Building a Viking Empire with Modern Industry-Chapter 210: Northern Blood Upon White Snow

Hundreds of arrows had already leapt from the longbows upon the cliffs. In mere seconds those deadly points would find the hearts of the Grenadiers marching beneath. Yet even as the first volley began its deadly arc, the Iron Father’s host did not falter.

Ragnar, seated upon his horse at the head of the column, raised his cane. "Shield wall!" he bellowed.

"The three hundred axe-men to the fore! Form now, and hold!"

Therefore the three hundred warriors of the North, those hardy sons of Kattegat and the surrounding fjords who had sworn themselves to the Iron Father after the beach, surged forward with disciplined speed.

Raising their round shields, they locked edge to edge in a single unbroken barrier that stretched across the narrow mouth of the pass. The shafts struck, splintering boards, piercing mail where gaps appeared, yet the wall held.

Though some men staggered beneath the impact, though blood bloomed upon white snow where an arrow found throat or shoulder, the line did not break.

Amidst this storm of death, Bjorn strode along the rear of the shield wall.

"Loose formation!" he bellowed. "Grenadiers to the fore! Four hundred paces, no more!"

Since the axe-men had bought them precious moments with their courage, the four hundred Grenadiers assigned to the forward line advanced.

While arrows still clattered against shields and rang from helmets, they knelt in staggered ranks, loading their repeating crossbows, even as the powder-pots and grenade fuses were struck alight.

Therefore the first volley of steel-tipped bolts answered the longbows above, whistling upward in a deadly arc that found flesh upon the cliffs and drew cries of pain from the hidden archers. Yet it was not the crossbows alone that would decide this moment.

"Grenades!" Bjorn bellowed again, raising his broadsword high. "Loose the fire of the forge!"

Thus the command rippled down the line, and four hundred iron spheres sailed skyward upon burning fuses.

The explosions came. Deafening booms echoed off the cliffs, each detonation tearing bloody gaps in the ranks of archers above.

Wherefore jagged shards of red-hot iron ripped through white cloaks and leather armor, severing limbs, shattering bone, and hurling broken bodies.

Despite this cataclysm raining from below, some archers endured. Hidden in crevices and behind natural overhangs, shielded by the stone they had hoped to use as cover, perhaps two score remained unscathed.

Yet even they could not hide the terror that now gripped their hearts.

The longbows trembled in hands that had once drawn with confidence; eyes that had gleamed with the promise of slaughter now stared wide with the realization that no skill, no camouflage, no ancient courage could stand against such weapons.

Leofric, striding back from the shield wall with blood upon his blade. "By the forge, Director, that was a sight to warm the blood! Yet some still live up there... cowards hiding behind rock while their brothers fall. Shall I send climbers to finish them?"

Ragnar shook his head slowly. "No. Let the survivors crawl back to their king. Since he has chosen to greet us with arrows, we shall answer with mortars that need no bows to reach his walls. Therefore order the crews to begin ranging shots. The first shell will fall before the sun climbs another handspan."

Sigrid, who had ridden forward to stand with her son, placed a steady hand upon his arm. "I have seen many battles in my years, never have I witnessed such a thing as this..."

Ragnar met her gaze. "Since the day I returned to these shores, Mother, I have carried your words in my heart. You told me that pride and steel must walk together."

While the axe-men maintained their battered shield wall and the Grenadiers reloaded, the six siege mortars were manhandled into final position upon the frozen ground.

Their stubby barrels, reinforced with iron bands and loaded with shells packed with black powder and jagged iron shards. Therefore the first ranging shot was prepared, fuse struck, and the command given.

The mortar spoke with a sound like the world splitting open. A tongue of flame erupted from the muzzle, and the shell arced high above the pass...

For several heartbeats there was only silence. Then, far above, a bright flash bloomed against the stone walls of The Fang, followed an instant later by the rolling thunder of detonation.

A plume of smoke and shattered rock rose into the air, and the mountain seemed to shudder beneath the blow.

Ragnar watched the distant eruption with eyes that held neither pity nor hesitation. "Indeed," he murmured, more to himself than to those around him,

"the mountain has felt the first kiss of industry. Let the Gore-King look upon that smoke and know that his time upon the throne draws to its close!"

Leofric laughed again, a joyous sound that carried across the pass. "Another shell, and another, until the very stones weep blood and the old gods themselves beg mercy!"

And so the column resumed its advance, shields raised against any lingering arrows, mortars dragged forward by straining men and horses, while above them the smoke of the first strike still rose.

The first mortar shell burst against the outer wall of The Fang, Erik Blood-Tooth stood within the great hall of his mountain fortress, surrounded by the crackling warmth of whale-oil braziers and. In addition to the two thousand berserkers who now crowded the lower galleries and ramparts, two hundred longbowmen had already retreated inside the gates. Despite this formidable host gathered beneath his banner, a chill unrelated to the eternal winter outside had begun to creep into the Gore-King’s veins...

Since the distant thunder first rolled down the Serpent’s Pass, every man in the hall had frozen mid-motion. The counsellors exchanged uneasy glances while Eira, Erik’s sister, rose slowly from her seat beside the throne. Yet Erik himself remained seated for a heartbeat longer.

"Furthermore," he began, "this is merely the opening note of their song. The Iron Father seeks to frighten us with noise and smoke, nothing more."

Nonetheless, the words had scarcely left his lips when a second colossal detonation shook the very foundations of the mountain. A huge black plume erupted against the outer curtain wall visible through the great arched window, sending a cascade of shattered stone and burning debris tumbling into the abyss below.

At the moment the blast wave reached the throne room, several lesser warriors stumbled, and one of the longbowmen still clutching his bow dropped to his knees. Erik’s own heart, which had faced the spears of Denmark and the lances of Frankish knights without flinching, gave one treacherous lurch.