The Paper Mill Shed, Viking Encampment
The donkey, Matilda, plodded in her eternal circle.
In the center of the shed, Ivar the Boneless sat on a pile of fresh straw. He held a sheet of Ragnar's new paper in his hands, turning it over and over with long, pale fingers.
Ragnar stood nearby, trying to look like a confident Director of Industry rather than a man whose life depended on the mood of a sociopath. King Horik and Jarl Ubba stood in the background, watching the scene with the tension of men waiting for a bomb to go off.
"It is light," Ivar whispered, his voice a high, reedy sound that scraped against the nerves. "Lighter than vellum. Lighter than wood."
He looked up at Ragnar, his eyes burning with a terrifying intelligence.
"You say you can make... thousands of these?"
"As long as we have rags and trees, Lord Ivar," Ragnar replied. "We produced five hundred sheets this morning."
Ivar laughed. It wasn't a happy sound. It sounded like a fox screaming.
"Ubba," Ivar called out without looking away from Ragnar. "How long does it take to send a message to the rearguard in a battle?"
"By horse? Ten minutes," Ubba grunted, leaning on his massive hammer. "By runner? Twenty. And usually, the runner gets killed or forgets the message."
"Forgetfulness," Ivar murmured. "The enemy of conquest."
He grabbed a piece of charcoal and drew a crude line on the paper.
"This changes the battlefield, Builder. Maps. Orders. Lists of traitors." Ivar looked at the paper mill's machinery. "You are not just building weapons. You are building a mind. A shared mind for the army."
Ragnar nodded. "Information is logistics, Lord. Logistics is victory."
Ivar pulled himself up, using his incredible upper body strength to drag his torso onto a crate. He looked at King Horik.
"Horik," Ivar said, his tone dismissing the King's rank entirely. "You have been hiding this man. You told us you had a carpenter. You did not tell us you had a sorcerer."
King Horik stiffened, his hand twitching near his sword. "He is my subject, Ivar. He serves Oakhaven. He serves me."
"He serves the Army," Ivar corrected coldly.
The tension in the shed spiked. This was the dangerous game Ragnar had feared. The Sons of Lothbrok were the true power. Horik was just a middle manager with a crown.
Ivar turned back to Ragnar.
"I have heard of your... trade," Ivar said, his eyes gleaming. "The 'Weasel'. The iron skillets sent to Mercia."
Ragnar swallowed. He hadn't realized Ivar's spies were that good. "It is an economic strategy, Lord. We sell them brittle iron. When they fight us, their weapons will break."
Ivar paused. He looked stunned. Then, a slow, wide grin spread across his face. It was the smile of a predator who had just found a new way to hunt.
"You arm the enemy with glass swords," Ivar whispered. "That is... exquisite. It is cruel. I love it."
Ivar beckoned Ragnar closer. "But you are thinking too small, Builder. You use the Weasel to sell pots. I want to use him to sell eyes."
"Eyes?" Ragnar asked.
"Paper," Ivar tapped the sheet. "You will give the Weasel maps. Blank maps. He will trade them to the Mercian lords. He will tell them it is the new fashion from Frankia. But you will treat the paper with... something. Something that marks where they take it."
Ragnar's engineer brain spun. Invisible ink? No, too complex. But... unique watermarks.
"We can watermark the paper," Ragnar realized. "We press a symbol into the wet pulp. Each batch has a different symbol. If we find a map on a dead Saxon, we will know exactly which Lord bought it and where it came from."
"A trail of breadcrumbs," Ivar nodded, satisfied. "You understand the game."
Ivar turned to his brother Ubba.
"We do not burn this camp," Ivar announced. "We keep it. This... 'Industry'... it travels with us. The Builder is now a protected asset of the Great Heathen Army."
He looked at King Horik with a challenge in his eyes.
"Do you agree, King Horik?"
Horik's face was red, but he bowed stiffly. "Of course. The Builder is... valuable."
"Good," Ivar dragged himself toward the exit. "Tomorrow, we march on York. Builder, I want your machines at the front. And I want a map of the city on this 'paper' by sunset."
As the Sons of Lothbrok left, the air in the shed seemed to return. Ragnar exhaled, his knees shaking slightly.
"That went well," Ragnar muttered.
"Too well," a voice hissed.
Ragnar turned. King Horik remained. And he looked furious.
The Royal Pavilion, Ten Minutes Later
Ragnar was summoned to Horik's tent. It was intimate. Only Horik, Ulf, and Princess Gyda were present.
Horik paced the rug, kicking a goblet across the room.
"He wants to steal you," Horik spat, pointing a shaking finger at Ragnar. "Ivar. The cripple. He sees what you are. He wants to take you from me. He wants to make you his pet engineer."
"I serve you, my King," Ragnar said carefully.
"For how long?" Horik countered. "Until Ivar offers you a kingdom? Until he threatens to break your legs like his own?"
Horik stopped pacing. He looked at Ulf.
"Ulf, your son is too dangerous to be a free agent. He is not a Jarl. He has no lands. He is a mercenary with a brain of gold. If I don't bind him, I lose him."
Ulf looked uncomfortable. "He is loyal, King. He gave me equity in the Paper Mill."
"Equity is wind!" Horik shouted. "I need blood!"
Ragnar looked at Gyda. She was sitting by the ledger, her face unreadable, but her hand was resting on the Valkyrie's Sting at her belt.
"I have made a decision," Horik announced, his voice dropping to a somber, heavy tone. "I cannot let Ivar take you. But I cannot fight Ivar. So, I must make you... immovable."
The King walked over to Gyda. He placed a hand on her shoulder.
"My daughter," Horik said, his voice surprisingly gentle. "You watch him. You audit him. You shoot men with his tubes."
"I do, Father," Gyda said calmly.
"Do you trust his math?"
"I trust that his math kills our enemies," she replied.
Horik nodded. He turned to Ragnar.
"Ragnar, son of Ulf. You are a bastard. You have no noble blood. In the old world, you would be cleaning the stables."
Horik took a deep breath. "But in this new world... this world of gears and paper... you are a Prince."
The King drew his dagger. He cut a small lock of hair from Gyda's braid. He walked over and handed it to Ragnar.
"I betroth you to my daughter, Princess Gyda," King Horik declared.
Ragnar froze. He looked at the lock of hair. He looked at his father, who dropped his ale horn in shock. He looked at Gyda.
She didn't look surprised. She looked... calculating.
"My King," Ragnar stammered. "This is... I am not worthy."
"No, you are not," Horik agreed bluntly. "But you are necessary. If you are my son-in-law, Ivar cannot touch you without declaring war on my entire clan. It is a political shield."
He looked at Ragnar with a desperate intensity.
"This is not a request, Builder. This is a structural reinforcement of our alliance. You marry her, and you become Jarl of the Industrial District. You refuse, and I will have to kill you before Ivar recruits you."
Ragnar looked at Gyda again. She stood up and walked over to him. She didn't look like a blushing bride. She looked like a partner closing a merger.
"It is a logical conclusion," Gyda said, her blue eyes locking onto his. "We work well together. You build the systems. I manage the books."
She extended her hand.
"Do you accept the contract, Director?"
Ragnar looked at her hand. He thought about the modern world he had left behind. He thought about the brutality of the 9th century. And he thought about the woman who had asked for a weapon instead of a dress.
He smiled. "I accept the contract," Ragnar said, taking her hand.
"Good," King Horik slumped into his chair, looking ten years older. "Now get out. I need to drink until I forget that I just gave my daughter to a man who plays with donkey poop."
Outside the Tent
Ragnar and Gyda walked into the cool night air. The camp was buzzing with activity for the march tomorrow.
"So," Ragnar said, still holding the lock of hair. "We are engaged."
"It seems so," Gyda said, adjusting her cloak. "Does this change the organizational chart?"
"I think it makes you my boss," Ragnar laughed.
"I was always your boss," Gyda corrected. "Now it is just official."
She stopped and looked at the trebuchets towering against the stars.
"My father is scared," she said softly. "The world is changing too fast for him. He thinks marriage will slow it down."
"Will it?"
"No," Gyda turned to him, a fierce smile on her lips. "Now that we are aligned... we can go faster."
She pointed north.
"Take York, Ragnar. Give me a city to manage. And then... we will see about this 'Printing Press' you mentioned."
Ragnar looked at his fiancée. "York first," Ragnar agreed. "Then, the world."
From the darkness, Bjorn's voice boomed.
"Ragnar! The Weasel is back! He says the Mercians want a refund on the skillets! They say the handles fall off!"
Ragnar sighed, the romantic moment shattered by customer service issues.
"Tell them no refunds!" Ragnar shouted back. "Tell them it's a feature! Modular cookware!"