Building a Viking Empire with Modern Industry-Chapter 191: Home Sweet Home

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The icy wind of the North Sea howled, biting at the exposed faces of the crew, but Ragnar hardly felt it.

He stood at the prow of the Gyda, his hands resting heavily on the brass railing.

Thick plumes of black coal smoke belched from the twin smokestacks, staining the pristine, snow-white sky of his homeland.

They were entering the great fjord of his youth. The towering, jagged cliffs of Norway rose on either side like the teeth of a sleeping leviathan, casting long, dark shadows over the freezing water.

"Draft’s too shallow on the starboard side!" Bjorn roared over the grinding of the gears, his massive fur-cloaked frame leaning over the railing.

"We’re going to scrape the rocks, Ragnar!"

"Hard to port!" Ragnar barked, snatching the brass speaking tube connected to the engine room.

"Leif! Half speed on the screws! If you tear the hull open on my homecoming, I’ll dock your wages for the next ten lifetimes!"

A metallic hiss of steam and a muffled shout echoed up the tube.

Behind them, two smaller steam frigates followed in perfect formation, their paddle wheels churning the icy water into a frothy white wake.

Gyda stepped up beside him. She wore a heavy cloak of black fox fur over her tailored wool dress, a thick ledger clutched under her arm.

"We are burning coal at a terrifying rate fighting this current," she said, her voice sharp and calculating.

"If your people do not have a deep-water port, we cannot dock the fleet. We’ll be stranded."

Ragnar adjusted his monocle, his breath pluming in the freezing air. "They don’t have a port, my love. They have wooden docks tied together with rope and prayers. But we aren’t going to dock."

He pointed his heavy, iron-tipped cane toward the settlement coming into view through the mist. "We’re going to drop anchor in the center of the bay and let them row out to us. Let them see the iron."

As the fleet rounded the final bend of the fjord, the village of Kattegat revealed itself.

It looked exactly as Ragnar remembered... and yet, impossibly small. Clusters of wooden longhouses with turf roofs huddled around the shoreline.

A dozen wooden longships were pulled up on the frozen shingle.

As the Gyda let out a deafening, unnatural shriek from its steam whistle, the entire village froze.

Tiny figures spilled out of the longhouses. Fishermen dropped their nets. Warriors grabbed their axes, rushing to the shoreline.

"Look at them," Bjorn laughed, a deep, booming sound. "They think the world is ending! They’re grabbing their shields!"

"Hold fire," Ragnar ordered sharply, glaring at the gunnery crews manning the heavy swivel cannons.

"Keep the gun ports closed. We’re here to open a new trade route, not to conquer. Yet."

With a screech of heavy chains, the massive iron anchors were dropped, plunging into the icy depths and halting the fleet in the center of the bay.

The churning water settled, but the low, intimidating hum of the boilers remained.

Ragnar turned to his High Steward. "Gyda, prepare the ledgers. Bring the samples of Titan steel, the woven wool, and the refined salt. Bjorn, load my longboat. And leave your battleaxe behind."

"What? Leave my axe?" Bjorn scoffed, looking offended. "Ragnar, you’ve been gone for five winters. A man doesn’t come back to these shores wearing brass buttons and empty hands without getting his throat slit!"

"I am not empty-handed," Ragnar said, tapping the silver handle of his cane. "I am carrying the wealth of the Midlands. Bring a pistol, keep it hidden. Now move."

The longboat, rowed by ten disciplined guards in blackened steel breastplates, cut through the icy water toward the shore.

A massive crowd had gathered on the pebble beach. A wall of wooden shields and drawn iron swords awaited them, wielded by men clad in furs and ring-mail.

As the boat ground against the gravel, the guards stepped out in perfect unison, forming a tight perimeter.

Ragnar stood, the mechanical gears of his leg brace clicking loudly in the tense silence as he stepped onto the shores of his birth.

He wore a pristine, fur-lined coat of midnight blue wool, brass buttons polished to a mirror shine, and his signature top hat. H

The shield wall parted, and a massive man with a greying beard and a heavily scarred face stepped forward. It was Jarl Hakon.

"What sorcery is this?" Hakon bellowed, pointing a thick, calloused finger at the ironclads smoking in his bay.

"Who dares bring these foul, burning hulks into my waters?! Identify yourself, before we feed you to the crows!"

Ragnar leaned on his cane, a calm, mercantile smile spreading across his face.

"You haven’t changed a bit, Hakon. Still threatening first and asking questions later."

Hakon narrowed his eyes, stepping closer. He squinted at Ragnar’s face, then down at the mechanical brace strapped to his leg. Recognition dawned slowly, followed by sheer disbelief.

"Ragnar... the exile? Ragnar the Restless?"

"I go by the Iron Father now," Ragnar replied smoothly. "Or Director, if you prefer formalities. But yes, Hakon. I’ve returned."

Before Hakon could respond, the crowd violently parted again. A woman, her hair streaked with silver but her posture as straight as a spear, pushed her way to the front

She wore heavy furs and held a walking stick carved from ash wood. Her eyes, as sharp and blue as glaciers, locked onto Ragnar.

"Mother," Ragnar said, his corporate facade dropping for just a fraction of a second.

Sigrid marched up to him. She didn’t hesitate. She raised a weathered hand and slapped him directly across the face.

Bjorn flinched. The Iron Guards instantly reached for the concealed pistols beneath their cloaks.

Ragnar raised a hand, stopping them dead. He slowly turned his head back, rubbing his stinging cheek, a genuine smile breaking through.

"You look well, Mother."

Sigrid grabbed the lapels of his expensive wool coat, pulling him down to her eye level. "Five winters," she hissed, her voice trembling with a mix of fury and relief. 𝒇𝓻𝓮𝓮𝙬𝙚𝒃𝒏𝓸𝙫𝒆𝙡.𝓬𝓸𝒎

"Five winters, and not a single word. No silver, no thralls, no glory. And now you return on a ship made of anvils, dressed like a Frankish coin-counter.."

"I missed you too," Ragnar said softly, wrapping his arms around her.

She stiffened for a moment before burying her face in his shoulder, gripping him tightly.

"What happened to your leg?" she whispered fiercely into his ear.

"A miscalculated risk in a siege," Ragnar replied, pulling back to look at her. "But I rebuilt it. Stronger than before."

"Enough of this touching reunion!" Jarl Hakon barked, slamming the butt of his spear into the gravel. His pride was wounded by the spectacle.

"You bring foreign magic to my shores, Ragnar! You bring ships that belch black poison into the sky! By the old laws, you owe a toll for entering my fjord. A tenth of your cargo, payable immediately!"

Ragnar let go of his mother, turning back to the Jarl.

The warmth vanished from his eyes, replaced by the cold, calculating stare of a man who owned entire cities.

"A toll?" Ragnar chuckled, the sound devoid of humor. "Hakon, those ships out there burn more wealth in coal every hour than your entire village produces in a decade."

Hakon’s face flushed red with rage. "You mock me? In my own lands? I am the Jarl! I will seize those iron hulks and melt them down for swords if you do not pay the tribute!"

Ragnar sighed, slowly pulling a silver pocket watch from his vest. He clicked it open, checked the time, and snapped it shut.

"Bjorn," Ragnar said quietly.

"Yes, Lord?"

"Signal the Gyda. Let us show the Jarl how we negotiate."

Bjorn reached into his cloak, pulled out a brass flare pistol, and fired it straight into the grey sky.

A brilliant streak of red phosphorus illuminated the clouds.

A tense silence fell over the beach. Ten seconds passed.

Then, the Gyda responded.

First came the steam whistle... a deafening, bone-rattling shriek that made half the Viking warriors drop their weapons to cover their ears.

Immediately following the shriek was a flash of blinding orange light from the ship’s bow, accompanied by a roar so loud it felt as though the sky had torn open.

A 32-pound high-explosive iron shell ripped across the bay. It bypassed the village entirely, slamming directly into the barren, rocky cliff face a mile down the shore.

The explosion was catastrophic. Thousands of tons of ancient granite shattered in a bloom of fire and smoke, tumbling down into the churning water below in an avalanche of sheer destruction.

The shockwave hit the beach a moment later, a physical gust of wind that rattled the teeth in Hakon’s skull.

The Vikings were paralyzed. Some fell to their knees in prayer to Thor; others simply stared in abject horror at the smoking crater in the side of the mountain.

Ragnar leaned his weight onto his iron-tipped cane, looking Hakon dead in the eyes.

"I didn’t come here to pay tolls, Hakon," Ragnar said, his voice cutting through the ringing silence like a scalpel.

"I came to buy the fjord. Now, are we going to stand here freezing in the mud, or are you going to invite me into the Great Hall to sign the treaty?"