The sound of a steam whistle shrieked across the borderlands.
Ragnar, Director of Industry, was already awake. He stood inside his command tent, running a cloth over the flank of his horse.
The horse was a massive, sullen beast named Calculus. Unlike the nimble ponies the Vikings favored, Calculus was a draft horse mixed with a destrier a creature built for torque, not speed.
"Stand still," Ragnar murmured, tightening the buckles on the horse's barding.
The horse wore a suit of segmented, tempered steel plates, painted a matte grey to prevent rust.
"We have a schedule to keep," Ragnar told the horse.
He climbed into the saddle. He didn't wear the traditional chainmail. He wore the "Executive Armor" a breastplate of high-carbon steel, polished to a mirror finish, with a high collar to protect against stray arrows. On his hip sat The Typewriter (his repeating crossbow) and a pouch of sulfur matches.
