Building a Viking Empire with Modern Industry-Chapter 192: Men of Iron

Jarl Hakon did not walk toward the high seat. His eyes were still wide, his ears likely still ringing from the concussive force of the high-explosive shell that had vaporized a piece of his mountain.

Instead, he gestured to a rough-hewn bench near the fire.

"Sit," Hakon muttered, his voice hoarse.

Ragnar stood tall, planting his iron-tipped cane into the dirt floor.

Gyda stood at his right, her fox-fur cloak draped over her shoulders, already unrolling a thick parchment scroll of tallies and weights.

Bjorn stood at the door, arms crossed, a cruel smirk playing on his scarred lips as he watched the terrified villagers.

Sigrid, Ragnar’s mother, sat near the hearth, her sharp eyes studying every brass button, every stitch of fine cloth her son wore.

"Let us speak of oaths and silver," Ragnar said, his voice carrying easily through the silent hall.

"I have no desire to burn Kattegat to ash, Hakon. My forges in the West hunger for timber. Straight, old-growth pine. Oak. The kind that grows thick in these valleys. I want the rights to harvest it, and I want this bay to harbor my iron fleet."

Hakon blinked, struggling to comprehend the demands. "You... you want to buy the forest? And the sea?"

"I want exclusive rights," Ragnar corrected, leaning on his cane. "In exchange, I will make Kattegat wealthier than any hold in the North. Gyda."

Gyda stepped forward. "We offer refined sea-salt, white as snow. Woolen cloth woven tighter than any loom in Scandinavia can manage. And steel. Not brittle iron dug from bogs, but true steel."

She reached under her cloak and tossed a dagger onto the wooden table between them.

Hakon stared at the dagger as if it were a poisonous snake. He reached out with trembling fingers and picked it up. He tested the edge with his thumb, and a thin line of blood immediately welled up. The Jarl gasped.

"You offer this... for trees?" Hakon asked, disbelief breaking through his fear.

"For trees, for deep water, and for your sworn word that no other ships drop anchor here without my seal," Ragnar said.

"Ragnar," Sigrid spoke up. She looked at her son’s eyes.

"You come back after five winters. You blow a hole in our home. You throw riches at our feet. What are you truly building over there in the fog, my son?"

Ragnar’s expression softened slightly. "A new age, Mother. The age of axes and raiding is dying. The future is built on steam, coal, and iron. I am just... laying the foundation stones."

Hakon set the dagger down, his hands shaking. He looked from the blade to Ragnar, then down at the dirt floor.

"I cannot take your steel, Ragnar. Nor your salt."

Bjorn snorted from the doorway. "Are you deaf as well as stupid, Hakon? He isn’t asking. He’s offering you the carrot before he brings down the stick."

"Quiet, Bjorn," Ragnar commanded, his eyes narrowing at the Jarl. "Why, Hakon? Are the scales unbalanced? Do you want more?"

"It is not a matter of weight or wealth!" a ragged voice shouted from the back of the hall.

The crowd of warriors parted. A man limped forward. His furs were torn, and a crude, bloody bandage was wrapped tightly around the stump of his left arm.

He looked half-starved, his eyes wild with a feverish terror.

Ragnar recognized him vaguely... Torstein, a hunter who used to run the northern traps.

"Torstein?" Sigrid murmured, standing up. "We thought you perished in the first snows."

"I wish I had, Sigrid," the man rasped, collapsing against the wooden table. He looked up at Ragnar, his eyes wide and haunted. "You have iron ships, Ragnar? You have fire that breaks mountains?"

"I do," Ragnar said slowly, sensing the shift in the room’s atmosphere.

"Then take them and sail back into the mist!" Torstein coughed, spitting a wad of bloody phlegm onto the floor. "You cannot buy Kattegat. Hakon cannot swear oaths to you. Kattegat already belongs to the Gore-King."

Ragnar frowned. "The Gore-King? I know of no such title. Who rules Norway?"

"King Erik," Hakon whispered, the name alone seeming to steal the warmth from the hearth. "Erik Blood-Tooth. He usurped the high seat three winters ago. He... he is not a man of honor, Ragnar. He is a butcher."

"Every King is a butcher," Ragnar stated flatly. "It is a requirement of the crown. What makes this Erik different?"

"He eats the flesh of the fallen,"

"I saw it. His warband raided my hunting camp. They took my arm. And they roasted it on a spit while I bled."

A suffocating silence fell over the Great Hall.

Even Bjorn shifted uncomfortably by the door, his hand instinctively dropping to the hilt of his sword.

Gyda’s face paled. She looked at Ragnar. "Cannibalism.."

"It is madness!" Hakon yelled, slamming his fists on the table. "He demands a blood-tax from every village. Half our winter stores, half our silver, and a dozen thralls every season.

If a Jarl refuses, Erik’s army comes in the night. They burn the longhouses with the children inside. They eat the warriors!"

"Where is this King now?" Ragnar asked, his voice deathly quiet.

"His tax collectors," Hakon stammered, his eyes darting toward the heavy oak doors. "They are marching across the snowpack. They are coming to Kattegat... They will be here by tomorrow’s dawn."

Sigrid looked at her son, her hands clutching her walking stick. "If they see your ships, Ragnar... if they see your wealth... they will slaughter us all just to claim it!"

"Let them try," Bjorn growled, a savage grin finally breaking across his face.

"My axe is thirsty. Let’s see if these cannibals like the taste of Titan steel."

Ragnar raised his cane, silencing his general. He looked down at the flawless steel dagger resting on the rough wooden table. He had come to negotiate a peaceful trade pact. But it seemed the market required a more aggressive restructuring.

"Hakon," Ragnar said, his voice echoing with absolute, terrifying calm. "You say this King demands half your winter stores? Half your silver?!"

"Yes," the Jarl whispered miserably.

"And if you do not pay, you die?"

"Yes."

Ragnar smiled. "Then we will pay his collectors," Ragnar declared, adjusting the cuffs of his fine wool coat.

"Gyda, prepare the ledgers. We will tally exactly what King Erik is owed." He turned his icy gaze to Bjorn.

"Bjorn. Go back to the Gyda. Uncase the repeating crossbows. Wake the Grenadiers. Tell Leif to prime the heavy mortars."

Hakon stared at him, bewildered. "You... you will fight them? They bring three hundred men! Berserkers! Monsters who feel no pain!"

Ragnar leaned in close to the terrified Jarl. "They have never fought men of iron, Hakon."