The march toward York had become a spectacle. What was once a ragtag horde of screaming Northmen had transformed, under Ragnar's influence, into a terrifyingly efficient column of industrial violence.
At the front, the Signal Corps led by Bjorn, who waved his flags with the enthusiasm of a man swatting invisible bees relayed orders instantly.
Red Flag. White Flag. "Halt."
Blue Flag. Circular Motion. "Water Break."
For the first time in Viking history, five thousand men stopped to drink simultaneously, not because they were thirsty, but because a piece of cloth told them to.
In the rear, the logistics wagons trundled along. The "Weasel's" transport carts were laden with the latest shipment from Dublin: sacks of white, crystalline Saltpeter. Next to them rolled the wagons of "Sea Coal" from the coast.
Ragnar sat on the back of a wagon, checking his ledger. The alliance with Dublin was holding. The "brittle swords" sold to Mercia had apparently caused a minor panic in their border skirmishes.
"We are too heavy," Gyda noted, sitting beside him. She was cleaning soot off her ledger. "The Blast Furnace components, the paper mill gears, the donkey... we move slower than a glacier."
Ragnar looked at the sprawling camp they were setting up for the night. It was a mess. Tents were pitched on top of each other. The chemistry lab was pitched next to the cookfires. The paper drying racks were dangerously close to the blacksmith's sparks.
"It's a zoning nightmare," Ragnar muttered. "OSHA would have a field day."
"Who is Osha?" Gyda asked. "Is she a goddess?"
"She is a very angry spirit that punishes you for unsafe working conditions," Ragnar sighed.
Toke, the man who usually powered the bellows wheel, had been reassigned to the "Chemical Mixing Squad" because his legs were tired.
His job was simple: grind the charcoal into dust to mix with the sulfur and saltpeter.
Ragnar was in the command tent, explaining the concept of "Explosive Grenades" to Ivar the Boneless.
"You put the powder in a clay pot," Ragnar explained, sketching on his new paper. "You light the fuse. You throw it. Boom."
Ivar's eyes were wide, reflecting the candlelight. "And the limbs? Do they fly?"
"Ideally," Ragnar said.
Suddenly, a scream cut through the night.
"FIRE! THE MAGIC DUST IS ANGRY!"
Ragnar dropped his charcoal. He knew that voice. It was Toke.
He sprinted out of the tent, Gyda close behind him. The scene was apocalyptic.
The chemistry tent was gone. In its place was a column of violet and orange flame that shot thirty feet into the air. The stash of sulfur had caught fire.
"Water!" someone screamed. "Throw water!"
"NO!" Ragnar roared, his voice cracking. "Sand! Use sand!"
But it was too late. A well-meaning warrior dumped a bucket of water onto the chemical fire. The water flashed to steam, spreading the burning sulfur outward like a splash of liquid magma.
The fire jumped. It hit the Paper Mill wagon.
The drying racks, covered in hundreds of sheets of the new "Ragnar Paper," went up like... well, like paper.
"My manual!" Bjorn screamed, running toward the fire to save the Flag Code book.
"Let it go, Bjorn!" Ragnar tackled his brother into the mud.
The wind picked up. The fire, fed by the strange chemicals from Dublin, burned with a heat that melted the iron fittings on the wagons. It licked at the edges of the Royal Pavilion.
King Horik stood outside his tent, clutching a roasted chicken, watching his army turn into a bonfire.
"Ragnar!" Horik shrieked. "Why is the air spicy?! My eyes are burning!!"
It was the sulfur dioxide fumes.
"Everyone upwind!" Ragnar ordered, coughing into his sleeve. "Move the men! Let it burn!"
It took three hours for the fire to die down.
Ragnar stood in the center of a blackened crater. The Chemistry Lab was gone. The Paper Mill was a pile of ash. Half the supply wagons were charcoal..
Miraculously, the Blast Furnace (being made of brick) and the Trebuchets survived. But the "Industrial District" was a ruin.
King Horik sat on a singed log, looking furious. Beside him, Ivar the Boneless was poking a melted iron skillet with a stick, looking amused.
"You nearly killed the King," Horik said, his voice trembling with rage. "You and your... 'Osha' spirit."
"It was an accident," Ragnar said, his face smeared with soot. "Chemical volatility.. We stored the oxidizers too close to the fuel source."
"I don't care about your wizard words!" Horik stood up. "I cannot have a bomb sleeping next to me! You are dangerous, Builder. Your machines are useful, but your camp is a death trap."
Ivar chuckled. "I liked the purple fire."
Horik turned on Ivar. "You wouldn't say that if your legs caught fire! This army is for fighting, not for blowing itself up before we see a Saxon!"
Horik pointed a shaking finger at Ragnar.
"No more experiments in the camp. You are banned. You want to cook rocks? You do it somewhere else. Somewhere far away from my tent!"
Ragnar looked at the destruction. He looked at the wasted resources. He looked at his "Broken Men," who were currently trying to salvage scrap metal from the ashes.
He realized Horik was right..
He couldn't build an industrial empire on the back of a wagon. He couldn't run a chemical plant in a tent city. He needed walls. He needed foundations. He needed zoning laws. He needed a city.
"You are right, my King," Ragnar said quietly.
Horik blinked. He expected an argument. "I am?"
"We cannot march and build at the same time," Ragnar continued, his voice gaining strength. "Industry requires stability. The Blast Furnace needs a permanent home. The Paper Mill needs a river, not a bucket."
Ragnar walked over to the map table, which had miraculously survived the fire. He unrolled a charred map of Northumbria.
He pointed to a spot on the coast, near the mouth of the River Tyne. It was close to the "Sea Coal" deposits. It was close to the iron mines he had scouted. And it was a natural harbor.
"I will not march to York with you," Ragnar announced.
The gathered Jarls gasped. Abandoning the army before a siege? That was treason.
"I will take the Builder's Corps," Ragnar said quickly. "I will take the Broken Men, the smiths, and the monks. We will go here."
He stabbed his finger onto the map. "We will build a settlement. A permanent one. We will build the factory there. We will mine the coal. We will mass-produce the bolts, the paper, and the powder."
He looked at Ivar. "You want a supply chain? You want arrows that never run out? You want a map for every captain? I can't give you that from a wagon. But I can give you that from a City of Iron."
King Horik looked relieved. Getting the explosive wizard out of his camp sounded like a great idea.
"And what will you call this... soot-stained village?" Horik asked.
Ragnar looked at the blackened ground. He looked at the iron ingots that had survived the fire.
"We call it Jernheim," Ragnar said. "Iron Home."
...
Two days later, the Great Heathen Army split.
The main force, led by Ivar and Horik, marched South-West toward York, their banners flying.
But a smaller column turned East.
It was a strange parade. There were wagons piled high with bricks. There were donkeys (including the heroic Matilda). There were four hundred men with limps, missing eyes, and wooden legs, marching in perfect step.
At the head of the column rode Ragnar and Gyda.
Gyda looked back at the main army disappearing over the hill.
"We are on our own," she said. "If the Saxons attack us while we build, we have no shield wall."
"We have Torsion Spikes," Ragnar reminded her. "And we have high-ground."
"We have a pile of mud and a dream," Gyda corrected. "And a very angry King who expects a shipment of weapons in two weeks."
Ragnar smiled. He felt a weight lift off his shoulders. No more packing tents every morning. No more hiding the chemistry set. "Gyda," Ragnar said, looking at the coastline ahead. "Draft a new decree."
Gyda pulled out her portable ledger. "What is the decree?"
"The Decree of Jernheim," Ragnar dictated.
"One: No open flames near the sulfur."
"Two: The river belongs to the Paper Mill."
"Three: Anyone caught stealing coal will be sentenced to running in the Bellows Wheel for a week."
Gyda scribbled furiously. "Is that all?"
"No," Ragnar said, looking at the grey, rocky beach where his future city would rise.
"Four: We are open for business."
They arrived at the location by midday. I
There was a fast-flowing river for the water wheels. There were black seams of coal visible in the cliff face. There was a deep-water cove for the ships.
"Unpack the wagons!" Bjorn roared, jumping off his horse. "Broken Men! Form up!"
The men lined up.
"We need a perimeter!" Erik the Lame shouted, organizing the defense. "Use the wagons as a wall!"
"We need a kiln!" Leif the Smith yelled, already digging in the clay.
Ragnar stood on a hill overlooking the site. He closed his eyes.
He saw a row of Blast Furnaces spewing orange fire. He saw a massive water-powered hammer forging steel plates. He saw a row of paper mills turning out knowledge by the ton. He saw a harbor filled with iron-clad ships.
He turned to his people the cripples, the monks, the thieves, and the outcasts.
"Welcome home!" Ragnar shouted. "Welcome to Jernheim! Now let's build an empire!"
The cheer that rose from the beach scared the seagulls away for miles.