Building a Viking Empire with Modern Industry-Chapter 196: Let the flames burn high

At the moment, the once-fearsome horde of cannibal tax collectors was reduced to a shattered, desperate remnant, struggling to comprehend the industrial slaughter that had just rained down upon them.

Since the opening volley of the field cannons, the battle had transformed into a one-sided massacre, leaving the pristine snow stained a deep, horrifying crimson.

Eventually, the terrifying reality of their situation sank into the minds of the survivors; men who had believed themselves invincible under the Gore-King’s banner now dropped their heavy iron axes and fled into the icy woods, scrambling over the frozen rocks.

However, not all of the invaders were so quick to surrender to panic. A core group of battle-hardened berserkers stood amidst the carnage of their fallen brethren.

Leading them was a towering brute adorned in blood-stained wolf pelts. Despite this overwhelming defeat, the brute threw his head back and laughed.

"You think your fire and thunder frighten us?" the brute roared, pointing his chipped blade toward Ragnar’s elevated position on the ridge. "King Erik will hear of this! He will march his true host down from the mountains, and he will slaughter every man, woman, and child who cowers behind your black shields! He will butcher you, string your guts from the pine trees, and piss on your dead faces to warm the snow!"

With this said, the remaining berserkers pounded their weapons against their splintered wooden shields, chanting their king’s name in a deafening display of fanatical devotion.

That is, until Bjorn let out a bellow of pure rage, vaulting over the earthen berm with a heavy Danish axe gripped tightly in his massive hands.

Seeing his lord insulted with such crude, barbaric vulgarity, the giant general charged down the snowy embankment, his eyes locked entirely onto the loud-mouthed captain.

"I will chop that foul tongue from your mouth and feed it to the hounds!" Bjorn thundered, raising the axe high above his head to split the berserker’s skull in twain.

"Hold your blade, Bjorn!" Ragnar’s voice cut through the frigid air. Stepping carefully down the icy path, Ragnar leaned heavily on his silver-tipped cane

Though Bjorn’s muscles trembled violently with the desire to strike, he reluctantly lowered his axe, shooting a venomous glare at the chuckling brute who stood unfazed by the near-death experience.

Ragnar approached the captive leader, his monocle catching the pale morning light as he studied the man’s feral features with clinical detachment.

"You speak with a great deal of pride for a man standing in the ruins of his own raiding party,"

"After all, your king sent you here to collect a heavy tribute, and instead, you have delivered nothing but your own corpses. Tell me, what is your name, and what is your rank in this foul trade of blood and extortion?"

The brute spat a glob of bloody phlegm at Ragnar’s polished leather boots, sneering defiantly through rotting teeth. "I am Kjell, High Chieftain of the Vanguard! And you are a dead man walking, you soft, southern coward!"

Ragnar did not even flinch at the provocation. "Kjell. A fitting name for a brute. Yet, I find myself intensely curious about your master. A king who is supposedly so obsessed with dining on his enemies and urinating on their corpses must have a fascinatingly broken mind. Such madness is an unpredictable variable in my newly acquired territory, and I require information on his supply lines, his mountain strongholds, and the exact number of men he commands."

"I will tell you nothing!" Kjell snarled, straining against the heavy iron chains that Ragnar’s elite guards were quickly wrapping around his thick, hairy wrists. "The Gore-King will feast on your marrow!"

"We shall see about that," Ragnar replied smoothly, turning his back on the struggling captive to survey the rest of the battlefield. "Ultimately, every man has a breaking point, and my interrogators have spent years perfecting their craft in the dungeons of Mercia. Take him to the deepest hold of the Gyda and secure him to the bulkhead. I will extract the layout of this Gore-King’s domain from his lips, piece by agonizing piece."

As the guards dragged the screaming chieftain toward the longboats, Ragnar turned his attention to the handful of trembling, disarmed survivors who had fallen to their knees in the bloody snow, praying to gods that had seemingly abandoned them.

Thus, he raised his voice, ensuring that every terrified survivor could hear his royal decree echoing through the valley.

"I am releasing you from this slaughter, not out of any misplaced mercy, but because I require messengers to carry my words," Ragnar proclaimed.

"Run back to your master in the mountains. Tell him that the Iron Father has claimed this fjord and all the timber that surrounds it. Tell him that his era of mud, fear, and cannibalism is officially over, and if he wishes to test my resolve, he will find only fire and ruin waiting for him."

The survivors did not hesitate, scrambling to their feet and fleeing into the dense, snow-covered forest as fast as their trembling legs could carry them, leaving their weapons and their pride buried in the snow.

Afterward, Ragnar looked out over the grim harvest of the morning, sighing softly as the blinding adrenaline of the battle faded into cold, methodical calculation. "Nevertheless, we cannot leave this rot to fester in the center of the village," Ragnar commanded, gesturing toward the piles of shattered, bleeding bodies that littered the main thoroughfare.

"Gather their dead. Strip them of any useful iron or steel, and build a massive pyre at the edge of the valley where the wind blows toward the peaks. Let the flames burn high enough that the Gore-King can smell the ash from his throne!"

As the villagers and guards began the grueling work of dragging the corpses toward the center of the clearing, Gyda stepped up beside Ragnar, her sharp eyes scanning the distant horizon where the survivors had vanished.

Holding her thick ledger tightly against the freezing wind, she documented the expended munitions with rapid, precise strokes of her charcoal pencil. "By sparing those messengers, you have guaranteed that King Erik will marshal his entire host against us. We must fortify the valley entrance with defensive earthworks before their main army arrives to contest our claim."

"Indeed, my dear," Ragnar agreed, pulling his silver pocket watch from his vest and noting the time with a satisfied nod.