George Knows Best [Mud Wizard LitRPG]

"What are you doing?"

There was something in the voice. Something sinister and steely. It was the way his clouded eye looked at you. The way his cloak floated against the breeze. The hardened blood that still marked his face and clothes and legs. The smell of death on him.

"WHAT ON EARTH DO YOU THINK YOU ARE DOING?"

The people started to back away. Fear is the great devourer. They had gone too far. They had lost their heads. That wasn't a man. That was a dark force. A Lord of the Mud. A monster emanating displeasure. And they had angered him. The voice above the clouds. They had sinned. And he would punish them.

Harry billowed out, brutally clubbing down the people around Sophie. Ping! They fell hard and the mud froze around them. Their eyes were white with terror and powerlessness. Judgement. Bob walked past them. He knelt down beside her. "I'm sorry," he whispered to her as he lifted her up into his arms. He carried her back to the throne and lay her down in the seat. She had passed out. Her face was cut up. One of her arms was bent awkwardly. Her breath came faint and weak. It wasn't right. What had she done wrong?

Bob turned back to the crowd. His eyes fell on George. On George! On that kind, golden soul. On that great heart. "IN A CAGE!" He screamed at them. Some of them fell to their knees. Some of them wept. Some of them begged. One of the young men just dropped George and ran for it. He hadn't made five paces when he face-planted into the ground. The mud had caught him. Whose city did they think this was? Their city? Oh no, oh no, this was his city. This was Bob's city. This was the city of mud and he was the Mud Tyrant.

The other youth trembled. He shuffled forward and lowered George down at Bob's feet. He knelt there, not looking up, afraid to see the expression on Bob's face, afraid to witness the hammer fall. George was still inside the cage. He was flustered and moaning, pacing around the tiny space.

"Who?"

What had the Mud God said? The voice was too quiet. Nobody could make it out. And nobody wanted to move closer.

"WHO!"

The word rippled across the assembled people. It only took a moment for the crowd to turn on her. A red-haired, short woman with freckles on her face. She was sputtering and apologizing. The crowd had no mercy. They forced her out of the circle and into the black hand of the Mud God.

"I... I... wanted to keep him safe. I didn't mean any harm. I thought he'd get mixed up in it all. Please, please."

Bob shook his head. One does not appeal divine judgement. No, she had gone too far. He felt around for his dagger. His sheath was empty, his pockets too. Where was Excaliborn? Where was his weapon? He had lost his blade.

"Somebody, give me a sword!"

"Please, please."

She released George. The dog scampered to Bob's side. Bob stretched out a hand to comfort him, but he was shaken and scared. He didn't understand what was happening. Bob didn't smile. Bob didn't thank her. Bob hadn't forgiven her.

"A sword!"

Someone in the crowd stepped forward, a mean, short sword in their hand. Yes. Good. Bob reached out and grasped the hilt. He lifted it up. The blade felt good in his hand. He looked at the woman snivelling on the ground, repeating her plea, "please, please, please." But it was only justice. It was only how the world ought to be. If he hadn't woken up, what would have happened? To Sophie? To George? To his person? It was only justice...

"Bob! What in blazes' name are you doing? Is that a sword?"

Bob saw Ali pushing his way through the crowd. Ali, Conor, the remaining councilmen and their twenty strong contingent of D-Rank bodyguards forced their way into the circle. Everybody backed up. Only the red-haired woman under the blade stayed where she was, too afraid to move. The council forces squared off against the Mud Magician.

"They attacked us. Read your system notifications. This," he nodded down at the kneeling woman, "is only justice."

"Noble councilors. Do we need to hear any more? That there's "our glorious leader." He's standing over a poor, helpless innocent about to chop her head off. You can all see the blade in his hand. That's what he thinks justice is. He's a public menace. A danger to one and all. A disease at the root of our city."

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

"Conor, every man has right to self-defence. We need to investigate, understand what the situation was."

"Mr. Al-Jabal, does that look like self-defence to you? The woman is begging for mercy. Only a brute could kill her like that. I move the council vote for Bob Brown's execution."

"Seconded."

"Thirded."

"You've gone too far Bob."

"Is that so? Is this the decision of the council? You will execute me, will you? Will you?"

Bob stepped menacingly forward, the short sword gleaming in his hand, that cloudy eye stared across at them. Could Bob win this fight, the councillors asked themselves, wavering before his aura of despair.

No, surely not, not like this, not surrounded and against the full military arm of the city, with Sophie and George for convenient hostages. They would win. Surely they would win. They could do it.

But at what cost?

Bob had gone alone into the camp of the bandit king, slaughtered fifty of his strongest and staggered out to tell the tale. Would he die easy? No. And he was eying the councillors like he wanted to see their insides, like he had keen and eager interest in the color of their hearts.

Brave men are few and far between in the world. The councilors sportingly decided to revise their position. That is after all the one essential political skill.

"Ahem, Ahem... We might have spoken too harshly. By which I mean, you do not appear to have murdered any citizens, yet. Execution would be excessive perhaps. Exile. Indefinite Exile."

"This is my city. I let you in. I swore you to citizenship."

"No Bob," and this time it was Ali who spoke, "this is our city."

Bob ground his teeth together. He didn't like it. Something was rotten in the state of Uruk. He had built this city with his own hands. These walls, these streets, these houses. He had sworn in each and every one of these men and women. And now they ringed him with warped faces and chanted "exile, exile, exile!"

"Fine!" Bob threw down his sword. It clattered on the ground like the bell at the end of the world. Everyone took a breath. The terrible threat of imminent violence faded. Ali stepped toward to usher away the terrified girl.

Bob strode over to Sophie. She was just waking up. Her vision dizzy.

"Don't worry, Sophie, we're leaving."

She blinked and remembered herself. She noticed the crowd still chanting the word, "exile." She looked back at Bob.

"I told you, Robert. I told you. Why do you not listen to me? You're too soft. You let them take everything away from you, from me. Why, why, didn't you make them swear loyalty to you? Damn the city! You built everything here. What right do they have! Robert, I told you. You can't be loved and feared. You have to pick. And love is fickle and worthless."

Bob nodded. Maybe she was right. He sure as hell didn't know what he was doing. Maybe he should have listened to her. But he wasn't the kind of man who could just murder them all in the name of order. They were just afraid. They were just like him. The bandit king loomed over their thoughts and they didn't know what to do.

"Come on, George."

"Sorry, Bob," Conor interrupted, "but we want George to stay."

"What did you say?" Bob flashed at the speaker. He almost cut him down where he stood.

"We need George. He's our protector. And we most assuredly haven't exiled him. Some of us reckon George might do better away from you. That you're a bad influence on a good dog."

"What are you suggesting?"

"We're no savages. We reckon George here should have his own choice. No reason, the dog should have to share your sins. He ain't your pet anymore."

Bob calmed himself. That was fair. George was his own dog. George deserved a chance to choose. And if those bastards thought there was a hope in hell George would choose them, they were in for a surprise. Bob crouched down beside the dog.

"George, what do you want to do? You want to stay here with this lot or chance it with me in the wild."

Conor somehow produced a bowl of George's favorite meal: a rich cut of flank steak, lightly charred and chopped into bite-sized chunks.

"George, come here."

George sniffed. It smelled good. Warm and tasty. George was mighty hungry. He hadn't eaten all day or all night, not wanting to leave Bob's side. The dog's stomach growled. George took a half-step towards the bowl, glanced back at Bob, then a full step.

Bob's heart sunk. He's been so busy lately. The city and the council, Sophie, all this bureaucratic nonsense, how much time had he really spent with his dog? And George had been with these folks, helping, and bonding, getting food and back rubs and "good boy"s. You know, maybe they were right, maybe they would look after George better than he could.

Bob leaned down over Sophie and lifted her up into his arms.

"It's just like old times." But his voice trembled through the joke.

The crowd parted in front of them, as they started towards the gate, one slow step at a time. Bob promised himself he would look back. He didn't want to pressure the dog. George had it hard enough as it was.

But George looked back. He whined a little in the back of his throat. He barked, "come back!" But Bob didn't answer. Bob didn't turned around. George's stomach had strong views and much sway. George stepped closer to the bowl. Bob was getting further and further away. Going out of his life. George stepped closed to the bowl.

"George chose us!" Conor announced to the crowd. There were cheers and shouts and celebration. And Bob's heart sank all the way to his toes. And his eyes teared up. And he wondered if he should have done things differently. A world without George? What kind of world was that?

Pop! And George was legging it towards Bob, the warm bowl securely in storage, barking his head off, rushing Bob forward. Bob laughed high and loud. He sprinted up after George and together the three of them raced of the city.

"That's my George! Stole it out right from under their noses. Good boy." Bob rustled George's fur and George barked happily.

"You really shouldn't encourage the dog." Sophie interjected grumpily.