Moments after the deal was struck, Aethelwulf better known to the camp as "The Weasel" stood before Ragnar. He had been given a bath (mostly forced upon him by Bjorn) and a new tunic, but he still had the posture of a man expecting a knife in the back.
"Long live the... uh... Director?" Aethelwulf attempted a salute, his hand flapping awkwardly near his forehead.
Ragnar waved his hand, dismissing the formality. He was pacing, his mind already three steps ahead on the logistics flowchart. "Aethelwulf, do you have a way to move five tons of cast iron skillets into Mercia without the King's tax collectors noticing? And more importantly, can you find buyers who are greedy enough to pay silver for them without asking too many questions?"
Aethelwulf was taken aback by the directness. Usually, Vikings just asked where the gold was. This Viking was asking about market penetration and smuggling routes. But Aethelwulf was a survivor, and he smelled opportunity like a shark smells blood.
He straightened up, a sly grin spreading across his face. "I can accomplish that, Lord Ragnar. I still have many... associates... operating within the borders of Mercia. They are men of low character and high ambition. They know that they cannot fight the King's taxes openly, but they are the kind of men who would sell their own mothers for a profit. They hold deep grievances against the Crown's monopoly on iron."
Ragnar was satisfied with the answer. "Our Forge is mass-producing cookware and ploughshares. I need your contacts to buy our stock. Tell them it's 'Northern Iron.' Tell them it's cheap. Tell them it's heavy."
Aethelwulf was overjoyed at first the commission he'd get was substantial but then his face darkened slightly, a shadow of an old pain crossing his eyes.
"They will buy without a doubt, Lord. Although... if they try to re-forge this iron into swords to fight the King, it might shatter and get them killed."
"That is a risk I am willing to let them take," Ragnar said calmly. "It will delay the Mercian army's mobilization if their weapons break in training. It is... market disruption."
Aethelwulf nodded slowly. He respected the cold logic. It was better to kill an enemy with a bad deal than an axe. It was cleaner.
Ragnar had read the "file" on Aethelwulf or rather, what Ulf had told him. Aethelwulf used to be a legitimate merchant in Lincoln. He had a warehouse, a wife, and a reputation for fair trade. But the local Ealdorman, a man named Lord Godwin, had decided that Aethelwulf was too successful. Godwin seized the warehouse, accused Aethelwulf of tax evasion, and branded him a thief.
Aethelwulf had watched his business crumble. His wife, unable to bear the shame and poverty, had returned to her father's house, taking their children. Aethelwulf was left with nothing but the brand on his cheek and a burning hatred for the nobility.
Since then, The Weasel had dedicated his life to undermining the Mercian economy. He smuggled wool, he forged coins, and he stole chickens. He didn't care about "freedom" or "justice" anymore. He cared about making Lord Godwin look like a fool.
"Lord Godwin controls the iron trade in Lincoln," Aethelwulf said, his voice dropping to a hiss. "If we flood the market with cheap iron, his mines will lose money. He will scream."
"Then let's make him scream," Ragnar said.
That very day, three "runners" shady characters Aethelwulf had recruited from the prisoner pits slipped out of the Viking camp. They carried samples: a heavy iron pot and a small cast-iron ingot.
They moved through the marshes, avoiding the main roads, heading for the heart of Mercia.
The runners reached their destinations one by one. They went to the back rooms of taverns, the damp cellars of blacksmiths, and the hidden docks of the Fens.
1. The Fens (The Smuggler)
Godric the Eel sat in his flat-bottomed boat, hidden among the reeds of the Great Ouse river. He read the note Aethelwulf's runner had delivered. His eyes, usually dull and dead like fish scales, widened with disbelief and excitement.
Godric used to be a fisherman until the King's water-bailiffs demanded half his catch as a "protection tax." When he refused, they sank his boat. Now, he moved contraband. The note promised tons of iron at half the market price.
"Half price," Godric whispered, clutching the sample ingot. "If I move this upriver to Cambridge, I can undercut every merchant in the shire." He didn't care where it came from. He only cared that it was heavy and shiny.
2. The City of Lincoln (The Blacksmith)
Ealdred stood in his forge, wiping soot from his brow. He was a massive man, strong as a bull, but he was drowning in debt. The runner had slipped into his workshop through the back alley and handed him the note and a small iron skillet.
Ealdred read the message. His heart pounded. Lord Godwin, the Ealdorman, charged him exorbitant rates for raw iron ore. Ealdred barely made enough to feed his apprentices.
"Processed iron?" Ealdred muttered, tapping the skillet with a hammer. Clang. It sounded solid. "Ready to melt? No refining needed?"
He imagined the look on Godwin's face when he stopped buying the Lord's overpriced ore. He imagined paying off his debts. He didn't know the iron was high-carbon and brittle; he just knew it was available.
"I'll take it all," Ealdred told the runner. "Tell the Weasel I'm in."
3. A Manor Near the Border (The Minor Lord)
Lord Wulfric sat in his crumbling study, drinking cheap wine. He was a noble, technically, but he was destitute. His gambling debts were legendary, and he had been ostracized from the King's court.
The runner had been risky here, climbing the ivy to the window. But Wulfric was desperate.
He read the letter. Weapons grade iron, it lied—or rather, it implied. Cheap.
Wulfric clenched his fists. He had been planning a small rebellion—a way to seize his neighbor's land to pay his debts. But he couldn't afford to arm his peasants.
"Iron for the price of bread," Wulfric hissed, a manic grin spreading across his face. He pictured his peasants armed with swords, storming his rival's castle. He didn't know the swords would snap like glass. He only saw the shine of the metal.
"My ancestors are smiling on me," Wulfric whispered. "I will be a warlord."
Two days later, the three contacts gathered at a hidden spot in the Fens a dry patch of land surrounded by fog and swamp gas. It was Aethelwulf's old meeting ground.
They arrived in boats, looking over their shoulders.
Godric the Eel, slippery and nervous.
Ealdred the Smith, hulking and sooty.
Lord Wulfric, trying to look regal in a stained cloak.
They looked at each other with suspicion, but the greed in their eyes was a unifying force.
"The Weasel says it's five tons," Godric whispered, his voice like dry reeds. "He says the Northmen are stupid. They don't know the value of what they have."
"They are savages," Lord Wulfric scoffed. "They probably think pots are useless because they eat raw meat. We are robbing them."
"I tested the sample," Ealdred said, holding up the skillet. "It melts fast. It casts easy. I can make a hundred spearheads in a day with this."
"But will they hold?" Godric asked.
"They are iron, aren't they?" Ealdred shrugged. "Iron is iron. If it kills a man, it works."
The three men smiled. They saw a future of wealth. They saw a future where they cheated the King, cheated the Vikings, and came out on top.
"We pool our silver," Wulfric decided. "We buy the lot. Godric moves it. Ealdred works it. I sell it."
"Agreed," the others nodded.
They didn't know they were buying the 9th-century equivalent of defective merchandise. They didn't know that Ragnar the Engineer had calculated the exact carbon content to ensure maximum brittleness upon impact.
They just thought they were smart.
Back at the camp, Ragnar sneezed.
"Someone is talking about me," Ragnar said, rubbing his nose.
"Probably cursing you," Bjorn laughed, throwing another log into the Blast Furnace. "Is the iron ready?"
"The iron is always ready," Ragnar grinned. "But is the market ready for the Great Skillet Scam of 865?"
"I don't know what a scam is," Bjorn admitted, "but if it gets us silver, I like it."