George Knows Best [Mud Wizard LitRPG]

Bob's mouth gaped open. The man couldn't be serious. Bob must have misheard him. There was no way his war council was seriously advising such an expenditure. Bob rubbed his ears. He tried a low hum to confirm the organ was properly functioning. Everything seemed to be in shipshape.

"Councilor O'Conor, I applaud you for your well-thought-out proposal. This plan seems most wise to me. Morale is the foundation of battle craft. Our city needs a good symbol, a visual representation of what we are fighting for. I second your proposal"

Ali had forced Bob to include Conor in his war council. Optics, he had said. Big man looking past his personal grievances for the sake of the common good. Bob knew he should have trusted his gut. Bloody politics.

"I third it. The Romans had their eagles, did they not? The project is long overdue. The citizens need to know what they stand for. And there is no better time than now. The city has recently received a large cash injection, some one hundred thousand credits unless I am mistaken. I advise we spend the bulk of that on this project."

Bob winced a little. Yes, the city was one hundred thousands credits richer. All thanks to a few pints of Magic Beer and a Russian tortoise.

Another councilor was just winding up to chime their agreement, when Bob jumped in. Ideas are like diseases. You have to stop the bad ones in their infancy, before they spread wide enough and become uncontrollable.

"Councilors, as you all know, we are facing a powerful and ruthless foe. This council was convened so that we could strategize on the best way to protect our city. We have limited time and resources. Now, do we all seriously believe that the best way to use said time and resources is to build a three-times-life-size golden statue of George for our gateway?"

"Governor Bob, why not put it to a vote? Make things black and white." Conor proposed evenly.

And so, instead of buying weapons for the D rankers, digging escape tunnels, strengthening fortifications, or investing in leveling up the citizenry, the Uruk War Council decided to pin all their hopes on a giant statue of a golden retriever.

It was going to be a fine statue alright. Make no mistake. They would cast George in a seated position, with a kindly but regal expression, a dopey but firm smile, with sparkling eyes and ears drooped back, one paw resting on a representation of the globe. It would be a marvelous statue and Bob couldn't wait to lay eyes upon it—now, whether said statue would magically "protect" the city, that was an open question.

Most of the meeting was spent hammering out the statue design. Several sketches were drawn, amended, rejected. There was much talk of "what is the essence of George," a question that Bob, who had been with the dog since his wee years, had never yet felt compelled to consider. "Gold in body and soul" was the only answer they seemed able to unite behind.

Thankfully, with the council in an exalted and weary mood, chuffed with their final designs and glowing in that self-satisfaction of a hard job done well, Bob had been able to put through some more practical measures.

First, a compulsory military draft for those with defense-critical powers. Healers, fighters, scouts, etc... Bob was particularly insistent on scouts. He understood more than anyone the devastating effect of a magical ambush. When both sides carry big guns, the winner is usually whoever shoots first.

Second, the formation of several patrol squads. Their purpose would be to keep the city environs secure, give advance warning of any large-scale bandit incursions, and provide safe passage to any refugees making for the city.

Finally, a concentrated leveling strategy. Any sentients approaching rank D or simply those with advantageous abilities would be fast-tracked. One of the city's elite squads would take them out and power level them. Bob didn't know how many D-rankers the bandit king commanded, but Uruk's population was multiplies larger than the king's whole company. If they concentrated their efforts, they shouldn't lose out on firepower.

The new policies were not popular. The citizenry had naively hoped that Bob, George and the adventurer cohort would take care of things and they could just continue living out their peaceful everydays. War can be a real inconvenience.

Conscription was particularly heart-breaking. You take an ordinary citizen. Someone who's just been going about their day. Someone who just happens to have a militarily useful power or companion object. You give them a token weapon, a paper-thin helmet, a pat on back, and say now go fight for your country. Really, how much is the general good worth when set against an immense personal ill?

It had been Bob's idea. His policy. His decision, but he still teared up watching little George take leave of his father. Edward couldn't even keep his feet. He had crumbled down in front of the child, clutching him to his chest. The parting was breaking his heart. He was retching and sobbing, and saying "don't go, don't go," like the little child had any say in the matter, like it could all be rolled back by the right word.

The boy stood embarrassed as his father broke down on top of him. With his childish wisdom, he tried to comforted his old man. He rested a little hand on his head and stroked his hair, telling him, "I'll be alright, Dad; I can fight. I want to fight." The father shuddered at those words, because the boy hadn't understood. His father didn't want him to fight. His father wanted him to stay.

Edward caught sight of Bob standing there with a pained expression. He stumbled over and fell down to his knees. His face was tear-stained, his glasses fogged up and askew, his eyes glimmered with the dark hope of the desperate man.

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"Don't take the boy. Don't take him. He's all I have left. I couldn't lose him. I couldn't..."

Bob hadn't wanted to take the boy. Bob liked the boy. George liked the boy. Bob wanted him safe and sound. Bob the Builder was water under the bridge. The boy was a good lad. Everybody complained about him, but they complained with smiles and warm voices. Everybody loved him. Our two Georges, they liked to say.

But the boy had volunteered; the boy had insisted; the boy had sworn he'd sneak out (and it wouldn't be the first time). The system had aged the boy somehow. He was more mature than he ought to be. He seemed to understand more of what was going on. In the same way the system could communicate its intentions to non-literate animals, it seemed able to communicate with little George. He'd grasped their situation and he wanted to help.

And then there was the unfortunate truth. Little George was maybe the best scout in the whole city. His ability, eagle eyes, let him see many times the distance of ordinary humans and with an astounding clarity. He could pick out a man's face from two miles away and tell you the color of his eyes. He noticed tiny changes over vast distances. He'd already been instrumental in pointing out a few low-scale ambushes from the city walls.

But his companion object was the true marvel. A small, metallic scout whistle that he wore on a cord around his neck. Little George could somehow (magically) vary the tone so that it was only audible to certain people. You could be standing right next to the boy but if he didn't want you to hear the call, you wouldn't. The range was frankly unbelievable. Bob had helped him test it once. Bob could make out the sound clearly from over ten miles away.

He was the ideal scout. He could spot traps and ambushes. He could coordinate covert operations. He could call for aid. He could send encoded messages. The whistle could even be used defensively at a pinch. The max volume on the thing was off the charts. You would be bleeding from your ears if you took it straight on.

In good conscience, Bob could not not conscript the boy. He could very well be the difference between victory and defeat. And defeat would mean death for them all.

"I'm sorry, Edward. I don't want to do it either. I really really don't. If there was any other way... But we need him. The city needs him."

"Bob, you don't understand. I've lost his mother, and little Amanda and my oldest son, Stewart. They got cut down right in front of us. I couldn't protect them. I can't lose George. He's only a kid. He's only twelve years old. He's a baby."

"I know Edward," Bob crouched down and took the man by the shoulders. He looked him straight in his eyes, "I promise you we'll keep him safe."

The promises of powerless men are dust before the wind.

"Edward, I'm putting my best men with him. Look we just want to get him to D rank. I won't have him patrolling. He'll be safer at D rank. And then we'll keep him up on the walls. Our eyes in the sky. He'll be in no more danger than the rest of us."

"I couldn't take it, Bob. Without him..."

"Chin up, Edward. Don't think like that. He's a fine boy, George. You know that, right?"

Bob looked around. He wanted to do something. He wanted to show everyone.

"You know what." Bob decided right there and there. "You know what, I'm going to make him my knight. He's earned it. Some grown men we've had to strong-arm into the defense of their homes and little George here volunteered. And it was George who spotted the bandit king to start with."

Little George, who was shamelessly eavesdropping, stood up as tall as he could, trying to look his most knightly. And for a sub-five-foot lad, with dirt under his fingernails and an unwashed face, he made a good show of it.

Bob knelt down in front of him. "So little George, what do you say? Would you like to be my knight?"

"Aye aye, sir."

Knights and pirates were not exactly the same, but close enough.

"Noble squire, George Small. Say as I say."

"I, George Small, first of his name, do swear by the mud, to bind myself in my lord's service, to be his companion and advisor, to watch over him from afar, to succor him in his defeats and triumph in his victories."

Little George slurred over some of the big words, but he did better than the dog. Bob tapped him on the shoulder with Harry-turned-greatsword and the ceremony was complete.

"Rise a knight, Sir George."

Little George was on top of the moon. His father not so much. The ceremony had failed to comfort him. And in the end, Bob had to leave the father melted on the ground, desperate and despairing. It hurt the heart just to look at him. But if the city fell, they'd all die in the end. Bob was doing the right thing. That's what he told himself. That's what we have to tell himself. He sure hoped it was the truth.

Sophie too had a similar visit in her immediate future, for she too was on the top of the conscription list. Bob had no real choice in the matter. She could see classes! She could find out if people were lying about their identity or pretending to be somebody else. And her fragrance magic was a tactical goldmine. She could lure enemies into an ambush or prevent from noticing a hidden outpost. And who knew what kind of power she'd gotten at D rank?

But Bob had decided not to attend that one. She was in a towering, legendary temper and apparently she looking for him. He didn't blame her. After all, in a single night, she'd had the fright of her life, her house had burned down, and the whole dairy business she been slaving over had evaporated into thin air. But war comes for us all as they say.

And now for the final piece in his grand strategy. The part he hadn't told the council about. Bob's part.

"Ali, I'm taking George and I'm leaving."

"You're abandoning us?"

"Ali, come on. Do you really think I'd come find you if I meant to jump ship."

"Bob, we need you here now. And we certainly need George."

"Dammit Ali, you're going to make me say, aren't you?"

Bob paused. He bit his lip. He hesitated. Then he leaned closer like he was afraid someone might overhear.

"Ali, I don't think I could have taken him."

Ali stepped back. For the first time, Bob saw fear stamped plainly on the man's face.

"Even with George?"

"Yes. Even with George."

It was that brief flash when Bob stepped forward. A moment of overwhelming intent. Bob's whole body had frozen with anticipation, as though the axe were already hurtling towards him and he couldn't get out of the way in time.

Ali's face grew ashen pale. He looked around the city. Like it was the last time he'd ever set eyes on it.

"Don't worry. We're going to train and level. We'll got stronger both of us."

"They'll be a mass panic. The bandit king will crush us. We might as well surrender."

"I'm only telling you, Ali. Don't let anyone else know. And we'll come back every couple days. Show our faces, make a scene."

"What if he attacks while you're away?"

"The boy."

"Little George?"

"Sir George," Bob corrected, "yes. His whistle at full blast. He knows the call. You can hear it for miles and miles."

"But you'll never get back in time."

"We'll sure as hell try."

"Come back, Bob. I don't care what the others say. We need you here. This is your city."