The Wizard War (According to Whom You Ask)

I was warming my old bones by the hearth when the hatchlings burst through the door, all long limbs and elbows, screeching, “Pop Pop! Pop Pop! Tell us a story!”

“Maybe if I sit still enough,” I thought, “they won’t try to ride me again.” I still have a bruise from when the youngest plopped down on my head shouting “Giddyap!” as though I were a common beast. I am not a common beast. I am Cyclura lewisi, descended from the last of the thunder lizards. You might call me iguana.

You may call me Louie.

To my relief, they scampered past me and swarmed “Pop Pop,” who was dozing in the chair on the other side of the hearth. Clambering over him like monkeys up a tree, all three began shrieking in that high‑pitched tone no doubt reserved to stun their prey.

“Tell us the story of the Wizard War!”

“Eh?” he mumbled, blinking awake. “Oh, my darlings. Of course I will.”

I sighed. Here we go again, I thought. Sir Lies‑a‑Lot is going to tell the story for the thousandth time, and it’ll never be the same tale twice.

He cleared his throat with great ceremony.

“It was the Year of the Badger Moon,” he whispered. “I was a rising star in the wizarding apprenticeship. A gifted student with a brilliant career ahead of me. I looked up into the sky as the sun was suddenly blotted out by a dramatic shadow. THERE he was, riding a massive black dragon with fire blazing from its mouth. I could tell he wanted evil. He was an aged wizard with an unquenchable hunger for it.”

“That’s not what happened,” I muttered. Thanks to the magical bond between us, he heard me clearly. “They deserve the true story.”

“There I was,” he insisted, “in the town square, watching as the Evil Wizard Malathion came barreling toward us.”

“His name was Matthias. Malathion is an insecticide. And he wasn’t evil — he had a toothache.”

“I ran to the square to pledge my service to King and Freedom!”

“You tried to run in the opposite direction but got confused and wound up by the fountain.”

“I used my magic to summon a fierce fighting dragon.”

“You saw me sunning myself and tried to turn me into a dragon. All you did was make me twenty times bigger.”

“Who’s telling this?” he barked in my head.

“Oh, please. Do go on. I can’t wait to hear how it ends this time.”

“I will skewer your hide on a stake and roast you like a Sunday joint.”

“Promises, promises,” I retorted. “You know you wuvs me. But fine. Continue, O Mighty Wizard Warrior.”

“BBQ,” he muttered aloud.

“Pop Pop, are you hungry?” the oldest asked, puzzled.

“So there I was,” he pressed on, “sitting astride my fierce dragon, fire shooting from his snout, waiting for the battle cry, shaking with anticipation.”

“You were shaking with fear, and that wasn’t fire. It was chilly. That was fog.”

“He skidded to a halt the moment he saw my mighty fighting dragon.”

“He skidded to a halt because his dragon slipped in a puddle of lemonade someone spilled. Also, Floyd always DID refuse to land on cobblestones.”

“I readied my trusty sword. The dragon attacked us head‑on. That’s when the wizard cursed me.”

“He cursed us, but not magically. He had a severe case of Potty Mouth.”

“I smacked him with my sword and he was thrown from his mount!”

“The impact knocked him into the street. You also fell. You landed in the lemonade puddle and it looked like you’d soiled yourself.”

“The townspeople shouted encouragement as we struggled, mano a mano. Dragon to dragon. Sword to sword.”

“The town constable told you both that if you didn’t stop immediately, he’d impound both dragons and toss you in the tower to cool off.”

“The Evil Wizard surrendered at once, knowing he was outclassed.”

“Whatever.”

“Because of the magic bonding us for life, my Fighting Dragon came to stay with me, hiding his true identity in the form of a lowly iguana. There he sleeps by the fire, humbly devoted to my service forever.”

“I tried to go home to my wife but couldn’t fit in the cave. She threw me out and now lives in the next village with an anole named Steve. I told you you’d better offer me food and lodging since this was all your fault.”

“He was granted everlasting life for his service, and we shall end our days together.”

“Promises, promises,” I murmured, drifting off to sleep.

Later, after the children had run off to play, a knock sounded at the door. Sir Lies‑a‑Lot opened it to find a wizened old codger on the threshold, leaning on his staff.

“Up for a game of chess, dear Sam?” the old man asked.

“Sure thing, Matthias. I was just telling the grandchildren how we met. How we fought to the death and both lived to tell the tale.”

“Bah!” Matthias snorted. “You mean the day you were parked in the middle of the square on that silly giant iguana of yours and blocked traffic? My dragon Floyd and I were coming to town because I was out of chamomile tea and had a toothache. I shouted that I couldn’t stop her on a dime, and you refused to move. The collision was inevitable. Our insurance mages decided we were both at fault. We settled out of court for a basket of enchanted gemstones and a pound of mugwort tea.”

“That’s not the way it happened,” Sam muttered. “I’ll set up the chessboard. We can argue the details over toast and jam.”

As they shuffled toward the table, their voices rose — two ancient wizards rewriting history one insult at a time, each more determined than the other to be wrong with confidence.

I curled my tail around myself and settled in by the fire.

Let them tell it however they like. Every great war deserves at least three versions, and ours has never had fewer than twelve.