The Dunes, Outside the Viking Encampment
Ragnar sat on an empty barrel of salted fish, staring intently at a wooden lever.
To anyone else, it was just a stick on a pivot. To Ragnar, it was the difference between knocking down a wall and accidentally crushing his own army.
He was in the "Proving Grounds," a secluded stretch of beach away from the main camp.
"It's about the angle of release," Ragnar muttered to himself, rubbing his chin.
The trebuchet or rather, the scaled-down wooden thrower they were using for true aim stood. Ragnar had introduced the secret of the "Adjustable Release Pin." In the songs of old, this was a dark art learned over decades.
"Knock~ knock~" a gravelly voice grunted.
Ragnar didn't look up. "Come in, Leif. Watch your head on the stone-basket."
Leif the Smith hobbled into the testing ring. He was holding a piece of iron that looked like a bent finger. His face was smeared with soot, and he looked exhausted, but his eyes held a strange, manic gleam the look of a man who had discovered that metal could do things he never imagined.
Ragnar had found Leif three days ago, cursing at a piece of bronze. When Ragnar asked why, Leif had explained he was trying to make a metal that "didn't get tired" when bent repeatedly. Ragnar had realized immediately: This man is trying to invent living iron in the 9th Century.
"I have found a dragon's hoard," Ragnar had thought. He immediately promoted Leif to 'Master of the Forge.'
"Master Builder," Leif said, holding up the iron finger. "I did what you said. I tempered it in oil, not water. It... it springs back."
Leif pressed the iron against the wooden frame. It bent, holding its wrath, and then snap—it returned to its original shape without breaking.
"Living iron," Ragnar grinned, taking the piece. "Or close enough to it. With this, the hook won't jam."
Leif looked at the metal with pure worship. "It is magic metal. It fights the hammer."
"It's the heart of the iron," Ragnar said, standing up. "Install this on the Great Thrower. If the hook fails during the siege, we all look very stupid."
Leif nodded vigorously. "I will install it myself. No one else touches the Magic Metal."
Ragnar watched the smith limp away toward the main crafting ring. He felt a surge of satisfaction. The "Master's Yard of the Stick" was working. The "Iron Lending" was working. The pieces were falling into place.
He was about to reckon the truest rock weight when a commotion broke his focus.
"Lord Ragnar! Lord Ragnar!"
A young messenger boy, barely twelve winters old, came sprinting across the sand. He tripped over a coil of rope, scrambled up, and kept running.
"Breathe, boy," Ragnar said, catching the kid before he collapsed. "Did the Saxons attack?"
"No, Lord," the boy wheezed. "The King. He summons you to the Command Tent. The Great Jarls are yelling."
Ragnar sighed. "The Great Jarls are always yelling. It's their favored sport."
"This is different," the boy whispered, eyes wide. "There is blood."
Ragnar's smile vanished. He grabbed his belt. "Lead the way."
The air inside the royal pavilion was heavy enough to crush a shield. King Horik sat on his throne, his face a mask of thunder. To his left stood Ragnar's father, Ulf, looking pale and worried. To his right stood Princess Gyda, her arms crossed, her knuckles white as she gripped a slate scroll.
Ragnar stepped inside. "Long live the King," he said, skipping the bow. "Who is bleeding?"
"We are," Ulf said grimly. "Or rather, our stores are."
Ragnar frowned. "Speak plainly."
Ulf stepped forward, holding a piece of vellum that looked like it had been chewed on.
"Ragnar," his father began, his voice low. "We have a problem with the meat and ale. The 'Iron Lending' worked too well. We have the iron, but we swore a twofold return in silver."
"We pay them from the hoard of York," Ragnar said dismissively. "That was the sworn oath."
"The men are getting restless," Ulf countered. "They see us feeding the four hundred 'Broken' men three meals a day. They see the Builders getting extra pork. And now, whispers are spreading that York's walls are unbreakable. They fear they gave up their spare axes for nothing. If we don't breach that wall before the sun climbs high... the army will turn on us."
Ragnar rubbed his forehead. "So, the hourglass is running out. I knew that."
"It is worse," Ulf said, lowering his voice. "We are out of grain. The 'Broken Cohort' eats a lot. We have food for maybe three days. After that, we start eating the horses."
"Don't eat the horses," Ragnar said instantly. "We need them to drag the machines."
He looked at the King. "We attack in two days. The hunger will make them fight harder."
"If that were the only curse, I would sleep well," King Horik spoke up. His voice was dangerously quiet.
He pointed a finger at Gyda. "Tell him."
Gyda stepped forward. She didn't look at her father; she looked straight at Ragnar. Her eyes were cold, furious.
"There was a blood-feud in the West Camp," Gyda said sharply. "My Tally-Keepers... the men I sent to collect the scrap iron from Jarl Einar's camp..."
Ragnar stiffened. "Jarl Einar? The one with the braid that looks like a dead rat?"
"The same," Gyda nodded. "He refused to give the scrap. He said he does not take orders from a 'woman with a scroll' or a 'crippled builder.' When my men held to the King's word... he set his Oath-Sworn on them."
Ragnar felt a cold heat rise in his chest. "Did he kill them?"
"He beat them," Gyda said, her voice trembling with suppressed rage. "He took their Ragnar Measures the True Sticks and broke them. He threw Sven the Strong into a mud pit and told him that if a cripple came near his tent again, he would cut off his other leg."
Silence filled the tent...
Ragnar felt a quiet, icy clarity. Sven. The man who held the deep bend until he cried because he wanted to be useful. The man who called Erik "shield-brother."
"Fool," Ragnar whispered. "Stupid, death-seeking fool."
King Horik watched him closely. "You want to kill him."
"I want to put him in the Great Thrower and fire him into the sea," Ragnar said, his voice flat. "Why is he still breathing? You are the King. He attacked your given men."
"He has five hundred warriors," Ulf interjected quickly, stepping between Ragnar and the King. "Five hundred iron-shirts. They are the anchor of our shield wall. If we take Jarl Einar now, his men will draw steel. We will have a brothers' war on the beach while the Saxons watch and laugh."
"So we do nothing?" Ragnar asked, looking at Gyda. "We let him break the Builders? If we let this pass, the Yard is a jester's tale. The 'True Measure' becomes a beggar's plea, not a King's law."
"We cannot fight him now," Gyda said, though it clearly pained her to say it. "He has the backing of the old bloods. They think your machines are toys. They are waiting for you to fail."
Ragnar realized the trap. Einar was wagering that the machines would fail. If they failed, the Old Ways returned, and Ragnar would be blood-eagled to appease the gods.
"So," Ragnar said, pacing the tent. "This is their answer to the grand forge. Sabotage and brute force."
"What is your play, Master Builder?" King Horik asked, leaning back. He looked like he was enjoying the saga. "Can your machines mend a mutiny?"
Ragnar stopped pacing. He thought about the living iron Leif had just shown him. He thought about the pent-up fury in the Twisted Sinew Springs.
"Jarl Einar thinks strength is cleaving a skull with an axe," Ragnar said softly. "He thinks because my men limp, they are weak."
He turned to Ulf. "Father, when will the Great Thrower be fully bound?"
Ulf blinked, surprised by the pivot. "Tomorrow morning. Bjorn is fitting the stone-basket arm now."
"Good," Ragnar nodded. "And the stones?"
"We have the rocks," Ulf said. "But we haven't tested it with a full load."
Ragnar turned to the King.
"My King, do not bind Jarl Einar in chains. Invite him."
"Invite him?" Horik raised an eyebrow.
"Invite all the Jarls. Invite Einar. Tell him to bring his best shield. Tell him to bring his sneer."
"And what will you do?" Gyda asked. "Talk him to death with numbers?"
Ragnar looked at her. He saw the Valkyrie's Sting hidden under her cloak.
"No," Ragnar smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. "I'm going to show him that in the new age, you don't need to be strong to crush a bug. You just need to have the longer lever."
He turned to the messenger boy who was still hovering by the entrance.
"Boy," Ragnar commanded. "Run to the Yard. Tell Bjorn to double the rocks in the basket. Tell Leif to polish the release hook."
King Horik let out a short, barking laugh. "I love it when the cunning ones get angry. It's so... dark."
The King waved his hand. "Prepare the saga, Ragnar. If you fail, Einar drinks from your skull."
As he walked out into the cool English air, Ragnar's mind was on a specific truth of weights: How much wrath is required to break a warlord without starting a war?
The answer, he decided, was the weight of a stone times the speed of its fall...