Like “Nobody Special,” I wrote this short story in Al Davis’s creative writing class back at Nicholls State University. I wrote a few stories for this class, but apparently this was the one that impressed Professor Davis the most, because he selected it to be published that summer in the Louisiana English Journal. So what you’re going to read here is, in fact, my first-ever published work of fiction. Hope you like it.

For the first time in a thousand years Anaroth faced Azamir amidst the sacred ring of stones. They circled each other for a moment, each examining the other’s condition, wondering if their skills had improved or deteriorated with time.

“I see you have again returned, brother,” Anaroth said. “I’m surprised, given the defeat you suffered the last time.”

Azamir’s face reddened. “The last tourney was judged a draw and you know it. We wouldn’t be here otherwise.”

At a glance it would take the most skilled eye to find a difference between the two wizards. Both were white-haired, bearded men draped in dark cloaks. Both were tall and somewhat stout. Anaroth preferred to think of himself as having “generous proportions,” but the simple fact was that they’d both been spending more time with the cookbooks then the spellbooks the last few centuries.

The two, in fact, were identical except for their emblems: Anaroth wore a large white star on his robe, Azamir a pure crescent moon.

“Yes, you were quite adept at influencing the judges,” Anaroth said, lip curled. “A shame you couldn’t display such prowess during the contest itself.”

At the mention of the last duel, Azamir bristled. Following the rules, each wizard had infused their champions with a fraction of their own power and, without a single combatant motion, did their battle through others.

Anaroth’s champion -- a Moorish brute -- dispatched Azamir’s forester quickly, but Azamir contended that Anaroth had cheated, giving his moor greater power then the rules allowed. The council, upon reviewing the battle, termed it a draw, dooming the brothers to repeat the process a millennia hence.

The brothers met in the middle of the circle, each with an arm extended. “One, two three!” Azamir chanted, spreading his hand open, palm-down. At that instant, Anaroth extended a single finger.

“Arrow kills bowman,” he said. “I win.”

“Cheater!”

“I didn’t cheat, Azamir. You always choose bowman. That’s why I haven’t chosen bow in the last three contests.” He stood back and twirled his hands through the air, more for show then out of necessity for casting the spell, and an imaging pool appeared in the air between them. The two looked into the pool and saw Anaroth’s long-lost idol -- a stone globe emblazoned with a star.

“Now,” said Anaroth, “let’s see who my champion will be this time.”

Will Kenning’s son, Robby, was only two years old, but the doting father was already taking him on outings anytime he could; the zoo, a ball game... anytime they could be together. On the day of the contest, the tall, muscular Will had opted to bring his child to the park he had visited with his own father years before.

“Here we go, Robby. Look at the balloons... the man with the cotton candy...”

“‘Wings! ‘Wings, Daddy!”

“Don’t worry, buddy, we’re going to go on the swings. And look, there’s the sandbox, there’s the slide, and over there... you remember what that is?” Will shifted Robby into his other arm, pointing at a stone sphere with a star carved into it. Will had told Robby the old legend of the Globe before, but he knew the child would require reinforcement.

“Ball!”

Will laughed. “No, Robby. This is the Magic Globe. Let’s go rub it and make a wish.”

“Wonderful,” Anaroth said. “Young, strong... A fine champion he’ll make.”

Azamir raised an eyebrow. “Do stop your posturing and cast the spell.”

“Wait for it... wait for it.”

In the pool Will carried Robby to what he called the Magic Globe, the granite sphere with Anaroth’s star carved into it. He smiled at his son. “I’m going to wish that we can get ice cream after we play. You want some ice cream, champ?” Through the imaging pool his voice carried a strange, hollow echo.

“Ice ‘eam!” Robby mimicked.

“Right,” Will-in-the-pool said, reaching for the globe.

“Lovely picture,” Azamir muttered.

“Now.” Anaroth rapidly flashed his fingers in a complex geometric shape, sending a portion of his own magic coursing through the Globe, ready to empower the next person to touch it.

“Me firs’!” Robby said. He reached out, nearly spilling from Will’s arms, and slapped the Globe, making a wish.

“NO!”

Anaroth stopped his conjuring, but he’d already cast off his power. The imaging pool folded in on itself, the scene of Will and the Globe and the park vanishing. Robby, however, remained. There was a hiss of air and a bang as matter appeared where none had been before, and Robby hovered in the air between the two wizards, glancing back and forth, nervously.

“Daddy? Where Daddy?”

Anaroth threw his head back and loosed a scream that split the clouds. Robby drifted backwards, shivering. His eyes darted at every solid object he could find, the look of confusion on his face not vanishing until his gaze finally rested on something vaguely familiar.

“Ball!” He zipped in at Anaroth, rubbing the star upon his round, ample belly. “Make ‘ish!”

“No you may not make a wish you little--”

There was a crack of thunder and Anaroth’s words trailed off, cut away by the faint whistling in the sky. It grew louder and louder and Robby drifted backwards, a delighted look on his face.

“Oh no...”

Anaroth was knocked from his feet when the thing falling from the sky finally hit. A gooey, brown-flecked white paste splattered all over the place, the bulk of which hit Anaroth directly in the chest. When he opened his mouth to gasp for breath, the freezing slime flooded in, filling him with the taste of chocolate chip ice cream.

He pulled himself to his feet and wiped the cream from his eyes. Robby was sitting on the mound, cheerfully gobbling away. Azamir was lying on the ground nearby making a hideous gasping noise-- for a moment Anaroth thought he had been hit too, then realized his adversary was paralyzed with laughter.

“Ice... cream...” he was wheezing.

“Oh shut up,” Anaroth said. “I’ll turn this brat into a warrior. Go ahead. Choose your champion.”

Azamir took a second to compose himself before conjuring up an imaging pool of his own. The crescent moon he used as his sigil appeared, stamped on the hilt of a sword.

“I can’t possibly do any worse then you,” he chuckled.

“Shut up,” Anaroth repeated.

Joseph Dobinov slid the glass away from the skylight, dropping the cable through the hole he’d cut. He twisted his body into just the right position to slip through the hole, sliding down the cable and catching himself four feet above the ground.

He unsnapped a pouch on his belt, drawing an aerosol can with black tape covering the label. The can spat out into the air and, in the mist, a crisscross of red beams appeared. Joseph released himself from the cable, landing between the beams.

He glanced around, finding his goal in a glass case only a yard away from him: the Sword of Azamir. Personally, he had no use for such an item, but they buyer who’d contacted him offered more then enough for the Sword to justify breaking into the museum.

“Come to daddy,” he said. He began to work on the case.

“A thief,” Azamir said. “A ruthless, deceitful cur, verses... verses...”

“Ice ‘eam!” Robby yelped.

“Verses that,” Azamir said.

In the pool, Joseph popped open the glass, reaching in for the ancient Sword. Azamir cried out in triumph, pouring his energies into the weapon.

Joseph Dobinov’s hand wrapped around the Sword.

As with Robby, the imaging pool folded in, the museum falling away into oblivion. Hiss, bang, and Joseph stood in the middle of the circle, Azamir’s sword drawn, surrounded by a nimbus of lightning.

The thief stumbled, his center of balance shifting with the transport. “Holy God... what’s happening?”

“Welcome, my boy,” Azamir said. “You have been chosen as my champion in the ancient duel of Wizards.”

“Who are you?”

“I am Azamir.”

“Aza... as in the Sword’s Azamir?”

“The same.”

Joseph peeled back the black mask he’d worn for the sake of the security cameras. “This is impossible. You don’t exist.”

“Oh don’t I? You now possess a mere fraction of my might. Go ahead... try it.”

Joseph eyed him for a moment, then slowly raised his hand. Lightning cracked and a huge diamond appeared in the palm of his hand.

“Oh my...”

“And that’s just a taste.”

“I must say, I’m impressed,” Joseph said. “Why, though?”

“In exchange for my power,” Azamir said, “a simple task. Combat with the chosen warrior of my ancient foe, the Wizard Anaroth.”

“Combat?” He looked down at the charged sword crackling in his hand and tossed it aside. “I’m afraid you may have the wrong boy.”

“Oh don’t worry,” Azamir said. “You shouldn’t have a problem destroying this ‘warrior’.”

He waved at Robby, who held out a handful of his frozen dessert to Joseph.

“Ice ‘eam?”

“A baby?” Joseph said. “You want me to kill a baby?”

“He’s a warrior!” Anaroth shouted.

“A rather powerful baby,” Azamir said.

“I’m a thief, not a killer,” Joseph said. “What kind of sick weirdo are you?” He pushed past the wizards to the mound of ice cream, picking up the sticky Robby.

“Come on, ol’ son. Where’s your mommy?”

“Mommy?” Robby looked at the wizards, then back at Joseph. “Mommy? Wan’ Mommy!” The child began wailing in Joseph’s arms. He looked at the dueling brothers and grit his teeth.

“Good God,” he spat at the wizards, his face covered with a look of disgust. “Really, taking a little boy from his mother... that’s low.” Joseph flashed his hands at the wizards, summoning down the lightning. There was a flash and both thief and child vanished, only the squeal of “Make ‘ish!” to mark their passing.

Azamir’s eyes grew wide. “Did he say...”

The whistling began again and a frozen green blob smashed into him, smashing him to the ground.

Will Kenning was almost insane with worry when the wind kicked up, spraying dust in his eyes, forcing them closed. When he managed to open them again a man dressed all in black stood before him, a smiling little butterball nestled in his arms.

“Rob!”

“Daddy!”

Joseph handed the child over to his father. “Here you go, sir.”

“Oh God, I’ve been so worried... I called the police, I’ve been combing the park... Where did you find him?”

“You wouldn’t believe me. Listen, try to be a little more careful with your son from now on, will you? If he’s exposed to the wrong influences, there’s no telling what kind of person he’ll grow up to be.”

There was a flash of lightning a whirl of smoke and Robby’s deliverer was gone. Will looked down at his son’s smiling face. “I don’t suppose you’d care to tell me what that was all about?”

Robby smiled. “Ice ‘eam?” he asked.

Anaroth grabbed his brother’s hand and pulled him from the ice cream. Azamir spat out the green paste. “Pistachio,” he said. “I hate pistachio.”

“I guess this is another draw,” Anaroth said.

“Another thousand years,” Azamir said.

The brothers stared at each other for an eternal moment. In the end, it was Azamir who finally found the voice to speak to his old foe.

“Say, is that little pub still open? The one we went to after the last duel?”

“No, it closed about eight hundred years ago. There’s this new place in America I saw on the telly. I’ve been meaning to visit it... apparently everyone there knows your name.”

“Sounds good.” Azamir stuck a finger in his ear, cleaning out pistachio goo. “By the way, have you figured out how this started yet?”

“No. I tried to ask mother if she remembers, but...”

“Still not speaking to us, eh? Oh well.”

The two brothers each twirled their hands, calling down their respective transport spells. As they faded away, they resumed their conversation.

“So tell me more about this pub,” Azamir said.

“Well there’s this mailman there...”

Anaroth’s voice trailed off and the rain began, washing away the remnants of the Wizard’s duel. Mounds of cream swirled around the golden sword and drained away into the night.