Building a Viking Empire with Modern Industry-Chapter 218: Fugitive Prince

Louis the Stammerer sat alone in the eastern tower.

He laughed once, "Emperor," he muttered to the empty room. "They called him emperor while I sat there like a fool."

The door creaked. Louis tensed, expecting another guard with stale bread and water. Instead, a hooded figure slipped inside, moving fast and quiet. The hood dropped back. His mother. Her face was pale.

"Mother?" Louis pushed himself up, chains rattling. "What are you—"

"Quiet," she hissed, crossing the room in three quick steps. She knelt in front of him, hands already working a thin file from the bundle.

"We don’t have long. The guards change in ten minutes."

She started sawing at the chain on his right wrist. Louis stared at her, heart hammering.

"You’re freeing me?"

"Of course I’m freeing you," she snapped, not looking up. "Did you think I would let them lock my son away like some criminal while that eastern bastard sits on your father’s throne? Hold still."

The first chain snapped. She moved to the second.

Louis rubbed his wrist, voice low and urgent. "Mother, if they catch you—"

"They won’t. I paid the right men." 𝓯𝓻𝒆𝙚𝒘𝓮𝙗𝓷𝒐𝓿𝙚𝒍.𝙘𝓸𝙢

She worked faster now, the file biting deep. Sparks flew. Louis kept glancing at the door.

"What’s the plan? Where do I go?"

"South. To the sea. A boat will be waiting at the old cove near Étaples. Three men will row you across the Channel. They have a message for Ragnar."

Louis froze. The file stopped for half a second as his mother looked up.

"Ragnar," he repeated, "The Iron Father? The man who just crushed Norway and half of England?"

"Yes." She went back to work, "We have no army left. Your uncle has two thousand knights and every duke trembling at his feet. We cannot fight him here."

The second chain broke. Louis flexed his hands, feeling the blood rush back.

"You want me to beg a foreign conqueror for help?!"

His mother grabbed his face with both hands, forcing him to look at her. Her eyes were fierce, almost wild.

"Listen to me. Your uncle will kill you the moment he feels safe. He already has the crown. He doesn’t need a rival. We have one chance. Ragnar is coming west anyway. Better he comes as our ally than as our destroyer."

Louis pulled back, breathing hard. "And if he decides to take Francia for himself? What then?!"

"Then at least you’re alive to fight him later. Right now you’re a prisoner. Choose."

She shoved a dark cloak and a small dagger into his hands. For a moment neither of them spoke. The torch sputtered. Footsteps echoed faintly in the corridor outside.

Louis looked at the dagger, then at his mother. His jaw tightened.

"Tell me the message."

She leaned in, voice barely above a whisper. "Tell him the true heir of Francia offers alliance. Tell him we will open the southern ports to his ships. Tell him Louis le Germanique is weak and the realm is fracturing. He wants land and trade. We give him both if he helps us take back the throne."

Louis nodded once, sharp. "And if he asks for more?"

"Give him whatever he wants. Just get out of here alive."

She stood, pulling the hood back over her head. "The guards at the side gate are mine for the next hour. Go now. Run to the sea. The boat will be there at dawn. Three men. Green cloaks. They know the signal."

Louis rose, cloak already around his shoulders. "Mother..."

She cut him off, pressing a quick kiss to his forehead. "Go. I’ll be fine. I’ve survived worse than this court."

He hesitated only a second longer, then slipped out the door behind her. The corridor was empty. They moved fast, shadows against stone, down the narrow servant stairs and out through a side gate where two guards looked the other way.

Outside, the night air hit him cold. The palace loomed behind them. Louis glanced back once. His mother gave him a single nod, then vanished back inside.

He ran. Through the outer gardens, past the sleeping stables, down the slope toward the river.

By the time he reached the treeline he was breathing hard.

Louis stumbled down the final slope toward the hidden cove. After all the years of being the dutiful son, the lawful prince, the one who should have worn the crown, he was now nothing more than a fugitive slipping away under cover of darkness.

The boat waited exactly where his mother had promised. Three figures stood beside it, cloaked and silent, their faces hidden. Louis slowed, dagger half-drawn.

One of the men stepped forward, lowering his hood just enough for the lantern light to catch a scarred jaw and steady eyes.

"Your Highness," he said quietly, "The Dowager sent us. We sail for the Iron Father. No questions."

Louis lowered the dagger but kept his grip tight. "Three assassins for one prince. My mother must think I’m worth the risk."

The leader gave a short, humorless laugh. "Assassins, bodyguards, smugglers... call us what you like. We get you across the Channel alive. That’s the job. The rest is between you and Ragnar."

The second man, shorter and broader, already had one boot in the surf. "We leave now or we don’t leave at all. Your uncle’s men will be searching the coast by dawn. Move."

Louis hesitated only a heartbeat longer, then waded into the water and climbed aboard. The third assassin pushed off from the rocks with a long pole. The boat slipped away from shore, sails catching the night wind almost immediately.

As the coastline shrank behind them, Louis sat wrapped in a spare cloak. The leader handed him a skin of watered wine.

"Drink. You look like death."

Louis took a long pull, then wiped his mouth. "Tell me, honestly... do you think Ragnar will even listen?"

The woman at the tiller answered first, "He hates your uncle more than he hates most men. That’s leverage. The rest is up to you."

The broad man grunted in agreement while trimming the sail. "Besides, word travels faster than ships. By now every court in the known world knows Charles the Bald is dead and the realm is cracking open. The Iron Father will want a foothold in Francia. You’re the key he didn’t know he needed."

Louis stared out at the dark water, the weight of everything settling heavier with every wave. "And if he decides I’m more useful as a hostage than an ally?"

The leader shrugged, eyes on the horizon. "Then we die trying. But your mother didn’t send us to fail."

Silence fell for a long time. Louis eventually spoke again, voice quieter. "I never wanted to run. I wanted to be the one who held Francia together."

The woman at the tiller gave a short laugh. "Apparently the world doesn’t care what we want. It cares what we do next."

Days passed in a blur of salt, wind, and restless sleep. When they finally made landfall on the southern shore of England, the news had already raced ahead of them like wildfire on dry grass.

By now the death of Emperor Charles the Bald and the sudden crowning of Louis le Germanique was the only story on every tongue from the fjords of Norway to the sun-baked ports of the Caliphate.

In the grand palace of Granada, Prince Al-Hakam stood on a balcony overlooking the bustling harbor. Safiya read the latest dispatch aloud,

"Louis le Germanique sits on the throne with two thousand knights at his back and every duke trembling. The old alliances are dead."

Al-Hakam turned, eyes gleaming. "Ragnar will move on Francia. If we reach him first with ships and silk, we can secure the southern ports before the Byzantines or the Abbasids even wake up."

Safiya smiled, folding the letter. "Personally I think the Iron Father already has a plan. We simply make sure we’re part of it."

...

Meanwhile, in the opulent halls of Baghdad, the Caliph listened to his viziers with a furrowed brow as fresh scrolls were unrolled across the marble floor.

"After all these years of careful trade with the North," one vizier said, "this Frankish chaos changes everything. Ragnar’s reach is growing. If he takes the Channel ports, our spice routes become his to tax."

The Caliph stroked his beard, eyes distant. "Send word to Granada. Al-Hakam must open a direct line to the Iron Father. We offer more sulfur, more saltpeter... anything to keep his cannons pointed away from our shores."

...

Back on the windswept deck of the small smuggling vessel now hugging the English coast, Louis the Stammerer stood beside the three assassins.

The leader pointed toward the distant smoke rising from a new port town flying the Lion Banner. "We land there tonight. From there, riders will take you straight to City Titan."

In City Titan Palace

Gyda sat at the long table behind Ragnar. The news had arrived only an hour earlier by swift pigeon from their southern spies.

Ragnar turned from the window at last, a slow smile spreading beneath his beard as he spoke, "Finally the old wolf is dead and the pups are fighting over the carcass. Louis le Germanique has taken the crown by force of knights rather than blood. More than a throne, he has taken a kingdom that is already bleeding from every seam."

Gyda closed her ledger with a soft snap, "Now the strongest among them sits on the throne with two thousand knights at his back. When they realize Louis le Germanique cannot protect them from the North, they will start looking for a stronger shield."

Ragnar walked slowly back to the table, "Indeed. The true heir has vanished into the night. Some say he fled. Others whisper he was dragged away in chains. Either way, the realm is split. Eventually one of them will come begging for help. If not to us, then to the Caliphate or the Byzantines... And when they do, they will find themselves separated, waiting for our cannons to speak."

Leofric laughed, "Personally I hope it’s the boy who comes crawling first. Imagine the look on his uncle’s face when the rightful heir arrives with the Lion Banner at his back. After all, we already broke one mountain. Why not break a kingdom next?"