Building a Viking Empire with Modern Industry

Constantinople, Byzantine Empire

March, 870 AD

For centuries, the men who sat on the golden throne in this room believed they were the center of the world.

Emperor Basil I, however, was a man who knew better.

It had been nearly two months. Two entire months had passed since he had signed a historic peace agreement with the Iron Kingdom.

"Your Radiance," a soft, trembling voice broke the silence of the room.

Basil turned slowly. Standing in the doorway was Demetrios, his chief spymaster.

"Demetrios," Basil said. "You look as though you have seen a demon. Drink some water before you collapse."

"There is no time for water, Emperor," Demetrios gasped, taking a hurried step into the grand room. "A merchant ship just arrived from the western ports. It brought my deepest spies from Francia. The news... it is impossible."

Basil’s eyes narrowed slightly. "Show me."

Demetrios rushed forward. He unrolled a fresh piece of parchment and slammed it down directly over the Frankish territories. He pointed a finger at the northern coast, right at the heavily fortified port city of Calais.

"The Iron Kingdom," Demetrios said, "Ragnar Ulfsson has declared a full-scale war against Francia!"

Basil stared at the map. "A war?"

Demetrios shook his head. "King Erik of Norway, acting under Ragnar’s banner, sailed a massive fleet into the harbor of Calais. And they they conquered it!"

Basil placed his hands flat on the edges of the table, leaning forward.

Calais was a primary artery of the Frankish empire. Holding it meant Ragnar was looking for a permanent foothold on mainland Europe.

"Fascinating..." Basil murmured, a genuine smile pulling at the corners of his mouth. "The Iron King finally shows his fangs."

"Louis does not move his knights without a heavy cost," Basil noted.

"He is not paying the cost," Demetrios explained, pulling a second scroll from his leather tube. "He went to Rome. He met with Pope John VIII. They have declared a holy order."

Basil’s breath hitched in his throat. "A holy war?"

"Yes, Emperor," Demetrios nodded grimly. "The Pope has called upon every faithful lord, every wandering knight, and every mercenary company in the Frankish lands. They are marching under the banner of the cross. Thousands upon thousands of heavily armored knights are currently mobilizing. They are marching directly toward Calais to wipe the Iron Kingdom off the face of the earth!"

Basil stood completely still, staring at the little dot on the map that represented Calais.

"Ragnar has overplayed his hand," Demetrios whispered, reading the Emperor’s silence. "He has awakened the sleeping giant. We must sever our trade agreements with City Titan immediately, lest the Pope’s wrath turns toward us as well."

Basil did not answer right away. He slowly stood up straight, crossing his arms over his chest.

A man like Ragnar, a man who could design massive waterwheels and invent entirely new ways to forge steel... would he really be stupid enough to trap his own men in a city without a plan?

Would Ragnar Ulfsson really provoke the greatest cavalry in the world if he did not know exactly how to kill them?

Suddenly, Emperor Basil threw his head back and laughed. It was a booming, joyous sound.

"Emperor?" Demetrios asked, looking at Basil as if the man had lost his mind. "I do not understand. Why are you laughing?"

"Because you are looking at the board like a frightened peasant, Demetrios, not like a king!" Basil declared.

"You think Ragnar is trapped? I think Ragnar built a trap! He took Calais specifically to force Louis the Germanic into an open battle!"

Demetrios blinked, "But... the horses... the armor..."

"If Ragnar is willing to face thousands of heavy knights on an open field, it means he has created a weapon that makes heavy knights obsolete."

Basil turned away from the table and began pacing across the room.

"Demetrios, listen to me very carefully," Basil ordered.

"Yes, Your Radiance."

"I want you to double our spy network in the Frankish territories. I want daily reports on the movement of Louis’s knights," Basil commanded, "But more importantly, I want you to prepare my fastest, most luxurious diplomatic ship."

Demetrios looked up in shock. "A ship? For whom, Emperor?"

"For me!" Basil smiled, looking back out the balcony toward the northern horizon.

***

Abbasid Caliphate, Baghdad

Sitting upon the throne was a young man who looked entirely too relaxed for the heavy crown resting upon his head.

Caliph Al-Mu’tamid was twenty-six years old. Across his lap rested a very strange weapon. It was a perfectly straight, single-edged sword with a circular guard... a blade captured from a general of the distant Tang Dynasty.

It was a story that was already becoming a legend across the empire. A massive armada from the Tang Dynasty had somehow sailed across the oceans, intent on claiming the wealthy lands of Al-Andalus in the far west.

It was supposed to be a devastating surprise attack. But Al-Mu’tamid, who had only been a prince at the time, had anticipated their movements. He had led the combined Islamic fleets, trapping the Tang armada off the coast and throwing their grand army into the crushing depths of the sea.

He had saved Al-Andalus. He had crushed an Eastern empire’s ambitions in a single afternoon. The people loved him, the soldiers worshipped him, and when his father had peacefully passed away in his sleep just two months ago, not a single noble dared to challenge Al-Mu’tamid’s ascent to the throne.

"Your Majesty!"

Al-Mu’tamid looked up, sliding the foreign sword back into its polished scabbard. Striding confidently up the long silk carpet was Grand Marshal Tariq, a heavily scarred veteran who wore his chainmail even inside the palace.

Walking quickly beside the giant warrior was Hassan, the Chief of Whispers, a slender man draped in dark green robes.

"Tariq. Hassan," Al-Mu’tamid greeted them warmly, "Please tell me you have brought me something interesting. If I have to listen to one more debate about grain taxes in Damascus, I might just ride back out to the sea and look for more Tang ships to sink."

Marshal Tariq chuckled, "No grain taxes today, my Caliph. But I am afraid we are entirely out of Tang ships. However... Hassan’s little birds in the west have brought us news that will certainly cure your boredom."

Hassan stepped forward, "Your Majesty, the Christian world is tearing itself to pieces as we speak."

Al-Mu’tamid raised an eyebrow, "What has happened?"

Hassan began, "A fleet of Northmen sailed into Calais. But they did not raid the churches and flee into the night. They conquered the stone fortress. They threw down the Frankish banners, raised their own, and began digging deep defensive trenches. They are flying the flag of the Iron Kingdom."

Al-Mu’tamid leaned forward, "This is the domain of that King Ragnar, yes?"

"The very same, Your Majesty," Tariq grunted, crossing his arms. "It is a bold move. Madness, truly. To trap your own men inside a fortress on the mainland? He is begging to be slaughtered."

"And the slaughter is coming," Hassan added, "The news of the Viking occupation has reached the ears of Louis the Germanic. He was so outraged by the audacity of the Northmen that he rode straight to Rome. Pope John VIII has officially declared a Holy Order."

For a long moment, the throne room was completely silent. The Grand Marshal looked grim, imagining the unstoppable wave of a grand cavalry charge on an open plain.

"Hassan," Al-Mu’tamid whispered, "Do you see it?"

"See what, Your Majesty?" the spymaster asked cautiously.

"The great opening! Look at the board, Hassan! Look at what this magnificent Iron King has done!" Al-Mu’tamid declared.

Al-Mu’tamid knelt on the floor, pointing at the Frankish and Germanic borders near the Mediterranean Sea.

"For decades, we have been locked in a stalemate with the Franks. We test their borders, they test ours. Their heavy cavalry is a wall of steel that prevents us from expanding our influence deep into Europa," Al-Mu’tamid explained quickly.

"But now? Because of one man in the North, Louis the Germanic is taking that entire wall of steel and marching it to the coast of Calais!"

Tariq’s eyes suddenly widened as he realized what the Caliph was saying. "By Allah... they are emptying their southern garrisons. The underbelly of Francia is completely exposed."

"Exactly!" Al-Mu’tamid laughed, slapping Tariq on the arm. "This King Ragnar... he is a genius! The Pope thinks he is calling a Holy War to crush a barbarian, but he has just unlocked the gates of Europa for us!"

Hassan frowned slightly, "But my Caliph, what if this is all over quickly? What if Louis’s knights arrive at Calais and crush the Iron Kingdom in a single day? The knights will simply march back south before we can mobilize our armies."

Al-Mu’tamid stood back up, "Do you think a man who has unified the wild Northmen, a man who has invented mysterious new machines, is a fool?" Al-Mu’tamid asked.

"Hassan, you mentioned that the Vizir of Granada, Al Hakam, recently returned from the Iron Kingdom?"

"Yes, Your Majesty," Hassan nodded. "Our spies in Al-Andalus report that Al Hakam returned with heavy chests. He has defied the local princes and is building strange water-powered factories. He claims the Northmen gave him the blueprints."

"Brilliant." Al-Mu’tamid smiled.

The Caliph walked back up the marble steps and sat upon his throne, his relaxed demeanor entirely replaced by the commanding presence of an emperor ready to change the world.

"Tariq, send orders to the shipyards in Alexandria and the garrisons in North Africa," Al-Mu’tamid commanded, his voice echoing with absolute authority. "I want the Mediterranean fleet fully armed and ready to sail within the month. If the Franks are going to throw their entire kingdom at Calais, we are going to walk right through their open back door. We will expand our trade, our lands, and our influence."

Tariq slammed a heavy fist over his heart. "It shall be done, my Caliph!"

Al-Mu’tamid raised a hand to pause him, "But we must not rush blindly into the fray. Tariq, instruct your generals to double the training of our armies. Every archer, every cavalryman must be sharpened to perfection. When we finally strike the southern borders, our forces must be swift and flawless."

"By your command!" the Grand Marshal replied.

The Caliph then turned his piercing gaze back to his spymaster. "Hassan, as long as the Iron King bleeds them in the north, we will thrive in the south. We must ensure he does not fall easily to Louis’s knights."

"You wish to send him military aid, Your Majesty?" Hassan asked, surprised.

"No," Al-Mu’tamid smiled. "That would draw the Pope’s direct ire upon us before our fleet is even in the water. Instruct our merchants to not only continue but aggressively expand their trade with the Northmen. Send them grain, raw materials, whatever they need to keep their war machine turning. Let their strange factories run on our supplies."

Hassan bowed deeply. "A wise strategy, my Caliph. I shall see to it that the trade routes remain open and overflowing."

"And one more thing," Al-Mu’tamid added, "Draft a formal treaty. A strict pact of non-aggression."

Tariq furrowed his heavy brow. "For the Franks, Your Majesty?"

"For King Ragnar," the Caliph corrected. "Send an envoy in secret to England, directly to his chancellor. Present the treaty quietly, far from the eyes of Rome. Let the Iron King know that while the Christian world seeks his complete destruction, the Caliphate sees a valuable partner. As long as he keeps his axes pointed at Francia, our blades will never cross."