George Knows Best [Mud Wizard LitRPG]

The Bandit King was gone. He had marched off into the night with his company of soldiers. He had marched off and left Bob standing alone there, between the two bonfires. Bob stood there, shadows and light flickering across his face, standing in the great silence that comes after a change.

The world was different now. Their happy, industrious town. Judges and fines and bar fights, mud beds and dairy corporations and little, laughing children. The illusion of security was shattered. They were not safe. They were surrounded by the dark night. And the dark night was eyeing them with hungry, menacing eyes.

Bob knelt down. He put his hands together. He closed his eyes. He knew what he owed to the blameless dead.

"You have gone back to the mud. Back to the great mud. May your sleep be dark and deep and quiet."

He pushed his intentions into the mud. The mound of corpses, the staked heads, he swallowed it all down. Nobody should have to witness that. He smoothed out the ground. You wouldn't know anything dreadful had ever stood there. But forgetting is the true death, so he shaped out three gravestones. He hardened them as best as he could. Maybe he could get George out later to bake them properly.

He was doing it again, wasn't he? He was crafting another illusion; he was hiding the truth from the men and woman in the city. And if they didn't see, they wouldn't believe. They would go on imagining they were safe and nothing had changed. They would keep trying to live. And out there the night was circling nearer and nearer. What was a man supposed to do? What was a leader supposed to do?

The gate opened up silently before him. Bob paced through, his eyes down, his expression thoughtful and troubled. He looked up to find everybody was staring at him. The whole square was crowded with people, the walls too, some folk had even climbed onto the roofs of houses to get a better view. They all wanted to know what had happened. Their fate.

Bob stood there, puzzling over what to say. What was he supposed to tell them? He wasn't a leader. He was an ordinary guy. Chance had brought him. Chance and luck. What right did he have to decide their destiny.

He had waited too long. They started whispering among themselves.

"You saw, right?"

"We're all doomed."

"Fallen star Bob."

"Where was he when we needed him?"

"He's no leader."

Bob heard it all. He heard it all. And it hurt. It hurt because it was true. He didn't know what to do. He was one man. One twenty-four year old, facing an extraordinary situation. Yes, Alexander the Great had conquered half the known world by that age. But Bob was no Alexander. Bob was Bob. But Bob would do all he could. The little he could.

He composed his face. He stood straight and tall. He threw back his hood so that they could all see his eyes. He met their gaze, unflinchingly and resolutely. And then he spoke out, loud and clear.

"Citizens of Uruk, today we are tested. Today and tomorrow and the next day. We have a great enemy at our gates. The bandit king has raided our farmlands, slaughtered our friends, and declared his intention of storming the city."

The silence darkened. Angry, frightened faces glared at Bob.

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"But, but, we are not helpless," Bob swallowed and stuttered, "we have our walls. We have more troops and better. And I will stand with you."

"How can we trust you?" One man at the front called out.

"You're a drunk." A woman on the wall shouted down. "We all got the notification. You were attacking helpless civilians."

Bob winced. He had always tried his best. And he wasn't perfect; he knew that. He sighed. He wanted to explain, but complicated explanations don't work on angry mobs. And Bob understood. They were angry. They were afraid. The promise of safety he had given them was crumbling down and they blamed him. This was the burden of a leader, to carry the anger and the suffering. To shoulder it and keep standing.

"I am not the enemy." Bob pointed out beyond the walls. "There is the enemy. The bandits watch us now and laugh. Who will protect you?"

"He plans to betray us. You all saw it. He shook the bandit king's hand."

Bob recognized Conor in the crowd. One boo found another and another and another, and the whole crowd was booing him. Bob stood there, trying to think of something to say, some way of calming them down, explaining to them that he was on their side.

Everything had gone wrong. Everything had spiraled out of control. They were all against him. Someone threw something. Harry Mud shielded him from the stone. Then something splashed down beside next to him. A vial of Raupenfliger pus. Bob chuckled darkly. Cold.

Ali, who was standing nearby, was wincing and shaking his head. He muttered something to himself. Bob could read those lips even from here, fallen star Bob.

The crowd was turning into a mob. There'd be bloodshed here if no-one intervened. There'd be nothing left for the bandit king to do. He could wander in tomorrow morning and smile down at the rubble. But what could Bob say? Or do? Because in his heart, he was turning against them too.

Who were these people? Strangers? He had taken them in. In this cruel and unforgiving world. What had they ever done for him? What did they expect from him? He was no saint. He was the mud magician. He had killed people. In all this city, Bob could count on his fingers the people he actually cared about. Everyone else. Well let the darkness come.

But then... George arrived. How did the dog always know when Bob needed him? He should have been asleep in his bed. George squeezed out into the open space. He nuzzled up to Bob. And everybody fell silent.

George paced up and down the space, like he didn't know what to do or where to go. And then he sat down in front of Bob, looked up to the heavens, with his big, sorrowful eyes, and howled. He howled long and mournfully.

The crowd's heart melted. Bob couldn't believe his eyes. The man in the front row was weeping. The woman on the wall could barely stand for sobbing. Maybe they were friends and family of the adventures who'd fallen beyond the wall. Bob had never thought to wonder.

Soon everybody was pulling out little George's amulets that they'd tucked into various places. They all squeezed the metalwork figures and pressed them over their hearts. It was strange and touching.

Nobody blamed the dog. How could you? And the dog mourned with everybody. Somehow he could feel the collective sadness and fear. People crowded forward. Everybody wanted to put their hand on George's head, just to touch him and be comforted.

Bob didn't know what he was seeing. But somehow the whole scene was affecting him. He caught himself tearing up and patting George on the back. That there was a good dog. That there was a mighty good dog.

A lot of people had fallen to their knees and were chanting prayers. It was like they'd all just witnessed a miracle, but nobody could say exactly what it was. Bob wished he had one of those amulets to clutch. He reflected on everything and the words came to him unbidden. He whispered to himself: "George knows best."

But someone heard him and they repeated it. And soon everyone was repeating it. The whole city was crowded around that stupid dog and chanting, "George knows best. George knows best."

George stood up. He swaggered over towards the gateway, bearing his teeth and snarling. And then he growled out into the darkness, in the direction the bandits had gone. In one moment, the company's religious fervor was turned into martial, patriotic fire.

"George is going to war!"

"Down with the bandits. Up with Georgetown!"

"Blood and Gold! Blood and Gold!"

Bob couldn't help shaking his head a bit. Hadn't he said basically the same thing? He knelt down and prayed for the fallen. He'd told them they were being tested. He'd promised he'd fight with them. Why was the response so different? Public speaking is a tricky mistress. And like romances, charisma always wins out over content.

But the conclusion was crystal clear: Uruk (not Georgetown!) was preparing for war.