The ’Spicy Mix’ seeps in, expands, and creates micro-fractures. It is simple geology."

Just as Ragnar was about to lecture the Saxon defector on the Mohs Hardness Scale, a sound like a cracking glacier tore through the air. A massive section of the curtain wall, weakened by three days of chemical fire, groaned and slumped forward. Dust and superheated debris scattered across the moat, filling it with a convenient land bridge.

Ragnar stood up, snapping his visor shut with a metallic click. He dusted the oat crumbs from his utility belt.

"The breach is open," Ragnar announced, his voice amplified by the helm. "General, initiate the hostile takeover."

"CHARGE!"

The overwhelming majority of the employees in the siege camp rushed the breach.

They didn’t scream incoherent war cries; they moved with the terrifying, rhythmic stomp of a piston engine.

Musketeers or rather, the "Range Department" armed with heavy repeating crossbows advanced while lobbing ceramic grenades into the gap.

The Saxon defenders, hastily assembled levies led by King Burgred’s remaining Thanes, tried to form a shield wall in the rubble.

The grenades detonated, sending shrapnel and sticky fire into the Saxon ranks.

The shield wall disintegrated. Before the smoke could clear, Ragnar’s "Can-Openers" rushed in.

Ragnar was at the head of the formation, leading the acquisition personally. He didn’t fight like a berserker; he fought like a surgeon removing a tumor.

He parried a clumsy spear thrust with his Messer, stepped inside the guard, and drove his fist reinforced by a steel gauntlet into the attacker’s throat.

"Inefficient," Ragnar muttered, stepping over the body.

The battlefield became a chaotic mess of mud, blood, and steam. The Saxon defenders were fighting for their King; Ragnar’s men were fighting for their pension plan.

The motivation gap was evident.

A heavily armored Thane, wearing the "Discount Chainmail" Ragnar had sold them, stepped forward, swinging a massive two-handed axe. He roared, aiming for Ragnar’s head.

Ragnar caught the axe handle on his cross-guard. Before the Thane could recover, two of the "Iron Gear" soldiers flanked him.

Two Lucerne Hammers struck simultaneously one hooking the Thane’s knee, the other piercing his mail coif. The Thane crumpled like a discarded soda can.

"Teamwork maximizes output," Ragnar noted to his men. "Keep pushing! Drive them to the Keep!"

The courtyard was soon overrun by the grey tide of the Industrial Corps.

The Saxon defenders, realizing that their armor was obsolete and their gods were silent, retreated into the Great Keep.

They barred the massive oak doors—doors that had stood for a hundred years against Welsh raiders and internal rebellions.

General Bjorn walked up to the door and tapped it with his hammer. "It’s solid oak, Director. Iron reinforced. We need the ram."

"The ram is too slow," Ragnar said, shaking his head. "Bring up the ’Master Key’."

Two engineers ran forward carrying a heavy wooden keg painted with a red ’X’.

It was filled with the new, granulated black powder Helga had refined, mixed with iron filings for extra kinetic force.

They placed the keg against the hinges, lit the fuse, and ran.

"CLEAR THE ASSET!" Ragnar shouted.

The army took cover behind the stone debris.

KA-BOOM!

The explosion was deafening. Splinters the size of javelins flew across the courtyard. When the smoke cleared, the mighty oak doors were gone.

In their place was a gaping, smoking hole leading into the darkness of the Keep.

Ragnar stepped through the smoke, his sword drawn.

The Great Hall of Nottingham was dim, lit only by flickering torches. Huddled at the far end, near the throne, was King Burgred.

He was surrounded by his family his wife and two teenage daughters and a handful of loyal housecarls who looked like they regretted their career choices.

Burgred looked old. The stress of the failed ambush and the subsequent siege had aged him ten years in three days. He held a jeweled sword with a trembling hand.

Ragnar stopped in the center of the hall, flanked by Bjorn and the "Loss Prevention" team.

"Are you the Manager of this establishment?" Ragnar asked, his voice cold and echoing.

Burgred stepped forward, trying to muster some royal dignity.

"I am the King of Mercia! You cannot simply blow down my door, heathen! I have rights! I have divine protection!"

Ragnar lifted his visor. His blue eyes scanned the room, calculating the value of the tapestries and the silver plate on the table.

"You had a contract," Ragnar corrected. "You breached it when you attacked my supply lines. You attacked my employees. Now, I am here to collect the penalty fee."

Burgred’s eyes darted around the room. He realized there was no escape.

"I... I can pay," Burgred stammered. "I have gold. I have silver stored in the vaults. Take it! Take it all and leave!"

Ragnar sighed. It was always about the gold with these feudal lords. They didn’t understand that the true value was the logistics.

"I don’t want your gold, Burgred. I’m going to take that anyway," Ragnar said calmly. "I want the bridge. I want the granaries. And I want the title."

Burgred looked at his wife, then back at Ragnar. He realized his life was the only asset left to trade.

"If I surrender... will you spare my family?"

Ragnar looked at the Queen and the daughters. They were terrified civilians. Killing them would be bad PR and a waste of potential hostages.

"The Directorate does not liquidate non-combatants," Ragnar stated. "They will be moved to ’Assisted Living’ in York. You, however..."

Ragnar pointed his sword at Burgred.

"...you are a liability." 𝚏𝗿𝗲𝐞𝐰𝚎𝕓𝐧𝚘𝘃𝗲𝐥.𝐜𝚘𝕞

"I demand a duel!" Burgred screamed, raising his sword. "By the laws of God and men, I demand a trial by combat!"

Ragnar looked at Bjorn. Bjorn looked at Ragnar.

"Director," Bjorn whispered. "Do you want to handle this?"

Ragnar shook his head. "I am an executive, Bjorn. I don’t do manual labor if I can delegate it."

Ragnar snapped his fingers.

From the shadows, an Auditor the spy Elara who had infiltrated the castle hours ago stepped out from behind a pillar. She raised her arm.

The bolt from her wrist-caster struck Burgred squarely in the heart. The King of Mercia looked down at the steel shaft protruding from his chest, his eyes wide with shock. He collapsed onto the rush-covered floor, dead before he hit the ground.

The Queen screamed. The housecarls dropped their weapons, realizing the hostile takeover was finalized.

"King Burgred has resigned," Ragnar announced to the room. "General Bjorn, secure the assets. Place the family under house arrest. And get someone to clean up this mess. I want this hall ready for a board meeting by tomorrow morning."

"Yes, Director!" Bjorn grinned.

Ragnar sheathed his sword. He walked over to the throne of Mercia—a wooden seat carved with dragons. He ran his hand over the armrest.

"Solid construction," Ragnar mused. "But the ergonomics are terrible."

He turned to the shivering Saxon nobles who were kneeling on the floor.

"As of today, Nottingham is a subsidiary of Jernheim. You will continue to manage the grain shipments. You will continue to collect the taxes. But the checks will be made out to me."

One of the nobles looked up, trembling.

"And... and if we refuse?"

Ragnar smiled. It was the smile of a wolf who had learned how to use a spreadsheet.

"Then you can file a complaint with the ’Chemical Lobbers’ outside. I believe they are still warm."

"We serve the Directorate!" the noble shouted immediately.

Thus, Ragnar had successfully acquired the key to the Midlands. His army would rest for a few days, conducting inventory and repairs, before looking South.

This was the first major acquisition in his audit of England. Despite this victory, the market remained volatile. King Aethelred of Wessex had surely heard the news by now!