The Vizier

The Vizier was sick of the site of his guards.  Bloody King and his paranoid edicts, though the Vizier.  Two at the front, two behind, marching resolute and ever vigilant, clad head to toe in the finest armour, hands on the hilts of their swords, ready to draw them at the merest sign of trouble. Righteous Bastards to a man. 

They were the best bodyguards the King’s army, and thus, were the second best bodyguards in the kingdom. Not that most people knew this.  The King’s own guards were the best trained, paid and equipped soldiers on the continent, ready to lay down their life at the orders of their King, which worried the Vizier – how good is a soldier trained to die? 

He preferred his own brutes.  They weren’t as well paid, and their armour wasn’t half as shiny, but they didn’t take time to say ‘Halt in the name of the King,” before hurting people. It was a small difference, but those seven words could be the difference between life and death to the Vizier, something which he was becoming ever more concerned with.  Now, those vicious bastards were manning the doors and rooms of the worm halls for the Vizier.  An utter waste of their skills, thought the Vizier in disgust.


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