Inside the damp canvas of his command tent, Ragnar stared at a piece of charcoal as if it were the most complicated microchip he had ever designed.
He had the knowledge. He had the engineering degree. He had the blueprints in his head. But as he looked at the pile of mismatched gears and crooked axles outside, he realized that knowledge without a system was just a fancy way of creating chaos.
"Come in," Ragnar sighed, putting down the charcoal.
Young Ivar poked his head through the tent flap. The boy was smeared with grease up to his elbows. "Lord Ragnar," Ivar chirped. "The King's Council is eating the morning boar. They are waiting for the 'Master Plan' you promised."
Ragnar took a deep breath and nodded. He picked up his roll of vellum a precious scrap of sheepskin he had scraped clean and the wooden stick he had carved yesterday.
"Let's go, Ivar. Time to introduce middle management to the Dark Ages."
King Horik sat at the head of a long, makeshift table, tearing into a pork rib with the enthusiasm of a starving wolf. Around him sat the Jarls and chieftains, including Ragnar's father, Ulf.
Princess Gyda sat to the King's right, peeling an apple with a knife that looked dangerously sharp.
Ragnar stepped into the tent. The chatter died down.
"The Builder!" King Horik bellowed, waving a bone. "Sit! Eat! Tell us how your magic machines will crush the Saxons."
Ragnar didn't sit. instead, he walked to the center of the room and bowed deeply—a gesture that was slightly too formal for a Viking camp.
"King Horik, Jarls," Ragnar said, his voice steady. "Before I present the plan, I must offer an apology."
The room went silent. A Viking apologizing was usually a prelude to a confession of murder or betrayal.
Ulf stood up, looking alarmed. "Ragnar? What did you break?"
Ragnar waved his hand. "I broke nothing, Father. That is the problem. I apologize for my inefficiency. Yesterday, we built three trebuchets. It should have been ten."
The King stopped chewing. He looked at his Jarls, then back at Ragnar.
"You built three monsters in one day," the King said slowly. "And you are sorry you didn't build ten? Are you mocking us?"
"No, my King," Ragnar said. "I am admitting a failure of process. I treated this army like a raid, not an industry. I wasted time. I wasted men."
The speech confused everyone. No one in the history of Viking warfare had ever complained about "inefficiency." They complained about bad weather, dull axes, or lack of ale. But process?
"To ensure this does not happen again," Ragnar continued, unrolling the vellum on the table, pushing aside a jug of wine, "I need your help to restructure the workforce."
The Jarls leaned in. They saw drawings. Not of dragons or gods, but of boxes, arrows, and lines connecting them.
"Leave it to us," Ulf said, puffing out his chest, trying to support his strange son. "We will chop whatever wood you need."
Ragnar nodded, relieved. "I appreciate that. Now, Marshal... forgive me, Jarl Sigurd," Ragnar addressed the King's second-in-command. "How many men do we have who are wounded? Men with bad legs, missing eyes, or old age who can no longer hold the shield wall?"
"Too many," Sigurd grunted. "Maybe four hundred. They guard the camp. They are useless for the assault."
Ragnar's next words made the Jarls gasp.
"All four hundred of them will be drafted immediately into the Order of the Builders."
"What?!" Starkad, the warrior who hated change, slammed his fist on the table. "You want cripples to build your war machines? They cannot lift! They cannot run!"
"I don't need them to run," Ragnar said calmly. "I need them to sit."
Confusion spread like a plague.
Ragnar pointed to the diagram. "I have designed a system where the work comes to the man. A man with a broken leg can still sharpen a stake. A man with one eye can still turn a winch. I am creating an Assembly Corps."
He looked at the King. "My King, you have warriors who are depressed because they think they are useless. Give them to me. I will give them dignity. And in return, they will give you an endless supply of arrows, bolts, and spare parts."
King Horik wiped grease from his beard. He looked at the diagram. He thought about the four hundred mouths he was feeding for doing nothing.
"You take the broken men," Horik said slowly, a grin spreading across his face. "And you make them useful?"
"I make them the engine of the army," Ragnar promised.
"Does anyone object?" the King asked the room.
The Jarls looked at each other. Getting rid of the dead weight? It was a dream come true.
"Good," the King decided. "Take them. But if the machines break because a blind man built them, I will blame you."
Ragnar nodded. "Now, the second matter."
He reached into his belt and pulled out the piece of wood. The "Ragnar Unit."
"This," Ragnar held up the stick, "is the new law."
The room stared at the stick.
"Is it... a wand?" Gyda asked, her eyes narrowing with interest.
"It is a Standard," Ragnar explained. "I am establishing a Field Academy for the carpenters. Every piece of wood cut in this camp must match this stick. Exactly."
"Why?" Jarl Sigurd asked, baffled. "A log is a log."
"Because," Ragnar walked over to the King, "if a wheel breaks on a supply wagon during the battle, I don't want to wait an hour for a carpenter to carve a new one. I want to take a wheel from a broken wagon and put it on the good one instantly. Interchangeable parts."
He handed the stick to the King.
"This stick allows us to repair our army faster than the Saxons can reload their bows."
"A School... for chopping wood?" Ulf scratched his head. "Ragnar, you are making war very complicated."
"I am making it simple, Father," Ragnar corrected. "Complexity is chaos. System is simplicity."
He turned to Bjorn, who was standing by the tent flap, looking hopeful.
"Bjorn," Ragnar said. "Step forward."
The giant stepped up, saluting so hard his chainmail rattled.
"Bjorn will be the Head of the Academy," Ragnar announced. "He will ensure that every recruit learns the Law of the Stick."
Bjorn's face fell slightly. "Me? But Ragnar... I like hitting things. Teaching is for... smart people."
"You are smart," Ragnar said firmly. "You understand the trebuchet better than anyone. You know how the weight moves."
Ragnar walked over to his brother. He didn't have a magical system to transfer skills, but he had something better: trust. He handed Bjorn a slate with simple drawings demonstrating the "Ragnar Unit" measurements.
"It's not about reading words, Bjorn," Ragnar said softly, patting his brother's massive back. "It's about reading the world. You have the eye. Teach them to see what you see."
Bjorn straightened up. The fear vanished, replaced by a surge of purpose. He looked at the slate, then at the King.
"I will teach them!" Bjorn roared. "If they cut the wood wrong, I will... gently correct them!"
"Gently," Ragnar emphasized.
King Horik stood up. He held the "Ragnar Unit" stick like a scepter.
"I don't understand half of your words, Engineer," the King admitted. "Assembly Corps. Interchangeable parts. Academy."
He pointed the stick at Ragnar.
"But I understand that yesterday, we were a horde. Today, we sound like an Empire."
The King threw the stick back to Ragnar. "Do it. Organize the cripples. Teach the idiots. But have those machines ready to fire by dawn tomorrow."
Ragnar caught the stick. "It will be done, my King."
He turned to leave, grabbing Bjorn by the elbow. "Come on, Headmaster Bjorn," Ragnar whispered. "We have a curriculum to write."
As they exited the tent into the cool English air, Bjorn looked at the slate in his hands.
"So," Bjorn asked, "do I get to hit them with the stick if they fail?"
"No," Ragnar sighed, shaking his head. "But you can yell. Managers are allowed to yell."
"I am good at yelling," Bjorn smiled.
Ragnar looked out at the camp. The "broken" men were gathering near the ships, looking confused and fearful. They didn't know it yet, but they were about to become the first industrial assembly line in European history.