George Knows Best [Mud Wizard LitRPG]

In the days of yore, in the land of darkness, there was a knight. His name was Sir George, he of the golden fur and magic bag. Sir George had pledged himself stick and soul to Lord Brown of the Mud. But now, behold, he wanders lost in the enchanted forest, separated from his master's side and service. Oh woe is me. The witch! The cursed witch! The shape-shifting, smell-throwing witch!

"Beware, my lord," Sir George had warned with anxious barks. "This maiden is not as she appears to be. Trust her not."

But Lord Mud was a great heart, that saw the good in all things. He was not deceived! Nay! Lord Mud of the clear-eyes. But in his christian pity and goodly mercy, he allowed the foul witch to approach.

But the cursed witch, unmoved by christian pity and goodly mercy, her heart blackened with malice and dog-hatred, unleashed her dark magic. Her noxious perfume overpowered good George's noble nose. Sir George battled against the smell, but his strength was found wanting and he was banished into the depths of the forest, helpless against her sorcery.

But Sir George knew his master. He trusted his strength and honor. Lord Mud would not be bested by some trumped-up, bad-smelling witch. Ruff! But there was a greater enemy, the Dark Captain, leader of the marauders, a towering man with a two-headed axe. Even Lord Mud uttered his name with dread and Sir George himself had once been bested in combat against him.

Heavens give me a sword!

Sir George heard the voice in his heart. It was the voice of Lord Mud, his liege-lord and captain. His master needed him! Sir George galloped through the forest of towering grasses. But the trail was all confused and tangled by the witch's nose-craft. He couldn't find his path. He sprinted this way and that, searching for his master.

He leapt treacherous ravines. He forded great streams. He crossed muddy swamps. He called out his master's name. Ruff! Ruff! Rain and cold and wet bothered him not. A knight belongs at his master's side. And there, in the distance, a faint scent—a scent that stirred his heart and kindled his hope. It was the muddy, wholesome stench of his master.

"Lord Bob calls for aid."

Ruff!

George charged into the field of battle, answering his master's call, barking out challenges.

"George, stay back. He's too strong for you."

What a noble master! To fear for his servant, for his knight, for George.

Ruff!

"Dammit George, shut up! He'll..."

The Dark Captain had a cruel soul. He sallied out against Sir George. And his strength and speed were awesome to behold. Where was the man that George had dueled in the mud tent? This one-armed, black-faced ogre was three times as fast, seven times as strong. Sir George couldn't react in time.

But Lord Mud hurled himself in front of his knight. And the axe scored meanly across his front. The smell of fresh blood and a new rattle to his master's every breath. Yet his master didn't call out. He didn't cry for weakness.

"George I'm happy to see you too, but now is not the best of times."

Ruff!

Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

Sir George had a plan. A stratagem. His master needed a weapon. Something capable of withstanding the onslaught. Lord Mud turned around and gazed squarely at his knight. The bond of trust and love.

"What have you got for me, boy?"

Pop!

It was a... stick. George was holding a stick. It was that stick. The nice one that Sir George always kept on his person, with the fresh smell, the balanced weight and the saliva-resistant bark. His preferred fetching stick.

Lord Mud ducked an axe sweep, sprayed a mudscreen, grabbed George and rolled away to safety.

"George, sometimes you are such a... dog. No, I don't want to play fetch right now."

Ruff!

"You know you are just barking right? I have shit-all idea what you are saying."

Lord Mud was break-dancing around just to avoid getting axe-splattered. He did a Harry-assisted flip, and came down low into a quarter-split, then spun himself on his hands, whirl-winding his legs around to buy space.

"George, back. House! House!"

The Dark Captain pressed. And Lord Mud tried to lead him away from Sir George. He was creating an opening. He was ordering George to flee. Like a knight could abandon his liege. The Dark Captain followed, taken in, blood-frenzied and fooled, and then he pivoted. Sir George was wide open.

They had been played.

"George!"

Bob threw himself over. Trapped. And the axe was coming down fast. He couldn't dodge. George was right behind him. And there was no parrying that axe stroke. The end...

Pop! Pop! Squeak!

The axe stopped.

"What?"

Lord Mud mumbled. He looked at the Dark Captain who appeared equally confused. He looked at Sir George who smiled and barked. Then he looked down at his hand. He was holding a stick. The stick. It had blocked the axe's blade without taking a scratch. The infinite momentum of the bandit king's vicious strike had been siphoned away in a moment.

"George, let me get this straight." Lord Mud was have a hard time grasping the intricate subtleties of Sir George's stratagems. "You've been carrying around a legendary weapon all this time and you only now decide to tell me!"

Ruff!

Sir George pointed out that he had several times put the weapon in his master's hand and that his master inexplicably threw it away every time. So that Sir George had to run after it and bring it back. In the end, Sir George had decided to keep the blade safe until the time when it should be called for.

"You know what, let's fucking end this thing."

The bandit king tore his axe free and hammered it down at Bob's head. Bob repositioned the stick underneath it. Squeak! The axe froze in place. The bandit king head butted forward and Bob wheeled the stick around. Squeak! The wand drained away all momentum, dumping the energy into a high-pitched annoying sound.

Bob was suddenly in a good mood. The Squeak-wand was a fancy piece of kit.

"En garde!"

Bob fenced forward, brandishing his branch threateningly. The pointy end stabbed forward, once, twice and then a third time bang in the bandit king's chest. They both waited to see what would happen. Nothing happened. The bandit king (out of pity) play acted a muffled "ouch", but they both understood that its offensive potential was that of a mostly blunt stick.

Ax, squeak, ax, squeak, elbow, squeak, squeak, ax, squeak, elbow, squeak, squeak.

Picture a schoolboy with an overactive imagination challenging the Norse God of Thunder. The one-inch radius stick would catch the blooded war ax with a dramatic squeaking fart. Bob had to work very hard to keep his concentration and not descend into boyish giggling.

But the bandit king didn't seem to tire or even feel his wounds. And Bob was tiring. His shoulder wound ached. His chest hurt. That last gash across his front was draining his strength. Even schoolyard humor couldn't save him.

"George, there wouldn't be a second part to your plan would there?"

Ruff!

"What did you say?"

Ruff!

Mana! He had to channel his mana into the stick.

"En garde!"

The stick started to bud, and the buds unfolded into vibrant green leaves.

"Now we're talking. And the leaves will be razor sharp, right?"

Bob executed a stunning pass. He parried and flowed that into a thrust, just as Harry sidestepped him around the king's counter. Bob ended with a flourish as the bandit king keeled over. Bob mock sheathed his stick and then turned around to examine his fallen enemy.

"Ha, ha, ha..."

"What the hell?"

The bandit king had keeled over laughing. He was unharmed.

Bob took a couple steps back and gently rubbed the leaves against his hand. He started to shudder with laughter. After which he face-palmed and silently cursed the heavens.

"George, be honest with me, mate. This is a dog toy, isn't it?"