Building a Viking Empire with Modern Industry

Chapter 383: Kingdom of Brittany

September 23, 870 AD

Rennes, Kingdom of Brittany

The Royal Assembly was loud. Really, really loud.

King Salomon de Bretagne sat slouched on his throne, resting his chin on his knuckles. He rubbed his temples, trying to massage away the headache that was throbbing right behind his eyes.

Though he was one of the most powerful and feared men in the western world, having successfully secured Brittany’s independence from the greedy Frankish Empire, right now, he just felt like a completely exhausted babysitter.

Today was the Placitum - the grand Royal Assembly day.

The Great Hall of Rennes was packed with the highest-ranking Breton nobles, wealthy bishops, and battle-hardened military leaders.

They were supposed to be discussing vital national security and new land allocations. Instead, they were entirely screaming at each other.

"But the eastern riverbank is mine, Gurvand!" Lord Pascweten, the wealthy Count of Vannes and Salomon’s own son-in-law, yelled at the top of his lungs.

He pointed a shaking finger across the room. "You cannot just let your dirty peasants graze their fucking pigs on my side of the water!"

Gurvand, the equally powerful Count of Rennes, crossed his arms and let out an arrogant scoff.

"They are free animals, Pascweten..." Gurvand smirked, enjoying the argument. "Pigs go where the best acorns are! It is not my fault your side of the river has much tastier trees. Maybe you should just build a fence if you are so sensitive about it."

"A fence?!" Pascweten’s face turned a furious shade of red. "I shouldn’t have to build a fence to keep your thieving animals out of my sovereign territory! I will slaughter them and serve them at my next feast!"

"Damnit, enough!" Salomon finally roared.

The entire room went silent.

You did not ignore the anger of King Salomon. He was a man who had literally assassinated his own cousin to take the throne, and he had entirely crushed King Charles the Bald in open battle just a few years ago.

Salomon slowly sat up straight, pointing a finger at the two bickering lords.

"I did not bleed in the mud against the Frankish cavalry just so my best commanders could scream at each other over a bunch of fucking pigs," Salomon growled, "Pascweten, let the pigs eat the acorns. Gurvand, you will send Pascweten ten barrels of your best salted pork by the end of the month as a tax for using his land. Is that understood?"

"Yes, my King..." Pascweten grumbled, crossing his arms.

"Very fair, your Grace," Gurvand nodded smoothly, offering a bow.

After hearing such words, Salomon let out a long sigh.

Ruling a kingdom was entirely exhausting... fighting wars was actually much easier; at least in a war, you could just stab the person annoying you.

"Right. Let’s move on," Salomon ordered, gesturing to his royal scribe. "What is next on the endless list of misery?"

Bishop Bili, a tall, highly educated man in flowing religious robes, quickly stepped forward from the crowd.

He cleared his throat, holding a parchment scroll.

"My King, we must discuss the new land allocations in the southern valleys," Bishop Bili said. "The Church has requested the rights to the newly cleared farmlands near the border. We need the extra wheat to feed the poor during the upcoming winter."

However, Salomon didn’t agree. He leaned back in his throne, tapping his fingers against the armrest.

He knew how the political game worked... if he gave the Church too much land, the military lords would completely riot.

"The Church already owns half the southern valley, Bili," Salomon replied, "I am giving the new farmlands to the veteran soldiers who survived the last Frankish campaign. They bled for this kingdom, and they deserve fertile soil to raise their families. The Church will receive a 10% tax cut on your existing grain harvests instead. That is my final decision."

"You are incredibly generous, King Salomon." Bishop Bili smiled warmly, bowing his head.

He was a smart man; he knew a tax cut was actually entirely more profitable than managing new, muddy farmlands...

"Next." Salomon called out, waving his hand. "Bring in the major trials... let’s get this over."

Two heavily armored royal guards marched into the center of the Great Hall.

They were dragging a young, merchant between them. The merchant was covered in dirt, his hands tightly bound with ropes.

"What is this?" Salomon asked, raising an eyebrow. "Did he steal a horse?"

"No, my King," one of the guards reported, pushing the merchant to his knees. "We caught him trying to smuggle illegal, untaxed weapons across the northern border."

"I am just a simple trader, your Grace!" the merchant cried out, "I didn’t steal them! I bought them fairly from a foreign ship!"

Gurvand let out a harsh laugh. "Smuggling rusty Frankish swords into Brittany? You are an idiot, boy. Our blacksmiths make much better weapons than those southern fools."

"They aren’t Frankish, Lord Gurvand," the guard corrected, shaking his head.

He reached into his belt and pulled out a steel dagger. He walked up to the throne and handed it to the King.

Salomon took the dagger.

The moment his fingers touched the metal, the King’s eyes went wide.

Even so, Salomon had seen thousands of weapons in his life. He knew what good iron felt like.

But this... this wasn’t just good iron. The blade was incredibly light, flawlessly smooth, and possessed a pale, shining luster that looked completely alien.

He ran his thumb lightly against the edge, and it drew a tiny bead of blood.

"Where the fucking hell did you get this...?"

"F-from a ship that sailed down from the English Channel, my King!" the merchant stuttered frantically. "The sailors said it came from the north! They said the Viking King mass-produces them in giant fire-castles!"

The entire Great Hall broke out into anxious, nervous murmuring.

The Iron Kingdom...

Over the last few years, the entire continent had heard the rumors of the mad Viking who conquered England.

They heard stories of concrete walls, ships that breathed black smoke, and weapons that could shoot lightning.

Most of the Breton nobles dismissed the rumors as entirely exaggerated fairy tales meant to scare children.

If the Viking King was actually outfitting his entire army with blades like this... the entire world was in massive trouble.

"And there is something else, my King..." Pascweten suddenly spoke up, stepping closer to the throne.

"What is it, Pascweten?" Salomon asked, not liking his son-in-law’s tone.

"My spies in Paris just sent a raven this morning," Pascweten explained, "The King is acting insane. He just locked down all the Frankish forges. He is importing massive amounts of sulfur, and he just secretly signed a blood-alliance with the Bohemians and the Magyars."

"The Magyars?" Salomon muttered, "Why the would he suddenly ally with them? What is he preparing for?"

"I don’t know, my King," Pascweten swallowed hard. "But whatever it is... it feels like the entire continent is about to catch fire."

Salomon gripped the steel dagger tightly.

The doors at the far end of the Great Hall were suddenly pushed open.

The entire assembly went entirely silent again.

A Breton guard ran down the center aisle, his face pale, entirely out of breath.

He stopped in front of the throne, dropping to one knee.

"My King!" the guard panted, his eyes wide. "I apologize for the interruption, but..."

"But what..?" Salomon demanded, leaning forward. "Did the Franks cross our southern border?"

"No, your Grace." the guard shook his head."An unusual ship has docked in our main port... It is a diplomat, he is flanked by heavily armored warriors carrying strange metal tubes over their shoulders... he says he comes from the Iron Kingdom."

Salomon slowly stood up from his throne.