In 500... (or less)

A Slight Alteration to the Tapestry

A roar of laughter echoed as the king's champion walked alone to the crest of the hill.

He was of slight build, no more than 16 years of age. His skin was darkened, perhaps he was a Saracen. Not clad in armor in the least, he wore a simple shirt and blue trousers. In his hand was a long black object, an oddly-shaped hollow spear without a point. This was the man the king chose to face the mighty armies of his enemy?

"Beg for mercy that we might spare you!" yelled one of the soldiers of the enemy. His comrades followed with an uproarious cheer, such was their scorn at the champion.

The host of the enemy gathered before him numbered perhaps ten thousand or more, yet the boy showed no signs of fear. Indeed, he had convinced the king he alone could defeat them.

"But you are a mere boy," the king protested. "Surely you will perish."

"You have no idea what this sucker can do," he said, patting on the hollow spear. The king looked at him oddly, his manner of speaking was particularly unusual. "Don't worry. They'll run away once they see this thing in action."

Had the king been less desperate, his troops less exhausted, the boy might have been executed as a sorcerer. At best, the king believed he could serve as a distraction, drawing his enemy from their formations. With reluctance, the king agreed to send the boy out to face the enemy.

Now he stood atop the hill, cradling his weapon, awaiting a challenger from the enemy. Some pounded on their shields with their swords, hurling insults at the champion.

"Go home, you little boy! Leave the fighting to the men!" shouted one in the front.

"We'll see who's laughing when you come up here," the boy shouted back. Both armies debated whether he was foolish or courageous.

At last a group of fearsome warriors emerged from the enemy ranks.

"Choose which of us should come to kill you!" The enemy army doubled over with laughter.

"All of you!" he sneered. "Unless you're afraid."

The men, perhaps 40 of them, let out a hideous scream in unison and charged at the lone defender. A priest delivered last rites from afar.

The boy aimed the spear at the attackers and at once thunder and fire blazed forth in rapid succession. None of the attackers remained. There was a moment of shock and silence. The boy called for the magic again, felling knights and archers much farther away.

"T'is witchcraft!" The enemies faces ran pale with terror. They fled the field, trampling each other as the boy descended toward them directing bursts of destruction in their direction from his weapon.

The king watched from afar, shocked yet amused. The kingdom was safe. The boy vanished that very day, never to be seen again. The king shouted at his opponent as the other rode away in panic.

"You'll not best the Champion of Hastings, William!"