The Manufacturing Zone, One Hour Later
Ragnar walked out of the tent with the swagger of a man who had just closed a Series A funding round. He handed the sack to Gyda, who was waiting outside.
"Secure this," Ragnar whispered. "This is our future."
Gyda peeked inside the sack. Her eyes widened. "You robbed him?"
"I onboarded a strategic partner," Ragnar corrected. "Now, Vinod... I mean, Gyda. Find me the scribes."
"Scribes?"
"We have prisoners," Ragnar said. "Monks we picked up along the coast. And some of the thralls were merchants’ clerks. Bring me anyone who knows how to hold a quill."
The Experimental Lab (A leaky shed near the river)
Later that afternoon, a strange assembly took place near the riverbank.
Ragnar stood before five confused, shivering men. Three were captured monks—Brothers Osric, Bede, and Athelstan (not that one). Two were former thralls who claimed to know how to mix ink.
They looked at the Viking warlord with terror. They expected to be sacrificed to Odin.
instead, Ragnar pointed to a vat of boiling water mixed with wood shavings and old rags.
"Gentlemen," Ragnar announced. "Welcome to your new job. You are no longer prisoners. You are the Research and Development Team."
Brother Osric, a balding man with ink-stained fingers, stepped forward trembling. "My Lord... you are... cooking soup?"
"I am cooking knowledge," Ragnar said. "I know the theory. We mash the fibers. We bleach them with lime. We press them flat on wire mesh screens. We dry them."
Ragnar picked up a crude frame he had built—a wooden square with a fine copper mesh stretched across it.
"I need paper," Ragnar said. "Not the thick, yellow parchment you use. I want thin, white, durable paper. Smooth enough to write on, cheap enough to burn."
He looked at the group.
"The man who figures out the perfect ratio of wood pulp to rag fiber," Ragnar promised, "becomes the Head of the Paper Mill. He gets his own tent. He gets meat every night. And he gets a salary in silver."
The terror in the monks’ eyes vanished, replaced by a sudden, intense professional interest. A salary? In a Viking camp?
"Wood pulp..." Brother Osric muttered, looking at the vat. "If we use too much willow, it will be dark. But if we use birch... and mix it with linen..."
"Exactly!" Ragnar encouraged. "Innovate! Experiment! I want a prototype by tomorrow morning."
He turned to leave, pausing at the door.
"Oh, and one more thing. If you try to write secret messages to the Saxons on my paper... I will use you as the pulp for the next batch."
The monks nodded vigorously. They understood the terms of employment perfectly.
...
Ragnar returned to the shed. Brother Osric looked like a mad scientist. His robe was tied up, his arms were covered in white slurry, and he had a wild grin on his face.
"Lord Ragnar!" Osric shouted, holding up a sheet.
It wasn’t perfect. It was slightly grey and rough around the edges. But it was thin. It was flexible. And it was dry.
Ragnar took the sheet. He pulled a piece of charcoal from his belt and wrote his name.
The charcoal glided smoothly.
"It holds the ink," Osric explained breathlessly. "We used a bit of animal glue in the mix to size it. It prevents bleeding."
Ragnar looked at the sheet. It cost fractions of a penny to make. A sheet of vellum cost five silver pieces.
"You have done it," Ragnar whispered. "You have democratized information."
He looked at Osric.
"Congratulations, Director Osric. You are now the Head of the Northumbrian Paper Company."
Osric wept. "Thank you, Lord! Can I... can I have a chicken?"
"You can have two," Ragnar laughed.
He handed the sheet to Gyda, who had just arrived.
"Write the order," Ragnar commanded. "We need ten thousand sheets. We are going to flood the monasteries. We are going to flood the merchants. We are going to print... well, write... propaganda leaflets to drop over the walls of York."
Gyda touched the paper. She looked at Ragnar with a mixture of fear and awe.
"You are going to change everything, aren’t you?" she whispered. "First the iron, now the words."
"Words are cheaper than iron," Ragnar said, looking at the bustling camp. "And they last longer."
He looked toward his father’s tent in the distance.
Don’t worry, Father, Ragnar thought. Your retirement fund just outperformed the looting of Paris.
"Load the wagons," Ragnar ordered.
"The Weasel has a new product to sell. And tell him to tell the Saxons... it’s imported from the Holy Land. They’ll pay triple."