George Knows Best [Mud Wizard LitRPG]

It was over. Bob knew it was over. He was sprawled on the floor, his blood poisoned, his life eking away. Sophie had run off into the night. A full-strength, full-wrath Bandit King was headed their way. It was over. Death ends all stories.

The rain drummed against the roof. Drum. Drum. Drum.

Water pattered in through the open door. Patter. Patter. Patter.

Hope is for the mad.

But somehow George kept hoping.

Pop! Pop! Health patches. George torn them open with his teeth, prodded them out of their packaging with his nose, and then licked them onto Bob's neck.

Clever, little George.

It wouldn't help, of course. Bob knew that. George knew it too. Health patches don't work on poison. No, there was only one antidote. A yellow flower that grew by a lakeside far, far away.

Pop! A warm, fuzzy blanket. George grabbed the corner and spread it over Bob. He couldn't help chewing it a little on the way (the nature of dog). The warm, mildly wet, salvia-scented blanket pressed up against Bob's cheek. It smelt like love.

Why did the dog have kept trying so hard? It wouldn't help. There wasn't anything doing. When death comes knocking, all a man can do is hold his head high and answer the door.

Bob wondered how long had passed. He wondered how long he had left. Sophie had given him two minutes. But a minute must have passed already? Two minutes even. Why hadn't he died yet? Or passed out? Would he make it somehow?

No, he was dying alright.

There was no mistaking the feeling. You don't have to be told you're dying. You just know. The pain was indescribable. All of those numbing health patches and the pain just laughed and twisted a little tighter on Bob's nervous system. No, Bob welcomed death. He wanted to die. He wanted to be free of the pain. Of the agony. George licked his face.

Focus, Bob, focus now. For the last time.

The Bandit King was coming. The Bandit King with his axe and his invulnerability and his deep grudge against Bob. Bob couldn't be saved. Bob was lost. But George. George, good old George, George didn't have to die. George could still be saved.

"George," Bob coughed out, "house! George, house!"

The dog... ignored him.

George was still trapped in the quagmire that is hope. But he was becoming desperate. Nothing he tried seemed to make his master feel better. His master was growing weaker and weaker.

"George, it's no use. Give it up. Go! Go!"

George was only three years old. A dog who liked to play and get stroked and listen to his master grumbling. He didn't know what to do.

"George! Go! House! House!"

George was nervous and unsure. He felt like a little puppy again. He panicked. And in the stress and fear and confusion, he might have had a little accident (please don't scold him. It's not his fault).

The warm, yellow urine seeped into the warm, fuzzy blanket.

Yes, this was Bob's fate. Bob's fate was die drenched in dog piss, betrayed by the woman he admired, and to be beheaded by his greatest enemy. He was one lucky son of a gun after all.

"George! Leave me! Go back to the city! Now!"

George's emptying continued. After his bladder came the bag. George started raining down junk on Bob's head. Pop! Bob's camp chair. Pop! A first edition copy of The Prince. Pop! A red, plastic dog bowl.

"Dammit George. Listen to me."

Pop! A steamy saucer of tea. It scattered and spilled over them both. The blanket was approaching peak saturation. Pop! Pop! Pop! A bucket of water. Dog food. Dog bowl. Sand. Mud.

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"Please, George, please," Bob started to plead, "You're more than your master. You have to live on. For me, George."

The unmistakable sound of approaching footsteps, boots squelching through the mud. The bandit king was coming.

Pop! Pop! Pop! A deconstructed tent. A hardened-mud stairway. Bob's old toothbrush.

"George, hide yourself. Now! Do it!"

The dog... ignored him. George ignored his master.

What does loyalty mean, do you think?

Obeying without question? Or sticking it out even to the bitter end?

Pop! Pop! Pop! Bob's tribal loin cloth. His exercise book with all the figures written out. Those spectacles he'd found in the third challenge. A muddy apple.

The footsteps were loud and close. They were at the very doorstep. George gave the thing up. Even George lost hope in the end. But he didn't flee. He didn't hide. He stationed himself between Bob and the doorway, and he snarled. Let them come!

"George, no! You're no match for him. Dammit George. Dammit George. Why won't you listen to me?"

It was over. Yes, it was over. George had chosen his path: courage, honor, courtesy.

Bob was proud and sad and angry. He didn't want to watch. He didn't want to see. Sophie's stupid two minutes. You can't just tell a person they're going to die in two minutes and then let them go on living. It was, it was... inhumane. Stupid slow-acting poison.

Bob wanted to do something. What could he do? What could he do? He tried to drag an arm forward. The poison had reached his arm. His arm was dead to him. His leg was dead to him. Only his head stayed true.

Bob tried tossing his head up, hoping to throw away the piss-soaked blanket pressing against his cheek. The blanket floated up and... floated down.

No use.

He tried again. He put all his strength into it. He... managed to slam his head against the leg of the camp chair. Oww. An apple on the seat was dislodged, bounced down onto his noggin and rolled up against the blanket.

No use.

It was pointless. It was hopeless. There was nothing to do. There was no fighting it. Death was standing over him. Death was kneeling down. Death purred into his ear, and it was a lullaby of release, of oblivion, of ending, of the ending to all things.

But George stood proud and tall, defender of his master. He would not surrender. Even to Death. Just then a man plunged into the room and there was an explosion of white-hot fire. George had flamethrowered him. But the man was a professional. Captain of the bodyguards. Snap and he'd thrown up a barrier of ice.

But George was not your run-of-the-mill, pedestrian fire-breathing dog. His fire breath had a special oomph to it. His flames flash-incinerated the ice, flash-evaporated the water and they were still going strong—the man's eyes widened. Too late. He was inside the fire.

He died instantly.

George had killed a man. Good old George. And it was Bob's fault. It was Bob's fault. Bob had put George into this impossible position. Bob had made George do it. Poor George. Poor, poor George. With his big heart and his impossible faith in the goodness of things. He had killed a man. He had killed a man.

Bob remembered. Bob remembered little George, that white puppy with big eyes and clumsy, wobbling steps. A great fuzzball with an adorable little chirping bark. Now George stood in front of Bob and rained down death and destruction on their enemies.

George had killed a man.

And Bob could only watch. Bob looked around, desperate, willing to try anything, to venture all, wanting only to do something. But what could he do? A wet blanket, a camp chair, a notebook, a muddy apple. Why not? Bob craned his neck forward and bit down. It tasted of mud. That familiar flavor. And Bob chewed even as tears streamed down his face. What was the world coming to?

"Inside! Get inside!"

"B-b-but... she said he was neutralized."

"He is. Contract fulfilled. That's the man's dog."

"Frosty was our strongest mage. And in a single attack..."

"Inside! Get inside! You afraid of a golden retriever? Kill the mutt!"

What was the world coming to? The bandits started shooting attacks through the opening. Javelins and magical bolts and arching lightning. But this was the last stand of Sir George and he was no dog to be trifled with.

Pop, pop, pop. In two seconds, the mud dome was a fortress, a maze of crisscrossing mud-wall fortifications, of barricades, of murder holes. The Castle of Sir George.

One bandit, not seeing George, tried his luck (half-pushed by his companions), sprinting for cover. George peeked lazily out of cover and savaged the man. Beware the Golden Retriever at your peril. The bandit king was screaming at his troops.

"Kill him! Kill him! One quadruped half-breed. Cut his head off!"

It was only a matter of time. Why hadn't Bob died yet? He should have died ages ago. He didn't want to see this. Why was Sophie so incompetent? That woman couldn't even betray a man properly.

Bob chewed and cried. Chewed and cried. But his vision didn't corner out. The world didn't go black. He would have to watch. The cruelty of the heavens has no limit. Unthinkingly his hand came up to wipe away the tears.

Two bandits running in opposite directions. George couldn't target them both. He sent one to his fiery grave, but the other penetrated inside, staying low and creeping towards. More bandits took advantage. George fought like a lion. Burst of flame after burst of flame. But there were too many. They were spreading out. They were surrounding Sir George.

Bob covered his eyes.

What!?

Because Bob wasn't supposed to be able to move his hand. His arms had been dead weighs not thirty seconds ago. He had been utterly paralyzed and now... And now...

When he stopped and considered, wasn't he feeling just a little bit better? Not just a little bit either. Much better. The numbness was gone. And that long, dread weariness had disappeared. What the hell? Even his eye was healed. He could see again? What on earth was going on?

Bob cried and chewed. And that muddy, apple sweetness. It brought something back. A time long past. A half-forgotten challenge. A grove of apples and an angry boar.

A grove of healing apples.