Building a Viking Empire with Modern Industry-Chapter 209: Answer in Kind

Ragnar rose then, pushing back his chair as he began to walk the length of the table. Since the first moment he had conceived the siege mortars in the quiet hours of his study back in Titan, he had known their power.

Though the device had first taken shape in the hands of the Andalusians around the year of our twelve hundred and fifty... a primitive iron-reinforced bucket hurling stones on wings of black powder his own version, born of modern knowledge and industrial refinement, stood ready to eclipse that ancient precursor.

Of course his mortars were still somewhat primitive compared to the wonders he would one day forge, yet they would prove more than sufficient to deal with The Fang. The high-arcing shells would rain down upon the hidden paths and stone walls, collapsing tunnels, shattering ramparts, and burying any who dared stand against the march of progress. All these spies, all these layered deceptions, all the Gore-King’s clever traps mattered little in the final accounting.

"Despite this web of eyes and whispers," Ragnar declared, "all of it matters not in the end. Since the day I first set foot upon these shores, I have allowed myself too much overthinking, too much careful calculation of every variable.

Yet the time for such hesitation has passed. The siege mortars are ready. The Grenadiers stand eager. The mountain awaits. There is no more thinking, no more overthinking, no more weighing of risks as though this were a simple matter of trade ledgers..."

He stopped at the head of the table once more, turning to face both Gyda and Leofric with eyes. "Thus at dawn we march. We will move the full strength of our two thousand Grenadiers up the Serpent’s Pass under cover of the lingering blizzard, dragging the mortars behind us upon sledges. The first shells will fall before the sun clears the peaks, and by the time night falls again, The Fang will either fly the banner of the Iron Empire or lie buried beneath its own rubble."

Gyda rose smoothly to stand beside him. "Since the moment the first pigeon flew, I have prepared the supply lines for exactly this. Though the pass is narrow and treacherous, our engineers have already scouted the routes. The mortars will be in position before midday. Naturally, I will ride with the forward column to ensure every shell is accounted for and every fuse timed to perfection."

Leofric stood as well. "And I shall lead the vanguard personally, Director. Let the Gore-King send his berserkers down the slopes if he dares. My Grenadiers will greet them with repeating crossbows and the promise of steel.

Since you have given the order at last, there is no force in the North that can stop us. By the blood of the forge, we will end this before the next full moon rises."

Ragnar looked upon his two most trusted companions. Though the blizzard still raged outside and spies doubtless watched from every shadow, though the Gore-King plotted in his frozen hall and the old gods themselves might rage against the coming of steam and steel, none of it could turn the tide now.

Since the reinforcements had arrived, since the mortars had been unloaded and the Grenadiers had formed ranks, the outcome had been written in iron and powder.

Thus the Iron Father raised his goblet high. "To dawn, my friends."

The three of them drank as one.

...

Dawn broke over the fjord of Kattegat. Across the frozen peaks, the bay had become a hive of disciplined activity as two thousand Grenadiers, six formidable siege mortars, and three hundred axe-bearing warriors of the North boarded the reinforced transport ships laden with rations and the few precious horses reserved for the captains...

As the fleet cast off from the shore, Ragnar stood upon the prow of the lead vessel, beside him his mother Sigrid, remained steadfast at his side. Gyda and Leofric flanked them, their eyes scanning the horizon where the jagged silhouette of The Fang loomed in the distance.

"Since the scouts returned with word of the fortress’s true distance," Ragnar declared, "I have accepted that this march will test our resolve as much as any battle to come. Though the sea voyage is mercifully short, the overland trek with the mortars will demand hours upon the frozen ground. Yet it matters not. The mountain will fall before the sun sets tomorrow!"

Gyda nodded. "The mortars will move, even if the men must haul them with their own strength and the horses must strain against the snow. Naturally, the Gore-King will expect us to strike from the sea again, but we will come from the land."

Hours passed in the short sea voyage. There were no warriors waiting upon the shore to greet them with axes or arrows. No ambush from the sea as Ragnar had half-expected, no hail of longbows darkening the sky while the host was still confined to the decks.

Ragnar stepped ashore first. "I had prepared for longbows to rain upon us while we were still in the ships, their English make striking from the cliffs before we could even disembark. Yet it seems the Gore-King did not think of that... or perhaps he has chosen a different welcome altogether."

Leofric vaulted from the next longboat.

"Two thousand Grenadiers and six mortars do not march lightly, Director. If he lets us land unmolested, it is only because he believes the mountain itself will finish what his vanguard could not."

Thus the host began its overland march, the siege mortars dragged upon iron-reinforced sledges while the Grenadiers formed disciplined columns and the three hundred axe-men of the North took the flanks with Bjorn at their head.

Hours passed beneath the pale northern sun, the column winding its way across the frozen ground as the mountain grew ever larger before them, its fortress walls now visible.

That is, until Gyda suddenly reined in her horse and pointed toward the high cliffs rising on either side of the approaching pass. "Look, my love. Upon the heights."

There, perfectly camouflaged against the snow, hundreds of archers in white cloaks stood motionless upon the cliffs. Their longbows were already drawn, arrows nocked and waiting, the white of their garments blending seamlessly with the frozen landscape so that only the sharpest eye could discern them at all.

Ragnar’s grip tightened upon the reins as the column slowed to a halt. "Hundreds of them, hidden in plain sight. The Gore-King has prepared his greeting after all..."

Despite this sudden revelation, a slow, smile spread across the Iron Father’s face as he raised his cane toward the cliffs.

"Since he wishes to play this game of shadows, we shall answer in kind. Grenadiers... prepare the mortars!"