"Brother, why are you putting sheep in your boots?"
Bjorn's voice was filled with genuine confusion, tinged with a hint of concern for Ragnar's sanity.
Ragnar was sitting on a mossy log during a brief respite in the march, carefully stuffing a shaped wad of raw wool into the heel of his leather boot.
"It's not just sheep, Bjorn," Ragnar muttered, sliding his foot back in and wiggling his toes. "It's arch support. We have been walking for three days. My feet feel like they've been beaten with hammers."
Bjorn stared at him, then at his own flat, thin-soled leather shoes. "Pain is good. Pain reminds you that you are not dead."
"Pain reminds me that I need to invent rubber soles," Ragnar retorted, standing up and testing his weight. It was heaven. Or at least, a slightly softer version of purgatory. "Try it. It changes your posture. Less impact on the knees."
"An army marches on its stomach, but it walks on its feet," Ragnar quoted a general who wouldn't be born for another thousand years.
Just then, the sound of hooves thundered down the muddy path.
A horse skidded to a halt right in front of them, kicking up a spray of wet English earth. Ragnar shielded his eyes.
It was Princess Gyda. She looked less like a royal and more like a hunter who had lost her favorite arrow. Her white fur cloak was dusted with travel grime, and her eyes were scanning Ragnar with an intensity that made Bjorn take a subtle step back.
"You," she said, pointing a gloved finger at Ragnar. "You said you would make it."
"Make what?" Bjorn asked, oblivious.
"The Sting," Gyda said, ignoring the giant. She looked at Ragnar. "You promised. I have been watching the trees. I feel exposed. Where is it?"
Ragnar smiled. He reached into his satchel and pulled out a bundle wrapped in oilcloth.
"I finished it an hour ago," Ragnar said. "I was just waiting for the glue on the padding to set."
He unwrapped it. It was sleek. Unlike the crude iron pipe Ragnar wore, this one was crafted from a polished bronze cylinder he had salvaged from a broken decorative piece on the King's ship. It was slimmer, lighter, and the arm brace was lined with thick, soft wool—the same wool currently saving Ragnar's arches.
"It's beautiful," Gyda whispered. She slid off her horse with a grace that defied the mud.
"The Valkyrie's Sting," Ragnar named it on the spot. "Bronze barrel. Reinforced steel piston. And I modified the trigger mechanism. It requires less force to release, but the safety catch is stronger."
He helped her strap it onto her left forearm. It disappeared under the wide sleeve of her cloak.
"How does it know when to strike?" Gyda asked, feeling the weight of it.
"It doesn't," Ragnar said, tapping his own temple. "You do. It's physics, Princess. Stored potential energy in the twisted sinew waiting to become kinetic energy. But to the Saxons... it will just look like the air itself decided to stab them."
"Physics," Gyda repeated, testing the word. "Did your gods tell you this? Or did you dream it?"
Ragnar hesitated. In the reference story of his own life, he remembered how he used to blame "spirits." But Gyda was too sharp.
"Let's just say," Ragnar lowered his voice, "that the math of the universe speaks to me in my sleep. It showed me the spiral. The coil. The power of the twist."
Gyda looked at him, her eyes shining with that terrifying intellectual hunger. "Then your dreams are dangerous, ship-builder. I like them."
Suddenly, a shout rang out from the front of the column.
"Ambush! Trees! Left flank!"
The peaceful march shattered. From the dense woods lining the road, arrows whistled. Two Vikings fell. Then, a roar of Saxon war cries erupted as painted warriors burst from the underbrush, wielding axes and crude spears.
"Protect the Princess!" Bjorn roared, his playful demeanor vanishing instantly. He swung his massive shield up, catching an arrow that was meant for Gyda's throat.
"Get behind me!" Ragnar shouted, drawing his sword—though his hand instinctively went to the trigger of his own Torsion Spike.
It was a raiding party—maybe forty men. Not enough to stop the army, but enough to kill a few stragglers or a royal daughter if they were lucky.
Three Saxons charged their position, ignoring the main shield wall to go for the woman and the "weak" engineer.
"Mine!" Bjorn laughed, stepping forward to meet two of them. He was a whirlwind of violence, his axe moving faster than a man that size should be capable of.
That left one.
A Saxon with a crazed look in his eyes and a rusty sword lunged at Ragnar. Ragnar parried clumsily with his sword, the impact jarring his arm. He wasn't a fencer. He was an engineer.
He stepped back, trying to line up his arm, but the Saxon was fast, slashing wild, unpredictable arcs.
"Ragnar, duck!"
The voice was melodic and cold.
Ragnar dropped to his knees instinctively.
Behind him stood Gyda. She didn't look scared. She looked focused. She had raised her left arm, the white cloak falling back to reveal the bronze glint of the Valkyrie's Sting.
The Saxon froze for a split second, confused by the unarmed woman pointing at him.
The steel spike shot out of the bronze tube. It crossed the three feet of distance instantly. It didn't just hit the Saxon; it punched into the center of his chest, through the leather armor, and buried itself deep.
The man looked down, bewildered. He gasped, dropped his sword, and collapsed backward into the mud.
Gyda stood there, her arm extended, smoke from the friction of the sinew curling slightly in the cold air. She winced, rubbing her shoulder where the recoil had hit, but she didn't cry out.
Bjorn finished his two opponents and turned around, panting. He looked at the dead Saxon, then at the Princess.
"By Odin's hairy legs," Bjorn whispered. "She bit him."
Gyda looked at the device, then at Ragnar. A slow, terrifying smile spread across her face.
"It works," she said. "The math works."
The skirmish ended as quickly as it began. The King's Huscarls swarmed the remaining Saxons, leaving a trail of bodies. King Horik rode back, looking furious, checking on his daughter.
"Gyda..!" Horik bellowed.
"I am fine, Father," Gyda said, calmly pulling her sleeve down to hide the weapon. "Ragnar and his brother protected me. And... I protected myself."
The King looked at the dead man with the mysterious hole in his chest, then at Ragnar. He didn't ask. He just nodded, a heavy, silent gratitude in his eyes.
"We camp here!" Horik ordered, looking at the darkening sky. "We reorganize. I will not be pecked at by birds while I march!"
That night, the camp was buzzing with rumors of the "Princess's Invisible Arrow."
But Ragnar wasn't listening to rumors. He was sitting by a large fire, surrounded by his fifty hand-picked men the "Tree Team," the "Assembly Team," and the newly formed "Logistics Squad."
He held a piece of charcoal and a flat piece of slate.
"Listen to me!" Ragnar announced. The fifty men fell silent. They had seen the ships. They had seen the trebuchets. They had seen the Princess kill a man with a bronze tube. They were believers.
"Today was messy," Ragnar said, looking at them. "We were surprised. We ran around like headless chickens. If we do that at York, we die."
He drew a circle on the slate. "We are not just warriors anymore. We are the Engineers. And from tonight, we have rules. We have a structure."
He looked at the reference in his mind—the memory of organized industrial efficiency—and adapted it to the Viking reality.
"I am establishing the Order of the Builders," Ragnar declared. "And here is how we work."
He drew three lines. "First: The Surveyors."
He pointed to Leif (the smith) and three sharp-eyed hunters. "You are the eyes. When we stop, you don't eat. You don't sleep. You measure. You find the wood. You find the range. You tell me how far the wall is, not in steps, but in yards. Precision is life."
"Second: The Assembly."
He pointed to the burly carpenters. "You are the hands. You don't fight Saxons. You fight time. Every bolt, every beam, every rope must be checked three times. If a machine breaks because you were lazy, you take its place in the sling."
"Third: The Ballistics."
He pointed to Bjorn and a few of the strongest men. "You are the muscle, but you are also the brain of the throw. You manage the counterweights. You learn the stones. A wet stone flies differently than a dry one. You will learn the weight of the world."
Ragnar stood up, his voice rising.
"And finally, the supply chain." He pointed to the youngest warriors. "An empty machine is a pile of firewood. Your job is to ensure that for every rock we throw, three more are waiting. You are the blood of the beast."
The men stared at him. This wasn't how Vikings usually talked. Usually, it was "Charge," "Kill," and "Loot."
"Why?" one of the older men asked. "Why so many names? We just want to break the wall."
"Because," Ragnar said, lowering the slate, "King Horik has an army of five thousand axes. But axes don't break stone walls. We do. We are the key to England. If we are organized, we are unstoppable. If we are chaotic, we are dead."
He looked at Bjorn. "Bjorn, you are now the First Foreman of the Ballistics Division."
Bjorn puffed out his chest, looking immensely proud of a title he didn't fully understand. "First Foreman! I like it. Does it come with extra meat?"
"It comes with extra responsibility," Ragnar said.
Ragnar looked at his ragged, dirty, magnificent industrial corps.
"Tomorrow, we reach York," Ragnar said, his voice steady. "The King thinks we are just building toys. Tomorrow, we show him that we have built a factory of war."
"For the Builders!" Bjorn shouted.
"For Ragnar!" the men roared back.
Ragnar sat down, wiping soot from his face. He felt a tap on his shoulder.
It was Gyda. She had slipped into the circle of men unnoticed. She dropped a small pouch of silver coins into Ragnar's lap.
"For the lesson," she said softly. "And for the boots."
Ragnar looked at the coins, then at her boots. She had stuffed wool into them.
"Smart," Ragnar smiled.
"Adaptive," she corrected. "Get some sleep, First Engineer. Tomorrow, we test your 'gravity' against their stone."
As she walked away, Ragnar looked at his "Division." They were sharpening saws instead of swords. They were counting ropes instead of coins.
The Viking Age was changing. And it was starting right here, with a bastard son, a princess with a hidden gun, and an army organized by an industrial flow chart.
"Okay," Ragnar muttered to himself, picking up his boot. "Now, about those rubber soles..."