Building a Viking Empire with Modern Industry-Chapter 255: Iron Vikings
Bjorn smiled warmly, folding the massive Byzantine banner over his muscular forearm.
He didn’t ask for a victory feast, nor did he request a moment of profound silence for the fallen.
"Yes, Ulf, vent the valves immediately to prevent any seal damage. What’s more, while you are over by the boiler, could you please pour me a hot cup of coffee? All this thick artillery smoke is making my throat incredibly dry."
Ulf grinned, completely unfazed by the bizarre normalcy of the request amidst a conquered valley.
He quickly jogged over to one of the massive, iron-plated steam-tractors that had hauled their heavy cannons across the plains.
Utilizing a small, highly customized copper spigot attached to the vehicle’s secondary heating tank, Ulf poured a steaming mug of rich, dark Arabian coffee and cheerfully handed it back to his commander.
Taking a long, deeply satisfying sip of the hot beverage, Bjorn let out a happy sigh.
The rich caffeine was exactly what he needed to maintain his positive attitude.
Suddenly noticing a thick, stubborn smudge of black machine grease smeared across the polished surface of his steel breastplate, Bjorn didn’t even hesitate. He simply took the edge of the sacred, glittering Byzantine banner and used the emperor’s holy silk to casually wipe the dirt off his armor.
He treated the absolute pride of Constantinople exactly like a cheap, disposable mechanic’s rag!
After scrubbing his armor clean, Bjorn casually tossed the ruined, grease-stained flag to a passing logistical quartermaster.
"Tag this fabric for the recycling bins," Bjorn instructed cheerfully.
"We can boil it down and use the raw silk fibers to reinforce the hot-air balloons for the observation corps."
Consequently, the symbol of a millennia-old empire was unceremoniously dumped into a wooden crate alongside empty brass shell casings and broken wagon wheels, stripped entirely of its majestic dignity by the relentless, practical march of industrial efficiency.
Having enjoyed his coffee, Bjorn decided it was time to address his hardworking troops.
He climbed atop the sturdy iron hood of a steam-tractor, gesturing for the 2,500 Viking Grenadiers to gather around.
The soldiers quickly assembled, their morale incredibly high. They looked like men who had just completed a highly successful, exceptionally profitable workday.
Bjorn cleared his throat, raising his coffee mug into the air. He did not deliver a grand, sweeping speech about ancient historical grievances, nor did he declare a holy war against their enemies.
The Iron Empire did not care about five hundred years of territorial disputes; they only cared about building a brighter, highly optimized future.
"Listen closely, my brothers!" Bjorn shouted, his deep voice carrying a tone of absolute, joyful camaraderie.
"What happened in this valley today was a terrible, tragic waste of good farmers and builders! Emperor Basil ordered his own men to die simply because his fragile ego could not handle the reality of our steam engines!"
A murmur of agreement rippled through the Viking ranks. They genuinely pitied the Byzantine soldiers for having such a terrible employer.
"However, let this be a perfect reminder of exactly why we follow the Iron Father!" Bjorn continued, pointing his finger toward the northern horizon where City Titan lay.
"King Ragnar would never, ever throw your lives away to protect a piece of cloth! He builds heavy cannons and steam-tractors specifically so that machines can take the damage, ensuring that every single one of you gets to go home to your families!"
The Grenadiers erupted into loud, enthusiastic cheers, banging the wooden stocks of their repeating rifles against their steel breastplates! They absolutely loved Ragnar’s strict safety regulations and deeply appreciated the fact that their sovereign actively prioritized their well-being over personal glory.
"Furthermore, our primary objective in this theater is nearly complete!" Bjorn declared, his smile growing even wider.
"We are not marching west to conquer a holy city, nor are we marching to exact petty revenge for ancient insults! We are marching on Constantinople because it happens to sit on the absolute best geographical location for a central railway hub!"
The soldiers laughed heartily, fully understanding the highly delightfully blunt nature of their mission.
"Thus, we are going to march to the gates of their massive capital!" Bjorn enthusiastically explained, laying out the completely mundane, infrastructure-focused plan.
"We are going to use our heavy siege mortars to politely dismantle their ancient stone walls! Afterward, we are going to pave their streets with asphalt, lay down thousands of miles of steel tracks, and connect the entire Mediterranean to our trading network!"
Bjorn raised his coffee mug even higher, his eyes sparkling with the thrill of impending construction.
"What’s more, the quartermasters have assured me that because we wrapped up this battle ahead of schedule, every single man here is officially clocked in for double-time hazard pay!" Bjorn roared playfully.
"Let us finish this job, secure the port, and get paid! For industry! For the Iron Empire! For a steady, reliable paycheck!"
The Viking Grenadiers absolutely lost their minds with joy. They raised their weapons into the air, completely ignoring the traditional, dramatic battle cries of ancient Rome or medieval Europe. Instead, they cheered for the one thing that truly mattered to a modernized, working-class army: excellent compensation and progressive labor rights!
"For the paycheck!" the soldiers roared back in unison, the sound echoing happily across the quiet valley.
Bjorn hopped down from the steam-tractor, feeling incredibly satisfied with the high morale of his detachment.
He handed his empty coffee mug back to Captain Ulf and began issuing rapid, highly efficient logistical commands.
The world around them was actively collapsing, and the ancient, romanticized era of swords and honorable duels was permanently ending.
Yet, from Bjorn’s highly optimistic perspective, the future had never looked brighter.
The removal of the Byzantine Empire as a dominant, oppressive military power would forever change the landscape of the continent.
However, the Vikings weren’t going to divide the conquered lands based on noble bloodlines or divine right.
Instead, they were going to zone the territories for commercial development, agricultural optimization, and massive industrial factories.
It was simply a matter of time at this point. Thus, after concluding his highly practical, motivational speech, Bjorn and his men entirely disregarded the dramatic tragedy of the battlefield. They left the cleanup process strictly in the capable hands of the secondary logistical teams.
The Vanguard Grenadiers cheerfully climbed aboard their steam-tractors, the massive iron wheels churning the earth as they resumed their unstoppable march westward.
They needed to finish laying the groundwork for this new province before the rainy season arrived and ruined their construction schedules.
All the while, far to the north, King Ragnar continued to draft new, brilliant blueprints in the safety of City Titan, completely confident in his commander’s ability to get the job done.
...
Within minutes, several massive, silk-woven hot-air balloons ascended gracefully into the morning sky, powered by pressurized coal burners.
But they did not drop explosive payloads. Instead, they rained down tens of thousands of perfectly printed parchment leaflets across the sprawling capital!
Meanwhile, deep within the opulent, gold-leafed chambers of the imperial palace, Emperor Basil the First was experiencing a massive, terrifying disconnect from reality.
Despite the fact that a mechanized, steam-powered army of northern giants was currently idling outside his gates, Emperor Basil was sitting at his grand cedar table, conducting a remarkably mundane meeting with his Master of Coin.
They were intensely discussing the recent drop in the price of imported olive oil and calculating exactly how much they could raise the taxes on the local silk merchants to cover the empire’s recent financial losses.
Emperor Basil was a man who firmly believed that every single problem in the world could be solved by throwing enough gold coins at it. He was entirely convinced that these so-called "Iron Vikings" were merely highly sophisticated, overly aggressive mercenaries.
He genuinely believed that if he just offered them a large enough bribe, they would pack up their strange, smoking iron carts and sail back to their frozen wasteland.
His deeply boring financial meeting was suddenly interrupted when the heavy oak doors of the chamber were pushed open.
The Supreme Domestikos, the highest-ranking general of the surviving Byzantine infantry, shuffled into the room.
The general did not look like a proud, ancient warrior; he looked like a man whose entire understanding of the universe had been violently shattered.
His armor was covered in dust, his face was entirely pale, and his hands shook as if he had caught a severe winter fever.
Emperor Basil looked up from his tax ledgers, highly annoyed by the interruption. He crossed his arms and demanded to know exactly how many chests of silver it would take to buy the Vanguard Commander’s loyalty.
He foolishly assumed that the Viking generals were just greedy warlords waiting for a proper medieval buyout.
The Supreme Domestikos did not answer immediately. He simply stared at the Emperor with a look of pity.
"Majesty," the Domestikos whispered, "They do not want our silver. They do not want our gold. Their machines produce wealth at a rate that our primitive minds cannot even begin to calculate. We cannot buy them, and we absolutely cannot fight them."
Emperor Basil scoffed loudly, waving his hand in a dismissive, arrogant gesture. He stubbornly refused to accept the reality of his situation.
He demanded to know how the Domestikos could be so thoroughly defeated without even launching a single counter-attack against the siege camps.
The general plainly stated the terrifying truth. He explained that the city was completely and permanently lost. The Viking forces had surrounded all the land routes, and their ironclad warships had entirely blockaded the Bosphorus Strait.
The Byzantine army had no food shipments coming in, no allies coming to rescue them, and absolutely no magical defense against the massive artillery pieces pointing directly at their walls.
"We are totally obsolete, my Emperor," the Domestikos admitted, "If we send our men to the walls, they will simply be evaporated by supersonic lead. The era of Constantinople is over..."
