Supreme Viking System-Chapter 68: Loyalties

Ironbear Hall no longer announced itself as an intrusion.

It stood as if it had always been there.

The walls had darkened from fresh-cut timber to weathered oak in only a handful of weeks, mud packed tight into seams like old mortar. Steam rose in disciplined columns from low vents along the inner ring, exhaled by engines that never fully slept. The scent of oil, wet wood, and iron hung in the air—sharp, clean, unmistakably industrial in a land that still measured time by seasons and saints.

Men moved with purpose now, not haste. Patrols rotated without shouted orders. Ballista crews checked tension and release arms by habit alone. Engines coughed, settled, then hummed into steady rhythm.

Ironbear Hall did not look like a raider’s camp.

It looked like permanence.

And England noticed.

They came first as watchers.

Two figures at the crest of a hill, gone by dusk. A shadow moving through a hedgerow at dawn. Boot prints by a stream where none should be. Anders let them be seen. He ordered his outriders not to chase, not to harry.

"Let them count us," he said. "Let them fail."

The first test came at a narrow stream west of the fortress.

Eight Saxons, light mail, spears and short swords, moving carefully—but not carefully enough. Ironbear outriders broke from the trees like wolves loosed from cover. There was no war cry. No roar. Just the sound of hooves, steel, and a single shouted warning too late to matter.

It ended quickly.

One man fell with his chest crushed beneath a mace. Another screamed as his leg bent wrong beneath a shield slam. The rest fled, breath ragged, fear louder than their footfalls.

Anders arrived moments later.

He looked down at the wounded man, eyes wide with terror and pain.

"Bind him," Anders said calmly. "Give him water."

One of his captains hesitated. "My lord?"

"Let him live," Anders replied. "Let him walk."

When the Saxons limped back toward their lands carrying the broken among them, the message traveled faster than fire.

England did not answer with unity.

Fear widened old cracks.

Some lords sent riders to Arthur, urging haste, urging war. Others sat silent in their halls, watching smoke rise where Sancton had been and calculating how far away Ironbear Hall truly was.

Priests argued whether the engines were demons or simply men’s pride given form. Old rivalries resurfaced—why bleed for a king when another offered survival?

And so, when the Saxon noble arrived beneath a banner of parley, Anders had already decided what he would be.

The gates of Ironbear Hall did not open at once.

The noble waited.

His banner snapped in the wind. His horse shifted beneath him. His men—one hundred and fifty, by Anders’ count—remained a mile back, out of sight but close enough to matter. Close enough to threaten. Or so they believed.

When the gates finally opened, they opened fully.

The noble was admitted alone.

He was made to walk the length of the fortress.

Past ballista mounted on rotating platforms, their limbs gleaming with oil. Past piston engines venting steam in controlled bursts, iron rods sliding with frightening precision. Past men who did not stare, did not whisper, did not shift their grip on their weapons.

They stood like statues carved from discipline.

By the time the noble reached the inner hall, the confidence in his stride had thinned to calculation.

Anders stood waiting at the far end, framed by timber and iron, hands folded behind his back.

"You may speak," Anders said.

The noble bowed—quickly, shallowly.

"I am Eadric," he said. "Lord of the southern reaches. I come not as enemy, but as one who understands opportunity."

Anders did not respond.

Eadric spoke anyway.

He spoke of division. Of Arthur’s age. Of nobles who resented a crown that asked for loyalty but offered little protection. He spoke of England’s weakness as if it were common knowledge, his voice lowering conspiratorially.

"You are strong," Eadric said, eyes flicking briefly toward the engines. "But strength alone does not rule a land. England must be taken carefully. With the right men guiding you."

He smiled then, thin and hopeful. "With my lands, my men... you could rule here. I would stand beside you."

Together, the word went unspoken.

Anders stepped forward.

The hall seemed to tighten around him.

"I accept your pledge," Anders said.

Relief flashed across Eadric’s face before he could stop it.

"But understand this," Anders continued. "What you offer is not alliance."

Eadric frowned. "Then what is it?"

"Tribute."

The word struck like cold water.

"You will pay," Anders said evenly, "two thousand pounds of silver and gold each year. Delivered here. On time."

Eadric stiffened. "That is... considerable."

"It is cheaper than resistance," Anders replied.

"And if I refuse?"

Anders tilted his head slightly. "Then your lands will still pay. They will simply burn first."

Silence stretched between them.

Eadric glanced around the hall again—really looked this time. At the men. The machines. The walls that should not exist.

"I accept," he said at last.

Anders nodded once. "Good."

He turned to a captain. "Assign twenty men. They will accompany Lord Eadric home."

Eadric opened his mouth. Closed it. Nodded.

He left Ironbear Hall believing he had secured favor.

He did not realize he had been indexed.

The news spread faster than riders.

An English lord had bent—not in fealty, but in payment. Some called him traitor. Others wondered how soon they could do the same.

Arthur’s court grew tense.

Anders stood atop Ironbear Hall’s western wall as dusk fell, watching the countryside darken.

Below him, engines breathed. Above him, Ironbear banners snapped hard in the wind.

"England will break itself," Anders said quietly. "We only need to stand where the cracks widen."

And somewhere inland, loyalty began to fail.