Building a Viking Empire with Modern Industry-Chapter 146: Strategic Demon

In the fields of Cumbria, near the border of the Scottish Lowlands, two armies had met.

On the side of the Northumbrians, Osric of Cumbria was facing off against the Scottish raiders who had the gall to audit his family's assets.

Though the nearby regions were being liquidated by the ongoing invasion, Cumbria had been one of the few counties capable of maintaining its stock value for the time being.

The reason for this was simple: Osric had refused to deploy his forces to the border, keeping them holed up in Carlisle Castle.

However, the Scots, led by Thane MacAlpin, had finally forced him into the field by burning his favorite hunting lodge.

While the battle waged, Osric found himself dismounted and engaging with the enemy forces in melee combat.

While he did so, a few crossbow bolts flew past his face, which was covered in a rusty nasal helm.

One of these bolts even directly collided with his shield, punching through the wood and grazing his arm.

It was an Iron Gear bolt.

Like most of the Scots' new equipment, the crossbows MacAlpin's men were using had been provided by the Directorate.

Ragnar had not cut corners when selling the "Mark I" surplus to the Scots, and though it was not as advanced as the "Mark II" repeaters his own security forces used, it was made with standardized steel limbs and mass-produced triggers.

As such, the Scots were adequately equipped to hostilely take over their neighbors.

After his shield failed to deflect the bolt, Osric found himself engaging in a swordfight with a relatively well-equipped Highlander.

Wielding his sword with desperate skill, Osric quickly parried the enemy's claymore before gripping the blade of his own sword in a technique referred to as half-swording, where he drove the tip of the blade into the gaps in the enemy's tartan. 𝓯𝙧𝓮𝓮𝒘𝓮𝙗𝙣𝒐𝒗𝒆𝓵.𝓬𝓸𝒎

The Highlander grunted in pain as his shoulder was pierced, and Osric followed up with a shield bash, smashing the rim of his shield against the opponent's face.

After a few frantic swings, the enemy collapsed, his nose thoroughly broken by Osric's panic-fueled onslaught.

After ending his opponent's miserable existence, Osric gazed upon the battlefield and noticed that the tide had begun to turn... against him.

Though the Northumbrians were significant in number, Osric was an inexperienced middle manager and had been easily outmaneuvered by the hostile merger.

While he was engaging the enemy vanguard, MacAlpin's cavalry had passed beyond the Northumbrian flanks and smashed into them with their lances like an unstoppable tidal wave.

"Hold the line!" Osric screamed, his voice cracking. "Think of your pensions!"

But it was too late. The Northumbrian lines quickly began to crumble.

Noticing that the battle had begun to shift toward bankruptcy, Osric tried to rally the men in front of him with fierce desperation.

Surrounded by a group of routing spearmen, the panicked noble charged towards the rear, hoping to escape.

However, the Scots were faster.

"Where d'ye think yer goin', laddie?" a voice boomed.

Osric turned to see Thane MacAlpin himself, wielding a massive two-handed sword. The Thane grinned, revealing teeth that looked like they could chew iron.

"I... I demand a parley!" Osric stammered, raising his sword.

"Parley?" MacAlpin laughed. "We dinna parley with assets. We liquidate them!"

MacAlpin swung his sword. Osric tried to block, but the force of the blow shattered his blade and knocked him into the mud.

Osric scrambled backward, terrified. "I have gold! My father has gold! We can pay you!"

"Your father is dead," MacAlpin sneered, stepping closer. "And your gold belongs to the Iron Empire now."

Just as MacAlpin raised his sword for the final cut, a loud, mechanical whistle echoed across the battlefield. It was a sound unlike anything Osric had ever heard... a high-pitched shriek of steam.

Both men froze.

On the horizon, near the coast, a massive plume of black smoke was rising into the sky. And beneath it... something was moving on the water.

"What in the name of the Saints is that?" Osric whispered.

It was Project: Leviathan.

The Ironclad had arrived off the coast of Cumbria, its paddle wheels churning the grey sea into white foam.

But its presence was enough. The sight of the metal monster sent a wave of fear through both armies.

" The Iron Demon!" a Northumbrian soldier screamed, dropping his spear.

Even MacAlpin looked uneasy. "Ragnar... that crazy bastard actually built it."

Taking advantage of the distraction, Osric scrambled to his feet and ran. He didn't run toward his castle. He ran toward the woods. He ran until his lungs burned and his legs gave out.

He had lost the county. He had lost his army. And he had seen the future of warfare steaming down the coast.

...

Later that day, near Carlisle

Thane MacAlpin stood amidst the ruins of the Northumbrian camp. His men were busy looting the supply wagons, taking everything from grain to boots.

"We took the county, Thane!" a Highlander cheered, holding up a stolen helmet. "Carlisle is ours!"

MacAlpin didn't smile. He was looking out at the sea, where the smoke trail of the Leviathan was still visible.

"Aye," MacAlpin muttered. "We took it. But we didn't take it for ourselves."

One of his lieutenants approached him, holding a letter stamped with the Iron Gear seal.

"Message from the Director, Thane."

MacAlpin took the letter. He tore it open with dirty fingers.

To our Strategic Partners in the North:

Congratulations on your successful acquisition of Cumbria. The Directorate is pleased to see our equipment performing within expected parameters.

Please ensure the coal shipments from Edinburgh continue on schedule. We would hate to have to renegotiate the terms of our partnership.

Efficiency is Victory.

- Director Ragnar

MacAlpin crushed the letter in his hand.

"He knew," MacAlpin growled. "He knew we would win. He supplied us, he watched us, and now he owns us."

"What do we do, Thane?" the lieutenant asked nervously.

MacAlpin looked at his men, who were celebrating with Directorate-made ale. He looked at the crossbows on their backs. He looked at the breastplates on their chests.

They were stronger than they had ever been. But they were also dependent. If Ragnar stopped the shipments of bolts, or spare parts, or coal... the Scottish war machine would grind to a halt.

"We do nothing," MacAlpin said spitting on the ground. "We dig his coal. We fight his enemies. And we pray that the Iron Demon never turns that ship toward us."

Meanwhile, on the Leviathan

Ragnar stood on the bridge of the Ironclad, looking through his telescope at the fleeing Northumbrians. Vizier Al-Hakam stood beside him, shaking his head.

"You let them win," Al-Hakam noted. "You could have destroyed both armies with a single broadside."

"Why waste ammunition?" Ragnar replied, lowering the telescope. "The Scots are doing the work for me. They clear the land of incompetent nobles like Osric. They secure the borders. And they pay me for the privilege."

Ragnar turned to Leif the Elder, who was manning the wheel.

"Status report, Chief Engineer?"

"Engines running hot, Director," Leif grunted. "We're burning coal faster than projected. We'll need to refuel at Liverpool."

"Liverpool is held by the Mercians," Al-Hakam pointed out.

"Not for long," Ragnar smiled. "Set a course for the Mersey. It's time we opened a new Branch Office."