The Dwarves by Markus Heitz

“Well, are you ready?”
    “Yes, Estimable Magus,” Tungdil answered, relieved that his patron no longer held him solely to blame. “What would you have
     me do?”
    After the frayed tempers of the laboratory, the atmosphere in the study, where they were surrounded by the clutter of Lot-Ionan’s
     cabinets, gadgetry, and books, seemed all the more relaxed. Flames crackled softly in the fireplace and the magus’s owl was
     napping in a corner.
    “We’ll discuss your errand later. All in good time.” Lot-Ionan rose and retired with his steaming mug to the wing chair by
     the hearth. He stretched his slippered feet toward the flames. “There’s no rush. Jolosin will be busy in the laboratory for
     a good while longer… Besides, there’s something I’d like you to consider while you’re away.” His hand patted the chair beside
     him.
    Tungdil set down his knapsack and took a seat. It sounded as though the magus had something important to say.
    “I’ve been thinking.” Lot-Ionan cleared his throat. “The two of us have known each other for sixty-two of your sixty-three
     cycles.”
    The dwarf knew what was coming. At times like this, when the mood was sentimental and the magus was feeling relaxed, he would
     pour himself a draft of beer, warm his feet by the fire, and journey into the distant past, recalling events that had happened
     over a human lifetime ago. Tungdil loved these conversations.
    “It was winter and the winds were howling when there was a knock on the door and a band of kobolds deposited a bundle.” He
     looked his ward in the eye and laughed softly. “It was you! Back then, without your beard, you could almost have been mistaken
     for a human bairn. They threatened to drown you in the nearest river if I didn’t pay your bond. What could I do? I gave them
     their money and raised you myself.”
    “For which I shall be eternally grateful,” Tungdil said softly.
    “Yes, well, eternally…” The magus fell silent for a moment. “It seems to me that it might be time to let you go your own way.”
     He laid a hand on the dwarf’s thick shock of hair. “I’ve outlived my natural span and you’ve served me so loyally that your
     debt of gratitude, if ever there was one, has been repaid. Besides, if I don’t come up with a more convincing charm against
     old age, my soul will be summoned to Palandiell.”
    Tungdil didn’t like to be reminded that human existence was inescapably brief, even for the likes of the powerful magus. “I’m
     sure you’ll find a way… ,” he said hoarsely. “Er, didn’t you want to tell me something?”
    The dwarf’s clumsy attempt to change the subject brought a wry smile to Lot-Ionan’s face. “You were left here at your parents’
     behest because they wanted you to be the greatest wizard of the dwarven race, or at least that’s what I told you. You saw
     through the story soon enough. Once I taught you to read, you learned enough about your kinsfolk to know it wasn’t true.”
    “Dwarves aren’t fond of magic and magic isn’t fond of them.” Tungdil couldn’t help smiling. His hands were best suited to
     wielding a hammer and he could happily clutch a book from Lot-Ionan’s vast library, but a sorcerer’s staff was another matter.
     “Vraccas made us artisans through and through. There’s no room in our hearts for magic.”
    “Indeed,” the magus agreed in amusement, remembering the long line of minor disasters resulting from Tungdil’s accidental
     encounters with the occult. “But you’re too modest. You’ve crammed your head with knowledge like a scholar. You know more
     about the peoples of Girdlegard than some of my pupils.”
    “The credit is all yours, Lot-Ionan. You even schooled me in rhetoric.”
    “And that was no small feat. Adhering to the proper rules of disputation is a challenge for the obstinate tongue of a dwarf!”
     His face became serious. “I still curse myself for not asking the kobolds where they found