George Knows Best [Mud Wizard LitRPG]

Bob was awake. Bob was healed. George had saved him. Hoarding saves lives. But what now? What now? Death had been an escape. Death had been Bob's excuse not to think about what happened. But now he had to live. And to live, to live, a man must decide how he wanted to live.

His city had betrayed him. They had cast him out as an exile, knowing the bandit king would find him. Sophie had betrayed him. She had seduced him and drugged him and left him for death.

Was I wrong to trust?

Bob was only trying to be a good man. Bob was only trying to do what was right. And it never worked. It never played out like it was supposed to. Everyone was disappointed. Everyone felt hurt and angry. And in the end, they'd all betrayed him. Maybe Bob just wasn't cut out to be in charge. Maybe he was just meant to be someone who sits in the bath and laughs over a good book. That's a good life there. Yeah, maybe they're been some mistake. And power meant for another had fallen on him.

What did he want for himself? Nothing special. A quiet, comfortable life. Playing fetch with the dog. Hell maybe George and he could run away together. There were more apples in George's pack. Maybe they could plant them and maybe Bob could forget his oath and be free. Was this really Bob's fight anymore? The city had abandoned him. Not the other way around.

They betrayed me, didn't they? You can't tell me I still owe them.

But if Bob didn't stop the bandit king... Bob remembered. Bob knew what a pillage looked like. Bob knew the taste and smell. Bob knew the sounds. Bob knew the feel of fire on the skin. The flickering red glow of the world burning.

They betrayed me.

Yes, Bob, yes. But are you going to betray them? Are you going to betray Anastasia? Are you going to betray little George? Every man protects those he loves and those who love him. But the good man. To be a good man means a little bit more. It's harder and it hurts. And that's why there are so damn few of them.

"Fools! My best company, pinned by a dog. Worthless. Worthless all."

George was shining. He jumped. He breathed fire. He dodged. He threw up barricades. He protected Bob even as he fought back the whole bandit army. The good knight. Sir George. Patron saint of the Mud city. But evil is just as strong and just as terrible.

"Must I do everything myself. I'll cut its head off. Confounded, half-breed mongrel!"

A slash and the sound of bricks crumbling down. The bandit king had cut his way through, carving out a new approach. George was completely surrounded. The bandit king swaggered through, axe resting on his shoulder, nice suit somehow untouched by the rain. He swaggered through, the king incarnate, with savage confidence and an excess of masculine energy.

But George was the last hero in all the world. And he hadn't given up hope. He swiveled instantly and a fiery ball of death meteored towards the intruder.

The bandit king smirked (only a dog!), and then frowned, and then decided that there were stronger things in the world than he was. He scrambled out of the way, jumping and rolling, barely getting to cover before the fireball melted past.

He sat there, back against one of George's barricades, blinking and panting, like he'd just seen his whole life flash before his eyes and was regretting the way things had turned out. He ventured a peek around the corner and confirmed that yes, his enemy was a two foot tall, shaggy-furred, dopey-faced golden retriever. The bandit king rubbed his eyes. No, it wasn't a dream.

Dammit. Why do I always make things so hard for myself?

Bob had a plan. A stupid plan. But the bandit king was mad strong and he needed every edge he could get. And Sophie had given Bob that edge. They all thought he was dying or unconscious. There was a chance. A small chance he could end it all right there. Before the king could bring out his invulnerability and murder them both. If he only timed it just right...

In the silence of the rain, the bandit king heard the dog draw in breath. An attack was coming. But the bandit king was a wily coyote. He had a good spot here. Certified, solid mud-brick wall, 100% fire-proof. And it angled back meaning the dog had only one approach. Noiselessly the bandit king raised his axe, his eyes peeled on the corner. The moment the dog stuck his wet nose around it, that very moment... The king's arm muscles were tensed and ready, any second now, any second—pop!

Suddenly the bandit king's barrier was no more. He turned stupidly to see George grinning at him. George grinning and a jet-hot ball of fire spiraling towards him. With some instinctive and inhuman reaction, the bandit king threw himself to the side in the last second.

But even inhumanly fast wasn't fast enough. The king staggered to his feet. His whole left side had been savaged by the flames. Parts of his skin were melted; yellow blisters were popping up; his suit was blackened and ashed. The man must be in absolute agony. Torture. It was a miracle he could stand. He would pass out any second.

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The bandit king chuckled.

The man laughed! His face was red and black and oozing, and he was laughing. He surveyed George. The noble bearing, the strong jaw, the prize fur. And he nodded appreciatively.

"You know what, I like you, doggy. There's something about you."

The removal of the barrier had given the bandit king line of sight on Bob's body for the first time. A figure crumbled face-first on the ground, shrouded in a wet blanket.

"That's him, isn't it? That's all that's left of the big man."

He shook his head and spat on the ground.

"Betrayed by a woman. I thought you were meant for better things. Is that?" He sniffed the air. "Is that?" He sniffed again and then roared with laughter. "Bob the Brown died pissing himself."

Bob ground his teeth together. He hadn't pissed himself, he wanted to retort. That wasn't his piss. It was George's piss. He hadn't pissed himself. His dog had pissed all over him. Did that make the situation more or less embarrassing?

"I've decided. You're going to be my dog. You're the secret behind Bob's success. I always suspected he was riding on someone else's coattails. He just didn't have the makings of a great man. There was too much bumbling. A man can't escape his name. There's never been a Bob the Great. Never will be. Bob is a low-level office worker name. Or, you know, someone in construction."

The Bandit King turned to George.

"What's your name, dog? Wait. I can sense it from your bearing. You. You must be a George."

George barked. Dogs can't help barking when you say their name.

"George, I want you. You and I, together, we could conquer this rock. We could be kings."

Bob was the ambush predator. He understood the need for a devastating, out-of-stealth, one-shot-one-kill attack. He started accumulating mana in his right fist. He was still an amateur mana manipulator. Something about thinking and fighting at the same time (Bob's feeble mental circuitry tended to overheat). But this was the perfect setup. He could lie here and concentrate on his work. All that was left was for the bandit king to wander into punching distance.

The bandit king began walking towards the dog. George tried a few quick-shot fire bursts, but a fundamental limitation of fire-breath is that it has to come out of your mouth. The bandit king dodged lazily and continued walking towards the dog. Which meant of course he was walking towards Bob and towards Bob's masterful trap.

George started reversing. A six-foot man with half-a-face and a vicious double-headed axe was not George's ideal playmate. Or maybe the dog was cleverly trying to lead the bandit king into Bob's danger zone. You be the judge.

"Sit!"

George's kryptonite. There was just something in the command of the tone. The bandit king had a wonderful voice. Kingly, imperious, with that menacing undertone that spoke straight to the subconscious brain. And our good dog, trained through long years, well, he couldn't help himself. He responded instinctively.

"Smart dog."

The bandit king strolled forward. He stomped on Bob's leg in passing (deliberately). Bob held back the scream, silently promising himself tenfold vengeance. He would have the king's brains. Nice, tasty brains. The bandit king was right in front of him, only centimeters away from Bob's left arm. Bob had him.

Except... Hmm... tricky. See Bob had been charging all his mana into his right arm. And the bandit king was standing to his left. Bob hadn't gamed out the geometry correctly. He really didn't have a shot from this position. He would have to sort of stagger up and haymaker with his right. The bandit king would have plenty of time. If only Bob could pin him somehow...

The bandit king stretched out a hand to stroke George's head. George chomped down on the hand. The bandit king just laughed.

"A fighter. I like it."

The bandit king tried to pull his hand out of George's jaw. But George was really holding on. He was clamping down with the entirety of his considerable jaw strength. Now was Bob's chance. He'd just—

The bandit king tore his hand out of George's mouth. Physically tore it. There were ragged holes and blood flowing down.

"Friendly dog, you are. Someone get me a muzzle."

In the meantime, the bandit king walked over to Bob and kicked him in the ribs. You know to pass the time. Bob did his best not to flinch. The instant the bandit king turned his back, he would have him. Patiently now. Patiently now.

George tried to create another opening by breathing out more fire. But the bandit king sidestepped, avoiding the attack and taking him clean out of Bob's range. The king's hand flashed forward and viced itself over George's snout. George whined helplessly.

"It's safe, boys. Drag the body outside. And don't spoil him. He needs to be recognizable. We'll go to the city tonight. I'll behead him in front of them all. Then they'll know who their king is."

Bob was playing dead. Playing dead, always, always worked in the movies. It was a cliche. One of those hero masterstrokes like jumping off improbably high buildings or randomly cutting bomb wires. It was always the correct decision. And see the bandit king was right there. But right there was like two feet away. And prostate on the ground in a plausible death-posture is not exactly a ready position.

Two henchmen marched over. They grabbed Bob by the arms, mumbling something about corpses and urine, and started to drag him towards the open. Playing dead was not going so well. Someone had procured a muzzle. It was one of those metal and leather contraptions that you see on angry mastiffs. The bandit king was just strapping it around George's mouth. Playing dead was going badly.

The two men dumped Bob out into the rain.

"Boss, he's one heavy motherfucker. Can't you just behead him here and take the head?"

"Lazy sods. Bah! I guess that works just as well."

Now with this playing dead situation, at what point are you supposed to give the thing up. When do you throw in your cards and say, actually I'm not dead; I'm just pretending. Somehow Bob felt he'd missed his opportunity. He couldn't put his finger on exactly when it was, but he'd missed it. Yes, they had left the script long ago and were deep in improv territory.

"Turn him round."

"Were his eyes open before?"

"I guess so boss."

The king shrugged. "No difference in the end."

The bandit king was standing over our Bob. Two hands on his axe.

The axe went up. Bob's white, deathlike pallor was not feigned.

Bob, you have a plan right?

Sure, of course.

I mean beyond the playing dead plan.

Oh, maybe...

The axe swung down. Glistening steel death.