I have issued my challenge for thirty-nine days in a row, and none have dared respond. Every day I walk to the front our lines and hurl insults at the enemy, trying to goad one of them into coming forward to face me. I have described the cowardice of their fathers, the ugliness of their wives and mothers, the slatternly ways of their sisters and daughters. I’ve cast aspersions at their prowess on the battlefield and in the bedroom, and mocked the power of their god. All to no avail. My challenge goes unanswered, and I fear for my people.

For years we have prospered from this curse the gods laid upon me. With each passing day the pain grows worse throughout my body, but I must answer when my people call. Even the slightest disagreement with our neighbors now provokes our king to battle, and I must always be at the forefront of our army. We are never defeated. Someone always accepts my challenge, and is slain for their bravery. Battles are won simply by my presence; even the name Jalut is now enough to rout our enemies.

For that I am grateful. My greatest fear is that some tribe will abandon the custom of single combat and attack us with all their might. As my legend has grown our army has become lazy and undisciplined, secure in the knowledge there will be no battle. If ever called upon to fight they would be slaughtered, the survivors enslaved, our people lost forever. I must overcome the pain and stand tall and menacing, daring any man to match himself against me. I pray that none will, and that this army will flee before me. If not, I pray one of them will be brave enough or foolish enough to face me.

Today, the fortieth day of this bloodless war, it appears my prayers have finally been answered. From out of the enemy ranks I see a lone figure approaching, answering my challenge with his own, and calling on his god to aid him. He looks like no warrior to me. He is little more than a child, and I see no armor or weapon on him. I wonder what punishment will meet me in the afterlife for killing such an innocent, but my duty is clear. I raise my sword and move forward to end this war.

*************************************************

Author's comments.
This is the story of David and Goliath, using a mixture of accounts from the other side as written in the Qur'an and the Bible, as described here , plus the possibility that Goliath's size was due to a growth disorder with its attendent painful effects.

Scene 1
[The Inn]
Horatio enters the inn.

Horatio:
Herein the inn is at an end,
The journey done so fitfully begun.
The Traveler’s Philosophy questions
Whether he is lead or if he chooses
Knowingly the path he has tread upon.
Doth my feet know my mind or follow fate?
My feet have brought me here but will no further.
The soles of which are flat, as is my purse.

Innkeeper:
Welcome, sirrah. For dinner and lodging?

Horatio:
Both. And the pleasure of your public room.
My face is new risen in Wittenberg
And I would have it shine bright here tonight.

Innkeeper:
As well that may be, but your light will pale
In comparison to our royal sun.

Horatrio:
Indeed, I mark the man. He holds a court!
Intent upon his every word, they seem.
They gape and mew while he doth seem to sport.
Who is he to set the common crowd to dream?

Innkeeper:
A court, indeed, wherever he may be.
The true home of our Philosopher Prince.
For Hamlet, the Elder, King of Denmark
Hast sent his son, Hamlet the Prince, to learn
And live herein the city of Wittenberg.

Horatio:
Lead on good sir! I would bask in this light.
[Aside.]
Mayhaps the winds of fate have changed their course.
And now to fill my slack sail with their blow.

Innkeeper:
Goodly Prince, I present…

Horatio:
Horatio.

Innkeeper:
Horatio.

Hamlet:
Welcome Horatio to Wittenberg.
What brings you to our city of learning?

Horatio:
Feet and fate, my lord. Churning against
That cosmic millstone, I look for my way.

“Ioreth, we need more bandages!” The head healer shouted at the young woman. Ioreth had left her sisters to come to the city and learn healing. It was not at all what she had expected. Her gran was full of rhymes and prophecies. She had an herbal remedy for any ailment from congested lungs to a broken heart. Her in the city it was blood and bandages.

Gondor was always involved in some conflict or other. There were always bandits and orcs and barbarians raiding and burning somewhere. Of course that meant that soldiers had to go out to fight, and where there was fighting there was blood, and where there was blood there would be bandages.

“Here, Sir” She watched in mixed fascination and revulsion as the Master Healer stitched up the wound. After it was stitched she would be allowed to put a compress on it to fight infection. The Master Healer knew the value of herbs, but he always kept them in their place.

****

“Boil some more water!” Ioreth turned back to the woman who gasped in labour. This was her second child, but even the wife of the Steward of Gondor must give birth like any other woman.

“Just breath deep.” Ioreth ordered in her soft voice. “Your body knows what to do.” She looked around and saw that she was unwatched for the moment. She gave a little pastille of herbs to her patient. Immediately the woman’s colour improved. The Master Healer frowned when he came in, but little Faramir was born shortly after and he was caught up in bringing the good news to the Steward.

****

Gondor was at war again. Once again the young men went out to be wounded and die. This time was the worst. The monsters were at the very gate of the City. Ioreth’s world was reduced to blood and bandages. Then they brought Faramir in, wounded and feverish. The whole world was gone mad. The Steward died and tried to take Faramir with him. He was soon enough going to follow his father anyway, in spite of the efforts of the strangers who stood around him.

“Alas! if he should die. Would that there were kings in Gondor , as there were once upon a time, they say! For it is said in old lore: The hands of the king are the hands of a healer. And so the rightful king could ever be known.”

The book is, of course, "The Return of the King" by JRR Tolkien.

He must have looked an easy target for bandits: a man alone on the road at night. His first thought at seeing the two riders approaching from the thicket was not fear, but regret. “If I had accepted Father Gresham’s offer of a bed for the night, I might have avoided this violence. Of course the same could be said had I declined his offer for supper.” He chuckled at that thought; Friar Tuck did not often refuse a free meal. He patted the slight bulge at his waist then briefly touched the short sword concealed beneath his cloak. “Won’t likely need it for these two,” he thought as he adjusted his grip on his walking staff. “No need to kill if I don’t have to.”

The horsemen broke into a gallop, apparently intent on running him down. They were surprised at how lithely he sidestepped their charge. The slower one was even more surprised as he tumbled from his saddle, unhorsed by a whirling span of oak.

The first rider had hardly turned for a second charge when the tip of the staff struck him between the eyes. “That was almost too easy,” thought Tuck, as he bent to retrieve the rope from his pack. He felt the breeze from the crossbow bolt as it sliced the air above his head. “Or perhaps not.”

He raised two fingers to his lips and gave a piercing whistle. The second bolt flew wildly overhead accompanied by a terrific racket from the woods. He heard a scream from the undergrowth, followed by a low bark. Minutes later, the crossbowman dashed from the trees, followed closely by an enormous mastiff. “Here, lad. He’ll not harm you if you stop your running.”

- - -

His face clouded with anger, Tuck screamed at the Abbott. “That money is meant for the poor! I’ll not let you hand it over to those villains.” He didn’t spare a glance at the armed men standing at either side of the office door behind him.

“You’ll not let me?” And how, dear friar, will you stop me?” The Abbott smiled. The unmistakable sound of swords sliding from their scabbards stopped the words in Tuck’s throat. Luckily, they didn’t stop his whistle. The friar was already in motion when the door to the Abbott’s office sprang open and the giant dog leapt into the fray.

Friar Tuck from the Robin Hood legends