"Again!" a voice boomed from above.
Ragnar spat out a clump of mud and looked up. Blocking out the pale Nordic sun was a mountain of muscle named Bjorn.
At seventeen years old, Bjorn was a terrifying specimen of human engineering. He had shoulders like boulders, a chest like a beer barrel, and a grin that suggested he was having entirely too much fun.
"I think," Ragnar wheezed, rolling onto his back, "that my shield has a structural defect."
Ragnar groaned as he was hauled to his feet. For the last two days, while the village carpenters worked in shifts to modify the ships, Ragnar had been subjected to the "Bjorn Crash Course in Not Dying."
It turned out that being a Senior Industrial Engineer didn't help much when a wooden practice sword was being swung at your head at Mach 2.
Sitting on a fence nearby were the audience: his five younger half-siblings.
There was Helga (12) and Astrid (10), who were currently braiding each other's hair while occasionally shouting, "Hit him harder, Bjorn!" And the three younger boys Ivar (8), Sigurd (6), and little Arne (5) who were wrestling in the mud, trying to mimic their older brothers.
Ragnar looked at them. They were loud, dirty, and violent. Under the laughter, he could see the sharp angles of their cheekbones. The famine hadn't spared the chieftain's house.
I have to keep them alive, Ragnar thought, the realization hitting him harder than Bjorn's shield. I can't just build ships. I have to make sure these kids don't end up as collateral damage in some pointless war.
"Focus!" Bjorn barked, slamming his wooden sword against his own shield. "The English won't wait for you to daydream about timber. Setup! Shield wall!"
Ragnar gritted his teeth and raised his round shield.
"Lock your elbow," Bjorn instructed, stepping in close. His voice dropped the teasing tone. "If your arm is bent, the impact will smash the shield into your face. If your arm is straight and locked, the force goes into your shoulder, down your spine, and into the ground. You become a wall."
Ragnar blinked.
"You're turning my body into a truss," Ragnar muttered, adjusting his stance. He planted his back foot, locked his elbow, and leaned into the shield.
"I don't know what a truss is," Bjorn grinned, his eyes wild with the thrill of combat, "but let's see if it breaks!"
Bjorn charged. He slammed into Ragnar like a runaway truck.
Usually, Ragnar would have gone flying. But this time, he visualized the vector of force. He just grounded himself, letting the energy travel through his skeletal structure into the mud.
Ragnar slid back a few inches, his boots carving grooves in the earth, but he stayed upright.
Bjorn bounced off, stumbling back a step. The giant teenager looked surprised, then delighted.
"Ha!" Bjorn roared, slapping Ragnar on the shoulder hard enough to rattle his teeth. "You learned! You actually learned!"
"I utilized physics," Ragnar panted, rubbing his bruised arm.
"You build the ships weird, Ragnar. And you talk weird. But you stand your ground. That is good."
From the fence, the younger boys cheered. "Ragnar! Ragnar!"
Ragnar managed a weak smile.
By the afternoon, the training session ended, and the real work began.
Ragnar and Bjorn walked down to the fjord. The scene that greeted them was enough to make any project manager weep with joy.
Floating next to the Sea-Wolf were two more ships: the Iron Serpent and the Storm-Caller.
They had been standard Viking raiders two days ago. Now, they were ugly, bulky, high-capacity transport vessels. Ragnar had supervised the retrofitting of the hulls, widening the cargo holds and reinforcing the keels with iron plating.
"They look like pregnant whales," Bjorn commented, crossing his arms. "Fast whales?"
"Fast enough," Ragnar said, scanning the rigging. "And they can carry three times the food and weapons of a normal fleet. That's our edge, Bjorn. We aren't going to England to fight on the front lines. We're going to be the people who make sure the army doesn't starve. That makes us valuable. And valuable people don't get sent to die in the shield wall."
Bjorn looked at the ships, then at Ragnar. "You really think the King will care? King Horik likes blood. He likes gold."
"He likes winning," Ragnar corrected. "And you can't win if your army is hungry."
Just then, a horn blew from the center of the village. It was the summons.
"Father is calling the assembly," Bjorn said, his face hardening. "He has to convince the others. Not everyone likes your 'pregnant whales,' brother."
The Great Hall was packed.
Ulf sat on the high wooden chair, his face grim. The village elders and the free warriors stood in a semi-circle. There was murmuring angry, confused whispers.
"Why have we ruined our ships?" shouted Starkad, a warrior with a scar running down his nose. "We are Vikings! We are wolves of the sea! Ragnar has turned our wolves into pack mules!"
A murmur of agreement rippled through the crowd.
"We cannot raid effectively with those heavy tubs!" another man yelled. "How do we chase down merchant vessels? How do we flee if the English navy catches us?"
Ulf stood up. The room went silent. The chieftain was still the strongest man in the village, and his temper was legendary.
"We do not flee!" Ulf growled. "But Starkad speaks a truth. The ships are different. They are... heavy."
He looked at Ragnar. It was a cue. Sell it, boy. Sell it or they'll burn your ships.
Ragnar stepped forward. He felt the weight of fifty pairs of eyes on him. Bjorn stood behind him, arms crossed, a silent wall of support.
"Starkad is right," Ragnar said, his voice clear. "They are pack mules."
The crowd grumbled. Admitting defeat?
"But ask yourselves this," Ragnar continued, raising his voice. "Last summer, Starkad, you went raiding. You lost three men. You brought back two chests of silver. A good haul?"
"Aye," Starkad puffed out his chest. "It bought us grain for three months."
"Three months," Ragnar nodded. "And now we are starving again. We risk our lives, we lose our brothers, and we get just enough to survive until the next winter. It is a circle of death."
He walked into the center of the room.
"The King takes an army to England. Five thousand men. Do you know how much five thousand men eat?" Ragnar paused. "They eat a village like ours every single day."
"The King doesn't have enough ships to carry that food. His warriors will be hungry before they even land. He will pay double for transport. He will pay triple for a fleet that can carry his siege engines, his horses, and his reserves."
Ragnar pointed to the door, toward the harbor.
"I have calculated the volume. Our three ships can carry the cargo of ten normal longships. We charge the King for ten ships' worth of service. We don't have to storm the beaches. We don't have to climb the walls of York. We sail the supplies, we take the King's gold and we come home."
He looked at the faces in the crowd. "We are evolving. We are becoming the backbone of the Great Heathen Army. And when we return, We will be the richest village in the fjord."
Silence hung in the air for a long heartbeat. Then, Bjorn stepped forward. He slammed his fist against his chest.
"I sail with Ragnar!" Bjorn shouted, his voice shaking the rafters. "I saw the Sea-Wolf move. It is fast. And I am tired of eating bark soup! If my brother says we get rich without dying, I follow!"
The younger generation started to cheer. The hunger was the greatest motivator.
Ulf watched the room turn. He saw the hope sparking in the eyes of his people. He looked at Ragnar and gave a slow, proud nod.
"It is decided!" Ulf bellowed, raising his drinking horn. "We sail at dawn! We go to the King not as raiders, but as... what did you call it, Ragnar?"
"Logistics experts," Ragnar smiled.
"As Logistics Masters!" Ulf roared, clearly having no idea what the word meant but liking the sound of it. "To England! To gold!"
"To Gold!" the village roared back.
Ragnar sat by the fire outside the longhouse, sharpening a dagger he had no intention of using if he could avoid it.
Bjorn flopped down next to him, handing him a horn of ale.
"You speak well for a man who gets hit in the face with mud," Bjorn chuckled.
"Marketing is half the battle," Ragnar took a sip. It was terrible ale, sour and warm. He missed carbonation.
"Tomorrow we sail to the capital," Bjorn said, looking up at the stars. "King Horik is... unpredictable. He might like your ships. Or he might decide you are a witch and cut your head off."
"Comforting," Ragnar muttered.
"I will stand next to you," Bjorn said simply. He poked the fire with a stick. "You have the brain. I have the axe. We keep the little ones safe. Yes?"
Ragnar looked over at the sleeping furs where his younger siblings were piled together like puppies.
"Yes," Ragnar said, feeling a fierce protectiveness rise in his chest that had nothing to do with engineering or logic. "We keep them safe."
"Good," Bjorn stood up and stretched. "Get some sleep, Logistics Master. Tomorrow, we go to sell the King a mule."