Chapter 442: Bound for America!
Six months later, on August 13, 871 AD, the continent of Europe was forever changed, though few of its primitive inhabitants could comprehend the magnitude of the shifting tides...
In the heart of the Frankish Empire, Emperor Louis laid in his opulent bedchamber, his face pale and contorted in agony.
It had been six months since his grand army of 38,000 men was utterly pulverized on the borders of Norway by the terrifying, smoke-belching ironclads of the Iron Kingdom.
The crushing defeat had broken the Emperor’s spirit, but it was not despair that was currently rotting his insides... it was nightshade.
Standing over the dying monarch was his cousin, Zwentibold, a man whose ambition vastly outstripped his tactical competence.
Zwentibold gazed down at the pathetic figure of the Emperor with a cold, mocking smirk. While Louis gasped for his final breaths, Zwentibold swirled a chalice of fine wine, taking a leisurely sip.
"You were weak, Louis," Zwentibold whispered, his voice devoid of any familial warmth. "You allowed those northern barbarians to humiliate the might of the Franks. It is only fitting that I rectify your blunders."
As the Emperor’s eyes rolled to the back of his head, his life finally extinguishing, Zwentibold stepped out of the chambers to address the gathered nobles.
Taking advantage of the military disaster and the sudden power vacuum, he smoothly assumed the throne...
Unbeknownst to the arrogant Frankish lords who cheered his ascension, they were merely trading an incompetent ruler for a treacherous one.
Zwentibold believed that with the Iron Kingdom distracted by its newly declared war against Denmark he could easily rebuild his forces and strike back.
...
Meanwhile, across the sea, Ragnar had already returned to the heart of his domain, the sprawling industrial capital of Titan.
The city was a beacon of progress in an otherwise dark and feudal world, its skyline dominated by the smoke of blast furnaces and textile mills rather than the spires of archaic cathedrals.
Having firmly secured his dominion over England, save for the untamed lands of Scotland, Ragnar was in the process of establishing his new court.
Within the war room of the grand citadel, Ragnar stood over a map table illuminated by oil lamps.
Surrounding him was his inner circle: Gyda, the intelligent head of his spy network; Louis, the rightful Frankish King whose throne was usurped by his late uncle and now Zwentibold; and his brother Bjorn, the undisputed commander of the Iron Kingdom’s army.
"Zwentibold has taken the throne," Gyda reported. "My network in Paris confirms the Emperor succumbed to poison on the thirteenth of August. Zwentibold is rallying the remaining levies, foolishly believing he has the time to reorganize."
Ragnar merely nodded. This was exactly the sort of predictable medieval treachery he expected.
Turning to his court, Ragnar appointed a new Marshal, a genius named Kaelen, to oversee the southern front while Bjorn focused on crushing the Danish resistance.
"Marshal Kaelen," Ragnar commanded. "You will take 20,000 men-at-arms across the channel. And you will take the Steam Chariot."
The Steam Chariot was Ragnar’s latest engineering marvel, a concept entirely alien to the 9th-century mind.
While the rest of the world still relied on horse, oxen, and crude wooden carts, Ragnar had designed an armored locomotive-like engine capable of traversing flat terrain without tracks.
Powered by a high-pressure steam boiler, it was essentially a primitive tank clad in riveted steel plates.
Not only could it transport heavy artillery with ease, but its sheer auditory and visual terror was guaranteed to break the morale of any feudal army before a single shot was ever fired.
What followed was a brutal six-month campaign that would forever be etched into the annals of history...
While Erik, Ragnar’s loyal vassal, held the northern lines in Norway and Iceland with efficiency against naval incursions, Bjorn unleashed absolute hell upon the Danish forces.
Simultaneously, Marshal Kaelen and his 20,000 soldiers tore through the Frankish countryside.
The Frankish knights, heavily armored and excessively proud, attempted numerous cavalry charges against Kaelen’s forces.
Each time, they were met by the horrifying reality of the Steam Chariot.
As the iron beast belched fire and smoke, advancing inexorably across the battlefields, the Frankish horses panicked and bucked their riders.
The disciplined riflemen of the Iron Kingdom would then systematically mop up the disorganized rabble.
Despite these crushing victories, after six months of relentless warfare, the strain of fighting a two-front war against both Denmark and the Frankish Empire began to show on the Iron Kingdom’s treasury.
Though they were winning handily, Ragnar understood the underlying economic principles that dictated the flow of history.
Thus, when Zwentibold, thoroughly humiliated and terrified of losing his newly stolen crown, begged for a peace treaty, Ragnar did the unthinkable in the eyes of his people.
He accepted...
When the terms of the treaty were announced, the citizens of Titan and the nobility of cities like York were deeply dissatisfied.
They had lost fathers and sons, and their blood boiled for ultimate vengeance. They wanted to see Paris burn to the ground. They wanted the complete subjugation of the Franks and the Danes under the banner of the Iron Kingdom.
However, Ragnar understood a fundamental truth that his subjects did not: extending his supply lines to occupy hostile, primitive territories would only drain his resources and drastically slow his revolution.
he peace treaty extracted massive financial reparations from Zwentibold in the form of raw silver and iron ore, funding the Iron Kingdom’s domestic projects while leaving the Franks economically crippled for a decade.
In Ragnar’s mind, he had won the peace just as decisively as he had won the war...
With the treaties signed and the borders secure, Ragnar held the first official assembly of his newly formalized court in Titan.
Ragnar sat upon the throne. To his right stood young Louis. The rightful Frankish king harbored no resentment over the peace treaty; as a shrewd and calculating young man, he understood that Ragnar was simply biding his time, weakening Zwentibold’s regime from within until Louis could be seamlessly installed as a puppet king without draining Iron Kingdom blood.
To Ragnar’s left stood Bjorn, fresh from his decisive victories against the Danes, and Gyda, who was already expanding her intricate intelligence web deep into the newly fractured Frankish court.
Eventually, the doors of the chamber opened, and the High Minister of the Treasury, an older man named Eadric, approached the throne.
Unlike the sycophantic nobles of other realms, Eadric carried a ledger in his hands, his face set in a serious expression. He bowed respectfully before his King.
"Your Grace," Eadric began. "The reparations from the Franks have been fully processed and injected into our shipbuilding sectors, precisely as you commanded."
Ragnar leaned forward. "And the progress of the shipyard?"
A smile broke across Eadric’s face. "The retrofitting is complete. The new class of ocean-going ironclads is fully fueled, armed, and provisioned. The fleet is ready to make the voyage across the western ocean."
Eadric paused, glancing at the ledger before looking back up at his sovereign. "They are ready to go to the landmass you named... America."
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A/N: A new Volume! Please excuse the delay; I was preparing it. I hope you like the new style, and let me know what you think :]